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Freedman Fitzpatrick, Los Angeles, California, USA
January 24, 2016 – March 5, 2016
In the garden, with dirt passing between the fingers, thin, loosening along the side of the path, the railing. Grasping for fibers. The gardener who plans purely by aesthetics ensures that the whole area will have to be irrigated enough to satisfy the rose.
Below and above the reservoir, dirt and cloud, this that is unseen, the reason of waves, the reason to see air – moisture – wetness. Wet is a science fiction place, water world, damp damp.
Across the horizon was the city – and under the horizon water. A series of waves patterned across the ground to create a small area with tiny ripples – those tiny ripples are the wind. Sitting next to me he looked and described the clouds and their volumes – what type of waters they retained, how fast they would be fluffing up.
Pumping silicone, plastic, videotaping yourself while changing lanes without signaling. Please be peaceful, everything here is so literal, pumping a rhythmic patterned beat in the car. The shape is a duration curved, and this all existed outside of the bowl. And on the surface of the ceramic – a parallel image developed as a fragmented fantastic body, it was stylized, patterned and repeated as a distorted mirrored image.
Everything is covered in salt, this body of salt. I see all kinds of colors, I see a blue grey crystal mist – snaking across a transparent surface, a floating form. TEXXXTURE holding, licking, slurping.
Courtesy of Freedman Fitzpatrick