A wise boy once told me that if I wanted to study the void I should attempt to ascend from darkest black to total white, as along a spectrum. I started writing stories and generally living as if each sensation was a finite appearance on an infinite continuum. The moments so close together it’s hard to tell if the color is changing. I would joke that the void is the one thing about which nothing can be said. And here’s the truth from inside this emptiness: there’s not necessarily much difference between what is real and what is fiction- only labels we choose to distribute.
Floodplain converts these stories into the strictest chaos- destabilizing formalism through a marriage to fiction. Colorfields in conjunction with stories about losers on their way to bliss. Sunrise located at the back of the throat. Sensations and inversions and theories of unknowing and bodies coming together. The objects bear the marks of desecration and illumination- our attempts to feel something or feel something less. The graceful combination of nihilation and the physical pursuit of pleasure. Sculptural arenas create places and arrangements for imagined bodies and indicate activities that will never occur. Through the performance of opposing elements, bodies and objects become equal partners.
In Floodplain, the spaces between our bodies are landscapes that we fill up. Saturating, emptying out, accepting a certain level of destruction. We don’t worry about the loss.