Single channel video installation: sound, colour video projection and base, DVD player and DVD with 7’32” looped video, strobe light and control on metal floor base, 2 speakers, sound equalizer
Edition: 4/6 and 1 artist`s proof
The purchase was co-financed in 2001, by EMST and J.F. Costopoulos Foundation
Inv. No 106/01
Wall Piece 2000
Transcription of spoken text:
A word is worth .001 pictures. To be transfixed is no longer an option. I am in a way blind. I live time through a succession of pictures I’ve known since when. But it’s precisely this when that haunts — it eats out the looking cavities and smiles inward like a Cheshire cat. What I might name as “”the immediate surroundings”” has all but vanished. I have no place. No feet. I’ve lost the vague idea of limbs. Legs feel more like logs arranged for a fire. I remember a dream of holding the other’s heart in my hand for a moment I live the pulse of another being. Then it was over and I gave it away to a hungry animal. Lush sensations have ceased. I have no mouth, no scream, no voice within. I only listen to an imaginary sound I might make. I am supersonic and alien. I have the feeling of being a fuselage. Am I walking? Sitting in a chair? Killing? Eating? Could it not be any of these things — any and all simultaneously? Where am I? I can’t remember at will. It can only be described as something holy for fear of something completely other. Parts come back not quite like what was before but the connection is certain. A few switches flipped — that’s it. The wherewithal generator is next to close by — it’s happening right before my hands. I’m synthesized. Thought that won’t let go brings to mind the terrifying possibility — it’s only words that separate things. I feel abandoned by the real, leaving what’s left. I’m going, watching myself go. Everything’s changing speed — backing into itself. The effect mesmerizes. Movement eludes me. I’m paralyzed. Waiting awaits what’s left. It’s doing exactly what it says. No question. No questions. Circumstance is at a standstill. Things have exited. If I go everything else will follow, I know it. It knows it. There is nothing to leave. Nothing. Difference exists only through sound; a wall of sound. Can I go through it? Can I go through with it? Where is it now, where does it reside? What does it feed on? Why does it flicker? Nothing approximates its speed. It’s something from the outside. Way outside. I didn’t think this. This is not me. I’m not accountable. It wasn’t thought out. It has no relation to thought. This is that hole that everything must pass through. I’m going now before it comes. Will I know when it comes? Will it approach with signals? Will there be a moment of recognition? Is that when I am it? Am I simply tapping myself on the shoulder? What is the point? It’s always there; on again; on again. It waits without pathos. Waiting is human. This point wants to show me something inhuman. It wants to bring me to my knees. It wants me to pray, it wants me to see through seeing, it wants me to act like knowledge. It wants acknowledgment. It wants me completely at the edge. It burrows itself in, blows up and begins again plural—Points. Cells.
© 1996 by Gary Hill