Bird wing, borax. 4.5″x3″
Let the strata show
I am concerned loosely with geology, the fissures and fractures, emptying out, filling up
The embedded time and locality of a place, a surface. The trace. The interruptions, continuations, negations, pockets. Sculptures, topos—formed of heat, debris, air, gas, liquid.
The body, too, is implicated. Through experience, conceptualization, hubris, language, consumption. Some good, mostly bad. I cringe at my existence—knowing, that as an object, a thing, I have a strange agency, capable of limited love but large destruction. With this body comes culture, that catch-all category, a topos (place) and a trópos (trope), knitted through with human formulations, constructions, deconstructions, problems, gaps.
The boundary and borders, of skin, of understanding. All that I attempt to see, to know, likely only reflects not an external truth, but an internal reflection.
This clash is present within me, resonating and writhing.
All that has past, and all that might come—weighing on the contemporary moment. One marked by precarity, anxiety, possibility. For many, the darkness is the heaviest beat. Division, destruction, extinction, exhaustion. So much noise. I too, sense the strain, the precipice. Much is said of the ‘tipping point’, this abstract location (is it a point? a cliff? a road collapsed?) indicating the point at which the presence of humans is too much, placing us and the life that surrounds at a state of irreversible decline.
I imagine this point, this tipping.
It is sharp, slippery.
Somehow both a climb and a descent.