HOST

Marc Hulson 'Host' 2009 oil on linen 225x200cm

--Completing solitude in fragmented betrayals of the essence: more than one can fit within the frame provided.

The presence, heavy and deep-set, occulting passages (of time, speed, perspective-distortion, angles of desire, the focal variations that misuse of the skin has embedded in his/her breath)

Silence is the backdrop for something to be said, not crushing, not overwhelming, it will be crushed and overwhelmed, or maybe it will be the metal of a ring, ready to be cast. WORD is gem. You pick the colour.

Then the beasts appear and their slow and hushed advance in the night (Nightmares are triggered off by the electroencephalogrammaton we all foolishly believe we will override - us full of shit and full of ourselves) keep you from registering them in time – they call forth a denomination of the frequency, beyond doubt but before certainty, right where it’s pretty damn obvious the bad shit is coming, but it doesn’t have a name yet, probably cannot have one, ever, or it wouldn’t be THAT bad - triggered them off, then, within a system whose configuration truly cannot cope with them, was not meant to, or rather, was meant NOT to.

“i want you”, she says, eyes glazed in the others’ lurking fluids, the remnants of something toothed and fully-fledged, but with broken bones.

You cannot answer but it will pass as a radiant and grateful acknowledgment. Sitting there in the becoming of SILENCE, that son of a Cunt now vetoing every single one of your prayers.

You can look anywhere, anywhere you look is somewhere bled dry.

( Sound was once perceived as the emanation of divine particles that a closed circuitry had trapped inside cell walls, deep deep inside the marrow of our soul’s skeleton. Then they figured it out. Science and its golden tongue, its long, sharp-nailed fingers, its delicate way of fucking us over. )

There between the long gaps of our common history lie the little chunks of TRUTH that your teeth fell upon one after the other until you broke one, chipped the thin enamel, cut the soft membrane of your gums, thought you’d choke on them, broken glass, the tiniest, sharpest stones, the kind they could grind you with. Well, actually...

You count the numbers backwards – back to the thing it started from – back to You and the Other – mirrors – back to unity – back to infinity.

There are so many of you under this skin. How in the holy name of Fuck are you supposed to manage someone else letting themselves in smoothly, tenderly, full of promises of blue suns, bright nights, but forcefully as bulls on the charge ?

(They only attack because you did it first. That’s how martyrs handle the concept of responsibility)

Frigid like a mural of arctic contemplation, white forever because there are places there’s no point in setting foot on, and everybody knows this.

It’s all come down to this.
No one to say it’s a pity, it’s a waste, the damage done, all that.
Who gives a shit. It’s all come down to this.
The very place you used to inhabit you now haunt.
Felt, vaguely, but never answered.
They cannot tell your frame from the curtains’ shadow.
And you can’t tell their words from the wind’s holler.
Transformation is not a process, it’s an event.
Hammered repeatedly into the bones of your plurality.
Going nowhere, so fast it hurts, so slow you can’t see it until you’re there.

The air is a grid. Vacant until you fill the little boxes in. But with what? All has been said, the words placed like in some bad cosmic version of scrabble where it’s always the others’ words that count more and win.

(Emma Wolf Deraze 2009)






Installation view at Area 53 Vienna June 2009