Certain Shores, (2015)  sand, granite, house paint 11" x 10' x 10'


We're standing around at the show laughing, saying, "you know when you're manipulating an illusion that's manifesting reality?"

This is a thin layer of black sand on the floor. Spreading out under a compressed horizon. Everyone thinks it's just an area of cloth- perhaps made of felt, and so they walk right through. Or they get a hallucinatory shock when the perceived solid plane gives way to a field of particles. I had been writing stories about beach nourishment, where the sand must be replaced to counteract erosion, interactions with impermanence, and ended up having to do gentle maintenance on this piece. I had been writing stories about cops as the voice of existential dilemma. And we had to stand and guard this thing.

But of all the interactions this installation created, my favorite involved a woman in stiletto heels. She stepped gracefully oblivious backwards into the sand. I beckoned her silently with just my hands and she stepped just as gracefully out, barely leaving the mark of her heels.

I'm always fantasizing about the sensual corruption of minimalism- how good Carl Andre's metal floors would look with a dog bowl and collar upon them, how the angles of someone else's stacked ridge of lead mimics the angles of my open legs as I step over it in the gallery.

This space is a void really. You can imagine a landscape if you like. But what would occur in such an empty place?