I just want to go home and listen to my records and hide under my covers for decades and decades and decades.
Japanese artist Yasuaki Onishi’s ‘Reverse of Volume RG’ is a stunning installation that capture’s the ‘ghost’ of what is no longer there. A visual impression of what is missing.
Onishi stacked cardboard boxes in larges piles of varying heights to create the object of his impression, then plastic sheeting was draped over a scaffolding set up around the assembled boxes. With the help of an assistant, the artist dripped strands of hot black glue down from the ceiling to the sheet, letting them dry like threads in the air.
After the thousands of glue strands were dry, Onishi removed the boxes below, revealing a negative space cast of what had been there before. From beneath the tarp, the glue strands are seen as confetti of black specks across a floating, cave-like ceiling. From afar, ‘Reverse’ is a mesmerizing preservation, a kind of receipt for the work that went into the work itself.
JUST AN IMPORTANT VIDEO FULL OF SURPRISES
I want to be a part of Will Smith’s family
I miss Will Smith so much
Fangirling so hard. Best lighter ever. Cry with me.
Henry Rollins & Greg Ginn photographed by Alastair Indge.
Drool.
O’Donnell + Tuomey Architects - Photographers Gallery - London, England 2012. Photo (c)Dennis Gilbert
Journal entry, May 20, 2013 -
I searched every corner for a relic of you. I stole you out of your latency and dusted off your porcelain skin with my fingertips. The trouble in kissing glass is the surface’s inability to suppress it’s cracks. It carves away at my presumptuous lips, filling my mouth with comer nostalgia and a subtle bloody after taste. It is these attic dreams that whittle me away with their edentulate blades. Endlessly searching and sifting through fragments of souvenirs I’ve let decay and wane over the passing seasons. And in the somber and forgotten attic, I will coddle your cracks with my dirty hands and wounded mouth. I can attempt to repair the past seven years that we spent continuously cutting each other open and leaving cracks all over our tender skin. And when I awake in the early hours of the morning, I remember a specific string of words you spoke that stained my ears in our adolescence. “Some of us were made to be broken.” You broke me open. You slay me subconsciously.
Pets by Herimaholy Shinato Randriamasinoro
“Let’s talk about this octopus in your fishbowl”
