Untitled (A Work in Progress)
A strange storm is brewing.
A fervent scribble multiplies, gains confidence, demands presence and revels in its beginning. These paper cuts are fragile. They become airports of dust, light and shadow, and are subject to the flow of currents. They are kinetic sculptures that are reminiscent of Calder’s mobiles. But because of its medium, it speaks more about fragility, and because of its colour, it alludes to a purity that haunts us.
The scribble - often dismissed, erased, or silenced - is honoured here. It is elevated, but it is not about weightlessness. Words are projected on to its blankness. The lines take on a new meaning as the beginning, when words were forming but the urgency to speak was ever present. The white page only captures glimpses of the text. The page moves and words are lost in its interstices, the spaces that were cut out and emptied.
Fragments fall below, but they are orphaned. They are the remainder, the scattered. They once belonged somewhere, but are denied return.
They too are suspended; grazing the floor, they gather.