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They look like scenes that have been shattered and, in being repaired, have held within them traces of the breaking. |
FAULT LINES
They look like scenes that have been shattered and, in being repaired, have held within them traces of the breaking. They are telling us how memory works: in fractured pieces that overlap or are slightly askew. Somehow they suggest that what intervenes between the moment and the reconstruction of it is a kind of violence. Is loss.
The
paintings are observed the way memory observes. They take what are
essentially anecdotes, and give them to us with their history
represented somehow in their forms. Memories come to us in flashes,
sometimes, images warped across a grid, like photographs reconstructed
on an uneven bed of meaning. They dare us to take them apart, tempt us
to cut our fingers against their edges. They trick us with their
simplicity, seduce us towards them. They hold the promise of pure
recollection. But if we linger with them, we begin once again to see
the lines. The cracks that run through them. The failure of edges to
meet. Memory has its own dimensions, more than three, running into the
past along different planes. And that is both the pleasure of memory
and the threat. That nothing can be recalled without having been
smashed up by time.
