If we were to rub against each other, instead of vibrate in the cryochamber of our solitudinal keyboard mania we might be GETTING somewhere.
Rubbings, frottage, friction, and body heat are all recommended.
Moore's law says the number of transistors per square inch on integrated circuits has doubled every year since their invention. Does that mean the number of emotions has doubled every year, or do we just masturbate more vigorously to try to keep up with the information?
To this end, we’ve put together a show that is about touching, framing, and rubbing.
Chris’s civically engaged railing circumscribes our space, his rubbings press against monolith ideas as a strategy of breaking down and refiguring their language. Flawed histories rewritten.
Em stares into the red left behind by the blue through the index of a remote family, traversing a field, pressed on silver gelatin, numbered and framed. Her serial touch of sculptural reverence gives way to the complexities of a photographic eavesdropping.
Tova reimagines a postmaterial sensuality through an alien perspective of an intimate moment investigated—the joking language basics of barstool napkin etchings outsizedly considered.
Luke, who invited us all, is trying to rub his eyes up against the physical world in an attempt to make better sense of it. Touch is the one empirical sense that requires being there. In making the collages for this exhibition Luke was thinking about the meeting of contact and apathy.