Interim

About

Realised through a dialogue between students and gallery curators, it provides an overview of postgraduate studio practice as it is being developed.

Above horrible lives: somewhere between the floor that pushes us up and the windows that press down from above. Have we been sold false promises? Anyway, listen to happy music or sad music the choice is yours. Really, the closer you get the more it blurs, like a colour spectrum projecting out into the room from some other place.

I’ll cook something nice for you in my kitchen or maybe I’ll cut your head off and boil it until the skin comes away like cling-film. I’m funny like that, a little taciturn you might say, like the point between the sock and the trouser, another quaint interim. TITTER.

Ever done anything you’d like to forget?

Well here comes ancient mythology. Black modernist lines track down just as pigments and salt and water from the Tweed bleed up. So many meeting points in one space: walking, walking, walking, walking. Walking anxiety; walking depression; walking loneliness; walking sadness; walking nostalgia. I better not stop! And so in turns my life becomes a map, built line upon line upon line. (I should have asked for the happy music after all.)

Eventually my mouth moves independently of my face and I’m hijacked by my own speech. “I’m a fox in the night”, I cry out, “Just flick the switch and turn Andromeda off, will you – it’s doing my nut in.” When I stop ‘crying out’ and continue whatever it is I’m doing, we’re on the inside and these patterns affirm something shamanistic. And through their psychedelic movements I only get remade when I finally recognise ... a suitcase. Yet, the suitcase needed me to recognise it, don’t you see?

I’ll probably not sleep again tonight. I’ll just keep walking towards that big, black, soft nightmare.

The only way out is through that lovely round, pink, orgiastic room. Moving from arse to arse, let’s dance our curious little fingers around, then point to the tasteful ceiling. Open me up, I’m ready for some real pleasure; and if I can’t be a fly on the wall at least let me be a bohemian.