While installing this work above, the artist Jane Ponsford dropped in for a chat and we discussed the significance of the role the space often plays in my work.
Many days have passed since I wrote the last entry but Reside continues to languish,constantly, at the back of my mind. It's been interesting to note, like the physical spaces, community halls and church halls which sit quietly, patient and empty between events, no one's home yet everyone's space, Reside seems to occupy this territory in my head, waiting, as it were, always available for use.
In the last few days I have been reading the book Theanyspacewhatever, which accompanies the significant exhibition of the same name at the Guggenheim some years ago. (I believe theanyspacewhatever is drawn from a Deleuzian term – some of you will now be waking up while some may prefer to go and make a cup of tea.)
One such element of the project involved the Wrong Gallery, a glass door, indistinguishable from those on either side on a New York street, a shallow space 'easy to miss, easy to forget', operating initially through improvisation, publicised through word-of-mouth and with an ongoing relay of selected artists invited to respond as they wished. Before long Frieze got hold of it and ultimately a replica was placed in a wall of the Tate Modern. The Wrong Gallery became right and in the process lost it's soul in an almost Faustian manner.
Many days have passed since I wrote the last entry but Reside continues to languish,constantly, at the back of my mind. It's been interesting to note, like the physical spaces, community halls and church halls which sit quietly, patient and empty between events, no one's home yet everyone's space, Reside seems to occupy this territory in my head, waiting, as it were, always available for use.
In the last few days I have been reading the book Theanyspacewhatever, which accompanies the significant exhibition of the same name at the Guggenheim some years ago. (I believe theanyspacewhatever is drawn from a Deleuzian term – some of you will now be waking up while some may prefer to go and make a cup of tea.)
One such element of the project involved the Wrong Gallery, a glass door, indistinguishable from those on either side on a New York street, a shallow space 'easy to miss, easy to forget', operating initially through improvisation, publicised through word-of-mouth and with an ongoing relay of selected artists invited to respond as they wished. Before long Frieze got hold of it and ultimately a replica was placed in a wall of the Tate Modern. The Wrong Gallery became right and in the process lost it's soul in an almost Faustian manner.
The Wrong Gallery - post Faustian exchange
It made me reflect on hiring the village/church halls. I had now and then, considered gathering this material and exhibiting it in a Gallery space, no doubt to be received and commented on by those who frequent such a context. That is after all, the right thing to do isnt it, exposure in a respected space, comments from knowledgeable sources? but that holds little interest for me at the moment.
Village halls exist on another platform altogether. They are seemingly neutral zones given identity by those that inhabit them. They are entirely free of the oppressive weight of context galleries carry with them. I hope in a little while, to open my time there and invite people in. If the 'wrong' people come... so much the better.
Reading material recently ( I eventually finished the Dickens)
has included of course,
Theanyspacewhatever Nancy Spector, published by the Guggenheim
Asterios Polp - by David Mazzucchelli
and about to start
Mrs Bridge by Evan S. Connell
On another note entirely, I belong to what is considered the more cerebral book club of the village established by the extremely learned vicar's wife and an ex- publisher, ( I fear I may have been invited to add a rougher edge to the conversation). It is a sober but enlightening event which I've come to treasure, but now (you can never, by the way, ask to join these groups, potential members being discussed behind closed doors and then covertly invited), I have also accepted an invitation to the hard drinking, tough talking, rival village book club, a decidedly more raucous event with a distinctly later finish time. I have already been plied with cava and debriefed for information and am beginning to feel likethe village doubleagent.
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