Honeycomb. Honeycomb riddled with bullets, buckshot.
Do not curate objects but grow them. Tissues, fungi. Technological materials as a substrate.
Consider an assemblage of a meat grinder where the input tissue becomes an intricate cable of thin, primary-colored wires.
Does increasingly theoretical work run the risk of becoming decreasingly cathartic?
Radiating seed and roots, terminated by a surrounding rubber wheel.
When there is little new territory to cover one remembers old adventures. Maybe art sould remind patrons of forgotten dreams.
Misplaced mouths. Eyes in the wrong place. Some Judeo-Christian symbols. What is most compelling is the eye or the mouth itself.
Light, photograph empty space. Maybe it needs to be done in 3D with a tank of fluid.
Disappointing open studio again with the shitting on personal vision, inner life, emotion. Imagine the asshole who first pushed off that bandwagon. I wonder why it is so hard to recognize that each of these characters are at the center of their own circus.