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Nothing is anchored. It all folds backwards, runs forward yet remains flat on the wall where it hangs. Now comes the urge to take it apart, distinguish the elements and pull them out, attribute them as things- subjects and objects. There is a fight to understand, to know the scene, provide unity for a thought, an answer, to claim a percept. A search for the base. But the painting has left the domain of representation. It is me that hangs. Sensation is now free from a common sense of thought or judgement, no longer dominated by subject-object relations. Neither grouped nor divided, not a moment or hour, only in-between times. The painting is uncountable. Internally rigorous yet lacking in finality. It is sensation pushed against a plane so as to stain it. It’s affect drains me of my habits, my illusion of I, the enduring sense. Here on the wall is the real consistency. Everything singular yet inhuman in the composition of ourselves. The body does not quite exist, fill it in as the event yet to come, already happened.

 

-Irene Silt

October 2022