underwater, in the rain.
the split gallery
october 2024
why i keep staying alive, acrylic on linen, pine and brass brad frame, 44.5 x 107.5 in (112.5 x 273 cm), 2024
artist’s shoes with golden soles (after kounellis), gold paint on artist worn shoes hung from cast iron, 25.5 x 12 x12 in each (65 x 30 x 30 cm), 2024
phases and stages, circles and cycles, thread and acrylic on speakers, speaker wire and receiver, (5x) willie nelson songs, each speaker 10.5 x 10.5 x 3 in (27 x 27 x 7.5 cm), 2024
these are the (5x) willie nelson songs, played in this order and on a loop as part of phases and stages, circles and cycles.
this is the super 8 video shown looped on the crt monitor as part of been down here a while.
been down here a while, restored tricycle, postcard, steel clip, paint and wood, brass wheel, super 8 video on crt monitor, 45.25 x 70.75 x 25.5 in (115 x 180 x 65 cm), 2024
my home in flames, acrylic on hand printed photograph, 39.5 x 39.5 in print (100 x 100 cm), 2024
gooder things (darned iv), worn and darned socks, linen, tread, pines on canvas pine and brass brad frame, 20.5 x 16.5in (52 x 42 cm), 2024
Exhibition text by Kaius Owen
Between splayed fingers pressed against the window, vast open spaces flicker past like stuttering frames of super 8.
These trains are few and far between but they travel great distances. It’s a long journey to be alone.
Hours and hours of pine forests and dust bowls, of lush valleys and craggy mesas - all blurring into earth tones, and then into the sparkling haze of half open eyes, fluttering between thoughts and dreams.
‘Thinking back to when I was a midwestern kid, collecting dead insects and pinning them onto a chunk of styrofoam, a delicate collection of holding on...’, just barely holding on, as though the insects could shudder back to life at any moment, their wings slowly picking up speed until the pins couldn’t hold them.
And then I’d watch them fly away, half sad at the loss.
A rippling surface. From underwater everything above is distorted, muted.
It takes a moment to realise that my eyes are open, that I’m watching endless raindrops collide and combine against the windowpane to create a protective bubble, a visor through which the future rushes into the past. And at present I’m without either, all is a thunderstorm of separate processes that may never entwine. Watching time from the outside. Numb.
Sometimes it’s enough just to watch things unfold.
Sometimes it isn’t. And you have to start unravelling connecting threads, threads that darn the failing heels of road worn socks.
‘At what point does maintenance cross the threshold into repair?’ Relationships need maintenance just like objects.
Some objects are beyond repair and just need replacing. (“Caring for someone, who don’t care... anymore.”)
Someone enters the carriage with sun weary skin and a grin that impresses itself on the mind. (Like denim pockets imprinted on hands that have been sat on for too long.)
They’re still grinning as they sit opposite me and still the rain carves an ocean from the window.
If only the raindrops were cascading onto my face, if only I could make contact.
Still they grin, a timeless grin, one that spans the ages, a hereditary grin worn by ancient faces.
Maybe it’s more of a smile.
Distance and time used to have a more solid relationship. Now we fast forward ourselves and watch as the world tries to catch up. I tap the glass, trying to pierce the surface of the raging waters. They tap the glass too. And suddenly, we’re tapping in unison and both smiling our oldest most timeworn smiles. My Grandad and their Grandpa would have smiled the same way.
Using teeth to open a bottle and nearly cracking a tooth. Feeling soft grit in my mouth and gulping cold beer. Grieving for insects, for friendships and my own adolescence. Creating circles in the dirt with the bottle. Cycling home in the dying sun.
It’s their stop now and unlike the movies this is when the rain stops. There is a human shaped impression in the chair opposite.
The train picks up speed again and all the little beads of rain on the glass shine in trails as they’re blown away. And though I’m in desert country, and though the sky’s have cleared, I’m yet again sitting here looking up at the ripples in the surface, as though I’m underwater, in the rain.