|somnambulist. 48"x36". oil on canvas|
once a year, bats of the idaho red variety come cascading down the river flying just out of reach of the starving mouths of pregnant salmon. the early settlers used to behold this ritual...never quite sure if they should draw it, film it or tape it. the old chief voiced his opinion, said he preferred sound, said that images are too invasive, too permanent. his wife agreed - said sound is the only real way to remember anything...everything else is an illusion, something that never really happened. she was the first person to reveal this awareness, she was an innovator, an early version of isaac newton. the sound of a falling apple and the sound of the impact that it made on newton’s head is something we can still touch today. soundwaves never die, are just absorbed and reshaped into stone, water, wind...she was right to give a voice to it, right to believe it. only problem was her weakness for ice cream. it dispelled the myth, retracted her moment of brilliance, entangled her piety with desire. decadent desires. every day it was the same thing: pistachio with french vanilla, one and a half scoops, -12 c, sit for 3 minutes at room temperature - she would then discombobulate the text - make subtle changes like a lyricist or madame tussaud. wax is the buzzing of honey bees, a snowdrift is wind and the cracked earth the sun.