Sometimes its the spontaneous things we do that reignite our fascination and passion for what we do. For so long I have distanced myself from my work. The paper cast series consists of paper crushed by others and rarely by my own hand. One afternoon I found an old broken heavy-duty power cable, which I hung up to experiment with. This exploration of the object took off and I was engulfed by an urge to play, move and become a part of it. These moments of pure innocent play are hard to come by, as I have found myself increasingly restricted by my own organisation and structures.
The Artist. A person of play, a conversationalist. In meeting this object, this other, a connection is made. One body of lines meets another; the artist steps into motion. The tension is high at first, as one battles the other for balance. Cable tight in resistance to motions it was never made to bare. Lines, Lines, Lines.
Now the two are intertwined; one becomes the other in a drawing of forces with gravity as its canvas. The subject becomes lost in the object’s movements. No longer is the Artist the maker of art and no longer is the cable an object to simply use. Lines, Lines, Lines.
This non-object was once devised to carry and connect energy, but now it has become nothing but energy. What is it now? ‘It’ being two that became one. This production staged by Play, undoes them both. They are lost. Lines, Lines, Lines.
Nothing there but lines, motion, ties. Gravity bending them to its will. The Artist drawn in by fascination, loses control in an eagerness to explore the endless limits of a new play mate; neither of them were made for this. Lines, Lines, Lines.
The balance between them swings backwards and forwards in an attempt to coalesce in something actual, something that can be named. But a name to this would be awkward; a third wheel, never quite resonating with its essence. So, it stands unknown. It moves unknown, fluctuates, molds and forms unknown. And yet it knows one other. Lines, lines, lines.
Energy flows equally through it as one, the moment overtaking it. Primal is its urge to be, that drives it into life from the living and the dead; the natural and the not. Again. it paints, draws, sculpts. Yet another line, line, line. Before the chaos of the moment spins, pulls, stretches out the two of them. Their time together drawing to a close. The body and the object. The Lines, Lines, Lines.