Return of SLLAB

Image by Harvey Bialy--Gallery: For The Poets II

“We have been here all along.  Even if that’s what they ALL say.” 

They all say.

But the timing of their arrival, from the moment of the first blank incursion of these
colored impactednesses on this viewer’s consciousness seems precisely gauged to
modulate the shock that their arrival quietly induces. Just as quietly, we pass, in our
reflections, from the subject of permeable surfaces to the monothetic upcrop of many
abandoned layerings. No sooner than the thought of a matrix arises, but that the matrix,
made thinkable, induces a further,  still unthinkable matrix, to put pressure on the place,
not to say the space, of these continuously jittering cogitations. 

There is a river coursing through a coursing river,  a planar universe consisting of objects
that understand themselves to be the very channel down which the signals of themselves
are confidently coursing. 

Or else the message massively comes towards one, through a channel that opens on the
image surface and projects directly towards reception, here on the front of our body,
surface accosting surface, creating surface, passing right on through.

As for the matrix, it is also the uppermost layer of itself, for the form of the matrix is
tabular,  optically a sort of distorted tiling—one thinks of the chess- (not the checker-)
board patterns that for so many years were vanishing from Thorpe Feidt’s canvases. This
one day will be a famous datum , I know it. 

And yet it is the color, not the form, or the color within the form ,or the color that
transmits the form, or the formal transmission of the color, that  effaces all thought of
matrix, layer, surface, course, or signal; demanding—as color ever has done—a fulfillment
far in advance of this demanding—the inauguration of another species of registry—more
instantaneous, more familiar, more insinuating than information, with its probabilistic
exhaustion, ever can promote for us.

And here the entities, whether vertically stretched, minutely incised, or broadly
enscutcheoned in the pseudo-painterly enjambents of scratch and edge, are slightly
distressed to appear the mere matter out of which the forms that elicit them are
themselves more prominently proffered. Through the ontologically foregrounded rumble
of moody chromatic jostlings, we hear  the somewhat crotchety, not to say disgruntled,
edginess of the beings themselves.  “We have almost had enough of the nervous density
through which we are compelled to surface here, “   say they.  “Enough of this topological
jitterbugging. Soon,we too must be called forth to some more articulable nature, however
transiently composited.”

We do not fear that any definitive responsive will be forthcoming. For the artist himself
as well as his exegete are no less arrayed in jitterbugging topologies of their own.

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