He was always uncomfortable in someone else’s landscape…
I created mess around myself, the kind of chaos that would be very dangerous in an operating theatre but which is synonymous with artists’ studios, and in that mess I edited the accidents. There is no Such Thing as Invention
As though pulling his head down into shadows long, the sense of elongation and sensation stretched across time slowed to longer seconds than he’d ever known.
The sensation that his head had spread out across time slowed to a barely perceptible timbre. It was constant but barely moving and spread out before him as if across an elongated map. Time writing a barely perceptible signature all the way down.
It was re-ordering.
The re-ordering of objects around us in a bid to solve chaos within, trouble within, turmoil within, disjointed within, distraction within.
The man in the grid.
The control of things.
By controlling a small subset of things we control our own version of the world. We manage our way through our view on the world. By physically moving objects within our sphere of influence we try to determine the outcomes of other actions.
We live as though in a loosely defined grid, the pattern only understood by ourselves, to others seemingly ridiculous and disordered.
To others we seem distracted and patternless, controlling, impossible, caught up in a world away picking out and on random tasks and actions, attempting to mould a view of the world best described to the lives of others as though seen through a broken kaleidoscope.
We submit control over our lives, where our worlds depend on us for the order and categorisation of objects. Things are generally in the places that make most practical sense and already fit to clear patterns.
Battling with self image self loathing the reflection of imperfection interpretation of how the human face reflects communicates everything if you look for it. When searching for ugliness when hating when angry the framed face stares back undone at the edges hopeless entangled web of doubts played back through a tightly sewn grid of emotional ignorance. Falling into imperfections, mess and disruption.
–This is running–