FOLDINGS

Most art I make rests wrapped in foil, bubble wrap, cotton. It rests inside repurposed sandwich containers and cardboard boxes. Sometimes it rests in pieces laid out on a shelf, often underneath a layer of warm dust, elements that make little sense without white of a wall or white of a plinth.

I find it bewildering how art can become so arbitrary, bereft of all meaning I have sought after. With my art at syncope, I’m grounded and practical and searching for places. Art becomes about having the sheds, the attics, the lofts. I have not thought much about home until I began stacking boxes. Pressing down on their’ wings and running a sheen of brown tape at their furrows. My hand writing in a thick black marker and shaken over a cardboard fluting. I say: fragile! glass!, for when the time comes to lift the pieces into someplace else.

Foldings are the still lives, where art performs itself on paperwrapings silky to touch. It is to to have them displayed as so, in a thin manner but brightly lit and front facing, blinking almost -