Olga Balema & Win McCarthy
“Without the audience the artwork does not exist!”
“There is a place for you in these paintings!”
Earth was scanned on film. Melancholy at first, then incrementally increasing its pace spun frantically. Flickered. Stopped. In black and white an old man circled the land on his motorcycle, body reverberating as a droning sound left his mouth. The museum turned into an apparatus for the arranging of light and people’s thoughts turned to Maholy-Nagy and his beautiful construction.
“A room that is like a dream, a truly spiritual room, where the stagnant atmosphere is nebulously tinted pink and blue.”
The spot on the wall kept spinning. More holes, more motorcycles. A nude woman bathed in green light up to and including her limits was looking at things from above, rather than the front or the back, holding a colored pencil Roto-whatevers, preciseness and acuity, invest invert convert relent relax control.
Look long enough, and the word becomes unintelligible. It is made of letters: lines curved and straight. It follows the rules, sure. Consonant, then vowel, then consonant, consonant,
familiar. It sounds familiar.
The word, “sounds” familiar.
You recognize it, plain as day, yes.
of these works is a territory: a temporarily fixed quantity. Within these
territories, associative “properties” abound.
A parceling out
A reordering of set quantities
A round peg for a round hole
A cut, and a repair
A motorcycle was mentioned before. There is now a motorcycle. There is now a raking afternoon light. There is now a raking afternoon light.