What can I say, my head is full, and needs to me milked – so crammed with concepts and crazy ideas, about what is art, what is an art career, and what the history of a single artist life in a complex world might look like.
Cycling backward, towards Lewis Carroll, and then reverberating through the troller’s mind catching glimpses of paradigms and eons. Icons floating and emerging spontaneously and then resting, dissolving from their iconic status.It’s not all about pretty pictures: it’s more like, wheels within wheels, and tumbling statues into the abyss, resurrecting into new forms, new thinking: a shift – a total quantum leap.
I have read the manuscript, and heard the sacred words, but find I am left alone to conquer my own thoughts and reconcile the incoming through my portals.
Chicken Fox, shy but sly, always looking, always finding, her eye is delicious and her mouth viscous. How can one keep up with a thinking artist, whose work emerges on flat panels from millions of words, scraped and sanded, washed away like the changing sands. Then deep penetration, Ernst like, excitement builds but slowly – spontaneity sets in as the chicken becomes a fox and the image arises almost without thought and so the dialogue begins.
I had an idea, a keen idea, I almost laughed out loud as my hands adroitly shifted space and time – little objects tumbling down the worm hole and remerging as if tossed back out by a mad hatter. I can do it, I really can do it, I can really do it well – how does it not break, this golden cord that stretches between objects and myself. Duchamp's mystic creatures, the clashing of the found and the ageless, death and life, solid and rusty like rock and old chromed metal, all told in a whimsical and confident tale.
I searched for my name, on what I thought was the sacred cow, only to discover that only the famous are allowed on a dead but living beast. I thought of the harlot who rides the beast in revelation, when worlds collide, and all is revealed, when the secrets of hearts are laid bare and the riches of the world are trampled under foot like magazines of despair written to justify anything but confess.
Then, I wandered back through time, to what I thought was an innocent time, but the writing was on the wall. I became a rabbit and leaped for joy, but the future the only future, emerged from the future of past writings, and spontaneously combusted in my head – I am no longer bound, but see promise in being a failure and jettison the life, I thought I owned and impart it’s trust to another – a sacrificial love.
Shift: an art experience. by LM Noonan and HEW Che Fong at the Sunshine Coast University Gallery -
1-27 February 2010.
More photos and commentary can be found on the …failed painter.
“to those who have ears let them hear”