The Temptation of Saint Cement, image by Daniel Y. Harris
LINES OF SEPARATION
We made new songs from old, then buried them beneath the house. The resulting silence hardly lasted any time at all.
A glorious, chaotic, celebratory mix, where the unknown and very specific jostle for attention with the obvious and overstated, woven from lines of thought and sound into a dedicated workspace.
Whatever each reader or the physical splicing for example or the fine art world in themed clusters an impossible selection or perception traces. The product of that process and the absence. Everyday materials.
Visitors were unable to enter the complex assemblages or be present at the dawn of the world. Abstract machines have proper names, us physical forms have nicknames. We privilege consumption and portable units.
Readymades jostle for attention as artifices and constraints become ocean. Everything leads to modernism, which speaks of a past about which it can no longer provide us any knowledge of.
A metaphor tears itself free from a stationary whirlwind. It is not enough to substitute the space traversed for the movement, we must challenge presumed authority and reframe conceptual landscapes, imaginatively reconstitute the familiar.
Let us not dwell too much on the dimensions of time. It may be that nothing has happened and is but a piece of history. This is tomorrow, that was the journey. What is one to do about a mirror whose surface is always changing?
New technologies for the production and consumption of culture are displaced by the chaos of destruction, replaced by rupture and reversal. The lines of separation are detached from their original context and form, the network of signs is infinitely circular.
Pop culture blocks the flow and anchors us in the world. Scraps of social memory are torn, faded and unglued, found again and cobbled together and uniquely coloured. Corrugated metal resonates with DIY aesthetics, cut-up thirftstore records that unite image and sound.
Found tunes, good times and sampled beats are used to cover the facade of the museum. Both art and design are exhausted; strategic misuse has failed to liberate form from the fictitious machine of expression. It is always a question of conjunction, nothing is ever final or complete.
—Rupert M. Loydell