45B Rue Ramponeau, 75020 Paris
March 3rd - March 21st
Built space is the shape of his memory, its reflection, repetition and absence manifest, here, as seen from above, the rooftop is a transposed romantic fragment of an overseas trauma that grids itself into being. Franco Californian architecture is a middle class dystopian revisionist history, a postwar survival tactic. To see your home, from a bird’s eye view, is akin to watching future events of lives past unfold, most likely in another skin.
In 45b rue Ramponeau sculptures of erosion barriers stuffed with hay serve as punctuation marks. These elongated forms, lifted from surrounding life in Los Angeles divide the room and create a space between. Hanging on the walls are fabric portraits which serve as soft apparitions. These sculptures witness the scene from above and serve as neutral companions, stoic in the passing of time. All movement circles around a rooftop of a 1930’s French provincial style home designed by Paul R. Williams in Los Angeles. Like a daily rag, the rooftop viewed from above is quick and punchy. What should be legible forms are distorted through glasses that don’t quite match my current prescription. The hipped roof begins to initiate a memory but is interrupted in its repetition as a scaled papier mâché model, asking to be heard.
Looking at the house I built with hands covered in pitch and paille, I see my prints. Cut from each ring of each year. Sifting each optogram through my rings, I declare a new perspective with each ring filled the visual purple. Forgive me, I see visual red and the house intends to become home, burned his retinas.
Thus in silence in dreams' projections,
Returning, resuming, I thread my way through the hospitals,
The hurt and wounded I pacify with soothing hand,
I sit by the restless all the dark night, some are so young,
Some suffer so much, I recall the experience sweet and sad,
(Many a soldier's loving arms about this neck have cross'd and
Many a soldier's kiss dwells on these bearded lips.)
- ending of The Wound-Dresser, Walt Whitman, 1896