I venture to say this piece is unnamed and unfinished, but I tell you it’s alive and it dances!
I can touch it with my hands. The wax is smooth like flesh, the collage like scars or scabs – where the texture lies.
Up close – I am underwater on sand, watching the fluxing of weeds. Looking for retinal patterns.
At a distance it traces a woman, her dress kicking out, a-twirl and limning the lithe.
It’s Chinese scriptwork of wisdom and way, a beautiful nude languidly branding the air with her limbs – fertile signs and images prodding me – “move!”
What looks like dark ink stands out, but in reality swims under the surface – blotting, inscribing and guiding the paths.
Emotion and gesture alike: drawn swiftly and sourced far beneath, or pressed on and affixed from outside. Each leave their marks – stark and prominent, – resonant emblems of what lies beneath, what responds.
I pretend I am calm, blank canvas to world – but when it brushes or cuts, smothers or slaps, what is bold in me reveals. The fears, the wounds, the anger and dream.
My vision scatters in rage. Vehement dashing and strike. I can promise you this: the world will reveal me.
I have told you: you are with the unknown of the unnamed – a nothing answering to nothing – a cooperative become.
At the end I will be named, will have accumulated and inscribed them. Surface, object, ground: our object.