Friday, September 29, 2006
This Man
This man can walk around all day without a worry about when the end might come or how he could get the workload finished. He can let his mind be distracted by learning to play the guitar say or maybe watering the plants, that is if the leaves are drooping or the soil has become too dry. He can take a part in his own life and can consciously get involved all of the thoughts dancing around his mind, and comments; hasn’t that tree got an interesting texture out the window and is not the sky up there a shade greener this hour and if I record the sound of that man tapping his shoes then repeat it via a loop machine will I be able to edit the resultant base sounds to create an interesting repetitive thud over which I could dub a high pitched monologue. He makes tea, sees what’s in the fridge then boils potatoes, switching the microwave on but it is in the lounge that he thinks up the new narrative idea. Nothing can prevent this man from seeking out new areas of thought because of course his conceptual space is limitless. He knows that he can always walk outside if he wishes but opts to stay inside, searching now for Ballard or Orton, Philip K Dick or stuff by the Marquis de Sade on his bookshelf. Fiddling with the lapel of his shirt he casually turns to see if his computer has finished downloading the latest intellectual material. Everything is possible; This man can dream and create models for future developments, write plans for necessary projects and maybe the plan is the work and there is nothing else that needs doing to it; the end result an open ended structure that leaves the viewer free to imagine his or her own encapsulated world, fixed only temporarily to the original idea, leaving them free to unlock their pouches and pocket the art, carrying it along with them along their winding paths.
Fold-out Mountains
Standing behind the lady at the hotel balcony I was pondering the difference between the mountains in the distance and the mountains pictured in the fold-out postcard that she held close to her body. It was difficult for me to lean over and take a look for any satisfying length of time before she shuffled off once more and I had to follow her surreptitiously to regain my vantage point. Each time I peered over to take a look the apparent distinction between the two visions of landscape grew ever more blurred. Their tinted ice blue slopes and whiter than white peaks glowed in the thin air. A cloak of trees hung as if a large crayon had haphazardly scribbled itself with increasing density around the uppermost tips, dropping to fill in the valley floor with a carpet of loosely stippled vermilion gestures, adding layered marks of burnt sienna and viridian green to give textured cover to over around about I’d say fifty percent of the white postcard background.
After chancing a closer look I think I interpreted some far away figures wandering in the distance; tiny clusters of opposite colours sprinkled like confetti across a faded blue horizon. From a distance Skiers maybe, possibly holiday makers.
She looked up at me as I lurched away giving me a look of sharp indignation, apparently perturbed I thought by my increasing scrutiny of her paraphernalia. With her hand wrapped in a velvet glove around the series of mountain ranges packed together again she swiftly removed them from my view by slotting them into her jacket top pocket, whilst staring at me with a look of deep suspicion.
