Chisenhale Residency...




Goldsmiths MFA Art Writing colleagues present an evening of performances, readings, projections, objects and contemplation. And there it is will chart the outcome of a sustained collective engagement with the decisive enigma of disaster and its many possible presences.


What if the word and its manifestations are perceived as events? The word might be a thing in the world, said, written or performed, the word might mark both a place of effort and a failure of presence. If the word is an event, a rupture, each rupture is a call to thought. Would presence, if achieved, mean epistemic failure? Does who writes matter? Does who speaks matter? Does which word we choose matter? Is our alphabet dead? Are we resigned to ringing variations of clichés or might we happen upon invention? Must our gesture succeed?



It could be Chisenhale, a screen, the internet, a wall, a piece of paper, a mask, a body, a voice, a void, or a word. We could find it. We could fail it.

Keep in a cool place...


Did you ever get the impression that you had been crafted? It was the result of an uncomfortable stretch, pivoting joints seemingly fractured. All these twists and turns began to separate themselves from the body. I began looking a little like a piece by Hans Bellemer. Disjuncture; Displaced; Disappropriated; Disjointed.


It looks like an act, there is a gesture towards eternal desire. This how you might look if you were to place your insides outside. Too much revealed, unnatural, not normal. Revelation, elation, liberation. Submission. The skin disappears and you are revealed as a mechanism. Let him turn his hand unto you and mould them around the artificiality of your limbs.


That is a falsehood as he is a falsehood, artificial mechanisms of otherness. Reduce each other to mannequins and find there an uncanny likening for something you once thought that you knew. The body curls in on itself then around itself - the surreality of it all. Life has been unveiled to you as nothing more than you had already found inside and there is a dissatisfaction to that. It was never the outside that oppressed you, it was always the inside.


Inside you found his hand and you were doing all you could to escape it before it's thick fingers clasped tightly shut around you. On running you had tied yourself in knots then questioned how it could possibly occur that the hand you were running from has now become a surface which you rest your tangled hide upon. This is how we represent each other.



Grotesque rippling of skin and flesh is tied into itself, it was never a part of me, it was just some additive. Something to dig at. Something to protect my core. How this did occur. How I have become so falsely represented. How you are, were and always will be the wire, distorting and manipulating my reality and my phantasy, intercepting thought processes and projecting yourself unto my limbs. I remain unmarked. Pull your wire once more and a little more tightly please, I am beginning to rise again.