This Butterfly We Tried to Anaesthetize

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. Whipped into a ghastly awareness, full of true sentient. 

By using any other technique or being in any other place with any less or more compulsive compression laid out into my heart and spirit, would have only been true to what I could not have handed to myself, misplacing the heart of the problem, misplacing my very actuality. 

The procedure meant everything. And we all know every procedure exercised within the principles of truth will always display complications. The complications and trials of my problem’s responsibility was where the true and shiny spectacles breathed unapologetically. Calling for nothing but a bamboozled being to the issued line of action. This is where the procedure’s potential held its definition in shimmer and shadow. This is where the butterfly rids the chrysalis, where crystalized triumph and disastrous potential are all catered for, by a confident sequence that is sprinkled then fueled by precise tampering. 

This sequence came with truth and nothing else. The probable outcome of the untangling of this muddle made it’s intentions known, initially in the swelling of my bowels. It was in this moment, when I truly gauged the scope for loss of self and dramatic discovery and my grand opportunity to germinate my world, healthily in one combustible instant. This instant came as a daggering feeling of unrest. A feeling that brang notice to the fact I was carrying all the earth’s soil in my stomach, as if I had swallowed my own mixture, as if I had eaten every matter in my kitchen’s interior while neglecting the food in the fridge, as if I had become too excited for life and dread ridden all at once. When noticing this, that is when I discovered the gas leak in my kitchen. The problem was established.  Like any grand discovery, soon after, I found myself in the hornet’s nest, my senses and my reasoning absolutely covered by a significant uncovering.  Uncoiling it from it’s true nucleus. The problem that became my mission transgressed into a defeat and a victory all at once. There and then came the queen’s succulent honey. Then the stings. Then the bayonetting stings. Then the sweetness and so forth.

This personal experience made me think of the process one has to bear in order to seek out the formidable all defining answers. The real notation that I took from this and swallowed up wholly, like a prescription from my chemist, was that no answer can solely be defined. And that the counterparts and intricacies within the labyrinth of the core problem are the true noteworthy contributors to the entire message and the entire answer you are looking to receive. But by receiving it and putting it in your pocket and thinking you have the real solution to your problem would be absolute insanity. It would be like licking a fool’s achilles heel in hope for enlightenment. You would never do such a thing. In order to reap the advantages of possessing an answer you have to look far into the rectum before cleaning it. You have to look in the places of dishevelment, in a single flower’s full development, in the unpolished conditions that actual flare can naturally exist, in confusion, in the source of understanding and the origin of vacancy. Only then, can you start to expect to understand the problem. Then the answer. Then you can unwrap the present and receive the miniscule diamonds that are embedded in the spine of the fight for understanding.

This sinuous and sacrificial process exists in each artist that I chose for this show. In choosing everyone, I knew the selection of artists had to be people I knew in some way intimately and truthfully. I knew that everyone involved had to conduct themselves through continual honourings of veracity to self and then the world. Their work being the aftermath of their discoverings and impulses. This mob of humans know of a personalized methodical countermeasure to the human condition in many designs, silhouettes and abrasions. By probing then laying out such a category, I was able to form a faith in a disjointed but natural unity that these artists greatly symbolize. Unified in their discrete solitary missions as creators and instigators of expression and fine utterings and unified together in the framework of each other’s shared values and blended obversitys that only interest the gamut of truth and it’s herculean abilities. This is the bonding answer to my dislocated problem.