Microscopic Attention: An Artslab

Randee Silv
December 2016

Palm trees shade her bare body and re-shuffled sand forms targeted mounds. Gazing upwards demands loyalty. Mute. Tenderized.  Curling as they twist, the remains of knotted wire torsos seem bound in discomfort.  Dried bones leave an obvious gap.  Crimped. Torn.  Delicacy lays exposed in havens of skin shedding.  Raw. Moist. Streaming in through windows, nothing feels quiet.

Pure trembling. Escalating scales of pale grays.  Distance underneath and tripled above liberate intensity nested between light and darker. Daily gatherings articulate bleached restraints and fictitious tales. She’s been brought in as an expert on invisible touching. Glued onto a track, he waits.  36 days.  Air, slitted and slashed, argues with grimy soot.  Equalizing present past should make you flinch.

Nocturnal. Heated. Ecstatic. Sealed displays of intractable divisions reverberate dimensions slated to topple from molded trends.  Do you read ads? Consumer catalogs? Action books? Is romance promised? Is there a mechanism that isn’t political?  Please don’t touch the ornaments. They’re not for the taking.  Breathe.  Do breathe.  Useless halting in front of a split, a fork, a divide. Mysterious. Natural. Or is it preconceived? Clouds pass above a narrative that burns my eyes. Why emphasize? Why approach? Refute. Refuse. Looking through glass is not the same as looking through fog. Someone tell him that. You can’t distill elevation using mist as a clarifying tool. It’s hard to escape surroundings blown away in verbal storms. Punctured. Embodied. He jumps before running. Tell him to leave it on the workroom floor.

Rumbling sounds separate. A sudden appearance races out of sight. Increase. Decreased. Return. Ten minutes until a solid embrace. He’s already welded normality into petrified erosion. Pointing to canyon walls, tree bark, a broken stopwatch, insect shells, he translates hues into a guidebook diligently assembled. Nice hat, dress, shoes. He stops to measure the direction of the wind. He is suspicious. He is not completely satisfied.  I don’t hear any chattering. Who is who behind that curtain? Where did the image go? She stops at her doorstep and falls asleep.  Labyrinths. Vistas. Arcades. Panoramas.

Whether in front, or in profile, angular or squared, a test of hardness is pitted against capture. Limitations backfire deciphering unleashed windedness transmitted from endpoints. Deadly is not crossed out.  Some belong.  Some arrive. Some broadcast virtual darkness. Instructions are diagramed on how to swat whatever is hovering around you. Intimate. Unrestricted. The passage reads:  reproduced and recycled for maximal effect. She climbs a pole. He studies an out of focus gun. She sticks out her tongue. She looks down to an oval pool. Construction not complete.  A valuable detail.  We’re not told who is calling.  Gas stations replace roadside trees and ladders of escape.  Causalities line up like pin cushions. We’re told that this is a treasure of delight. They float from room to room in disbelief attacked by birds they don’t see. Generating. Reverberating. We’re reminded of obscene deceits. Grounded coal.  Meshed netting. Silver, woven.  Showers taper on overcrowded residues of perfumed heartbeats.  She slips on spills of wrinkled figs.

You can feel the weight of exteriors overflowing with sly manoeuvers. Bombarding implemented sensations is represented by saturated colors and oversized apologies.  Onlookers watched as they gather around a marble table. Introductions went on way too long. She asked how much water can your mouth hold then cancelled the scheduled lull between slowness and stopping.  Soon, shadows will pass over designated arrows. Life. Frozen. Rice: 1000.  Beans: 3000. Flour: 5000 dollars.  There is a device, an apparatus already assembled. Mechanical howls stand guard anticipating lurking prey.

Laughing swans proceed to record volumes of facts never known.  She goes upstairs to count dancing dolls. She tracks the plotting of unstitching pain. He has constructed the opposite of identical sameness with the crisscrossing of perpetual similarities.  Mobility denied.  Retreat wraps itself around standing branches. A glimpse at a solution.  The moment was over. A bird with a cage. Artificial night is not a pantomine. I hunt for a windblown flame.

Cutting metal into mirrors is a precise invention. The circumference of mimicking, concocting, was the theme. Is the viewer a player, a victim or a worthy subject?  He divulges what he sees as veiled and forgottenly hidden. She pushes him away, but he does not budge. Beady eyes pierce through camouflaged stone crushed passion on sloping ground.  Realigned patterns and aerial mapping did not appeal to her. She said that elsewheres should be left outdoors and dismantled before rupturing ruptures.  Movement. Moving. Access crushed.

Strategic components feverishly consumed with the inability to comprehend double meanings amid seamless technology. Mesmerized. Visualness extended. A firsthand process not lost. She accentuates what some deny. They asked her to write 20 additional words. He suggested a simple velvet bag. “Meanwhile the concussion of the waves breaking fell with muffled thuds, like logs falling, on the shore.” Primal alertness is right in front of you.