Third Room, Portland, Oregon. Curated by Vanessa Englund. February 1 - March 3, 2019
Every object suggests a body.
A low flour dusted shelf, an outstretched arm, round loaves of bread and a lamp.
Fragmented text—a poem or stream—cast in concrete, stacked and piled, leaning.
Every object suggests a body: a body to make and be made by it; a body to love and be loved by it; a body to touch and be touched by it; a body to fuck and be fucked by it; a body to fight and be fought by it; a body to use and be used by it; a body to eat and be eaten by it; a body to hold and be held by it.
Every object is a body: a form holding a purpose, skimming across the surface of the world. It has some inner life we can’t know, and yet it is incomplete, just as we each alone are incomplete. I complete this lamp, just as you complete me, and this lamp completes you. Every object is a body and every object suggests a body, radically full of life and yet unfinished, scraping against the stars and yet bound, here, to the base functions of life. Maybe one day we will build an object that doesn’t need us; that we don’t need; but I don’t think so. Maybe one day we will build an object that isn’t us.
Every object suggests a body; every word suggests a reader; every sign suggests a mind; every poem a dreaming world, fleeting thoughts locked in place.
A shelf; a lamp; round loaves of baked bread; a text concrete.
text by Daniel J Glendening
and right: Abney Wallace, Unwind most frequent frequencies are undetectable
Wood, hardware, lamp socket, brass fittings, lightbulb, electrical cord and plug, baling wire, oil on rag, flour, water, salt, yeast.
36" x 70" x 36"
31 pieces, each approx 3" x 14" x 10"