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OUR PROGRAMME FOR THIS YEAR IS NOW COMPLETE

PLEASE CHECK OUT OUR ARCHIVE WHILE WE ARE PLANNING FUTURE EVENTS

Michaela Nettell

BEEHIVE : 2-channel video and lightbox works & Risograph pamphlet.

                                                                    I

Exit one London. Wandering into the root of to dwell. I will not provoke. I will

not provide. Let us through. The first big test is to dig a ditch. In guerrilla warfare

it’s said you use your strengths as weaknesses. Everything’s declared. He struggles

to solve the puzzles that appear in the almanacs. He sits at his table doused in

bird-lime and lighter fuel. This estranged master, he bears all the hallmarks of an

assassin getting organized. Time moves too thinly for him. Come home. At the

close of a perfect sentence he practises himself to sleep. His first love is the ordi-

nary. He picks pockets to make ends meet. But he wants to unravel a narrative,

who’s in love with whom and who isn’t et cetera. He approaches the window to

see how the outside is faring. (The apt word is heroic.) He’s at work within the

delta formed by a small pyramid, a stonemasons’ temple, and a sea-going concrete

vessel. Nameless, his number is. He scribbles a note in his journal: anathema

begins, reversal of power. Nothing is any longer alike. The rest is unreadable.

How long is he staying down in that box she asks. Everything happens only once.

His mood swings have become intuitive—every plop in the water is a meal.

We are dealing with impersonal, collective forces. We’re electrocuted while flee-

ing. Much of me remains behind. Let’s start with some basics: dazzling light bal-

anced by impenetrable shadows. People say he’s often found drifting through the

landscape whistling sad ballads, like the one about a crow who watches as night

thickens into a volley of snow. I disinter memory. I’m permitted to inherit

myself. For a week I invented everything. The next dump on looks like the

entrance to hell—drumming assaults the ear—bells, visionarymusics and solid

painted bodies. Every face is a parallelogram: cubist bone, rawky mornings

creeping up the sky. A small disc hangs by a thread above his forehead. It’s set at

an angle to the radiowaves—flexion is used to measure his intent. He can never

fully return.

Dwelling Richard Makin

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ADDITIONS
Installation @ Stone Squid