Lipstick, tree moss, granite. Doses of things and doses of people – they are enshrined in self-same communities of sense; our shared viewpoint is our not knowing.
Painting’s ponderous elisions: the conversion of objects into raw materials belies that pictures are always objects. If painting, like a collage that is always already its false bottom, is never totally itself, its chief quality is a loss of distinction – a terrain of plastiglomerates – a coalition of indurated rock and singed plastics. A sirloin marbled through with the absence of identifying particulars, a mushroom mushrooming. Both enshrined or entombed in the syntax, that continental palette, of paint straight, as though lifted on its hind-legs, from the tube.