This Butterfly We Tried to Anaesthetise
Leading up to the moment where this show found its devoted plate to be plated on, to be starkly admired from and then savagely and honestly digested off of. I found myself obsessing violently about my kitchen and the fact it needed a large refurbishment. I had arrived at the problem. A problem that began in my head and then frighteningly composed a rather fruitful and telling existence, outside of me. In the cold water, in the silence of the kitchen gas, in the breeze that thrusted through my cracked kitchen windows, in the exact and cutting motion of my knife each morning when illustrating the onions, peppers and tomatoes that compliment my morning’s signature dish, in the obsessive compulsive disorder that graces me with such an enchanted and confident sequence to pleasantly manipulate each agonizing moment of each tempestuous day, in the absolute flux, in the non-transferable feeling that is naked and invisible and sits with me for breakfast every morning, uninvited. In a swirl of dread, In a trickle of contentment, in all that typifies one sensation in one vessel, that is me. And with that, in the world that I greet to leave, each day. Only to meet again in the next moment. This problem gave life to me, in a moment of delusional racketeering of self. Then to others, then to self, then others again. All divided, well portioned, liquidized, in a huge bowl I found in my kitchen. I owned and developed a mixture that I became and controlled all at once. I stirred it while being stirred, spat in, admired, crucified, mixed with love then hate then love, again.