From the historic administrations of Greenberg, Fried, Adorno: the integrity of materials, their objects and supports, our transcendence, their autonomy, not so much abstracting but in search of indetermination.
Palms on the clay, pressing down, rolling it finger thin, making patterns and motifs, dare I say it, suggestive of any number of practical objects. Some to be worn (sweaters), some to keep us in/out (chainlink fencing), some to be climbed (Juddian rungs), some simply to secure (knots) -- how making them from clay makes them none of them.
To add and not-add painting to that: flesh tones, a flood of colours, IKB(?), monochromatic, all towards that which it can't.
And the cube that is this space, lit large like I have never seen it before, painted a brightest white and threaded through it, its fabric breaking at right angles -- up, along, down, along, up, along, etc. And punctuation, inserted flush in some instances, proud in others (as support), made from more clay, like the fabric's (fabrics'?) broken-gridded stitching -- in and out of the walls.
Discrete works says the titled numbered floor plan, but it's always the exhibition, first, for me, the system so open its closing.
Which is not to lose sight of my feelings, which belong to this space and its quirk, where you enter a shop below to ask for its key, then turn around and walk out, along the street, up a flight of stairs, down a hall until you come to a door, a door with a window in it, the room dark, the door opened, the light switch to the right and flick -- boom! -- this feeling, which in this instance opened me up, filled me with joy, before the come-down reading of its codes.
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