I was going to write an artist statement. I am writing it now.
As I write, an idea might take place between my writing and your reading (or it might not), who knows. By the second paragraph you are meant to know what my work looks like. We are on the first paragraph. As I write, other ideas come to my mind but I have nothing to say about my work. If you are reading this you might already know what my work looks like (or do you?) and there is no need for the second paragraph. But let us assume you know nothing. Imagine a black square, a perfect rectangle. How would you describe it to someone who has never in his life seen a black square?
Have I told you that in my language poison and medicine are the same words?
We begin the second paragraph.
Now, close your eyes.
By the time I count to five you will be able to picture the black square from the first paragraph.
One
two
three
four
five.
Imagine a museum, a vast, empty space with objects awkwardly placed on plinths and in the glass vitrines. They are simple everyday objects: a child’s shoe, tea cup, cardboard box, blue paint, a small black and white photograph of a stranger, a block of concrete.
Six
seven
eight
nine
ten.
You can open your eyes now. The objects from the museum miraculously appear before you as you realise that we have been traveling in time for the last paragraph.