Artist
UntitledDb Feed
More Exhibitions at ESSAIS
Guestbook
Press Release
There is a large table here. After all, it is nothing more than furniture, yet the absoluteness of prayer sometimes meets the decadence of sin upon it; a refined spirit may reveal itself as merely fin-de-race, and filth often confront the ideal. Anyone who tried to lean on it would need courage, for it may well be nothing but the product of a dream, and in a dream, as María Zambrano wrote, “the bottom of the hours lived […] as they are being lived, gives way, even falling into the abyss.¹”
All forms are good for dispelling unease, but it stubbornly persists in barging through the unconscious. It claims a seat at the table where people feast and grin, offering sinful delicacies to whomever will take them. No matter how hard one tries to summon their virtuous upbringing, memories are imbued with a taste of decadence. No matter how upright one wants to remain, we succumb to the ‘poetic penumbra²’ that Georges Bataille wrote of, whose scarce light is reserved for the basest instincts.
Art,…
Exhibition Space
Metadata
Claims
Press Release
There is a large table here. After all, it is nothing more than furniture, yet the absoluteness of prayer sometimes meets the decadence of sin upon it; a refined spirit may reveal itself as merely fin-de-race, and filth often confront the ideal. Anyone who tried to lean on it would need courage, for it may well be nothing but the product of a dream, and in a dream, as María Zambrano wrote, “the bottom of the hours lived […] as they are being lived, gives way, even falling into the abyss.¹”
All forms are good for dispelling unease, but it stubbornly persists in barging through the unconscious. It claims a seat at the table where people feast and grin, offering sinful delicacies to whomever will take them. No matter how hard one tries to summon their virtuous upbringing, memories are imbued with a taste of decadence. No matter how upright one wants to remain, we succumb to the ‘poetic penumbra²’ that Georges Bataille wrote of, whose scarce light is reserved for the basest instincts.
Art,…





































