Patricia reading, 2020
(6:15, single channel video installation)
The dregs are what Patricia has in front of her. The things she cannot see yet moves around and between, never through. It looks like a thing for your mouth when it's really a thing for your hands.
The returns to past trauma. The wavering delivery of the then and now. Now what is this eventless event bound to. Or is it just a stretching
For care. A thirst for care.
An immovable slice of a feeling from a drunken half-memory, that only seems to resurrect in this moment. To live inside again.
To smother from the outside-in, again.
“Don’t let this eat away at you” he said. Resisting this weight. It’s hard to feel safe in my bones around him.
Picking up again. Searching for the ground again a ground again
or a set of legs
Histories she's never embodied, but attempts to fill, compulsively reaching, she stands up. She leans over the table and holds it up to the heat lamp. It absorbs and reflects, is that its power? The text is still smeared from the ground up.
Half-past relationships that have positioned themselves as
immovable. “Fill in the blank” but she doesn't want to make the words when they’ve dissipated, when they’ve bled inside the outside. The result of working with an unwitting participant. But that was the point.
How does the handling make up these betweens; the gaps and holes and slutters and stops.
Correspondences so here and so not, but have they ever held agency.
These people whom the letters are addressed to are expired.
Were they ever even, or is it pure narcism.
Ah, that's always the sad question with these things. The repetition of lines and the uncertainty beneath. The erasure the 'touchingness' and the uncertainty inside What does her estrangement become.
What does it look like to then be with someone as witness and to collapse the time of the with. These things stick,
In the experience of trauma,
Time falls onto itself,
Self falls onto itself and all over again,
What does this desperation want.
so far forward there’s no way to see the whole of it. No matter how far back we stand.
The years of saved letters to the lost lovers, predators, and the never hads. Consuming the image and arresting any kind of totality,
The things that are so deeply wedged and lost, there are no words but the overlap and overuse and overkill of the repeat. A kind of directionless momentum of the excess. Jammed in the cracks and sloshed in the cavities. The going ongoingess
repeat.
