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May 6-17, 2003, Tuesdays through Saturdays, |
Playing with line, I imagine myself as one of those old-time storytellers – a storyteller, however, who cannot control the story and is eventually swallowed by it. I feel for directness between my body and its extremities as well as the family romance and psychic shadows that fall upon it. These are not pictures, but a conspiracy that the body has entered into with line – a fugitive, escaping both the centuries-long Western hegemony of the paint(ing) and its alleged owner, the drawer. Thus, just like every effort to convey an experience to others, every attempt to control and possess, line turns out to be an impossible desire, for it reminds line of the captivity it has suffered under the paint(ing). Free of any historical encumbrance, it refuses to belong on the surface of paper, turning it into a void. Line is self-imposing, yet betrays, cheats, and ridicules its owner. It steals from me. Ultimately everything that has ever been on paper reaches towards a story, which becomes not mine but line’s own story. |
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