Pathological Liar/ Stalker
I am a fan of places I've never been to. Where I live, nobody knows you, nobody has
met you yet. You are contingent to my screen-saver, to the thousands of headless
torsos in the chat-rooms... I am your audience and as such, at some point, I felt like I
was dating my father or my mother (for the impossibility of it). I find that with you, truth
reveals itself in a fictional structure; and the reality of our construction depends on the
relational aspect of that exchange and also on the contraband of your photo. Since I
'met' you, my reality became abstraction and like on the verge of modernism you where
built as speculation while I turned into a verb.
In these paintings, I have no interest in the narratives of what went down between us,
but instead, I focused on how for desire to remain desire it had to ignore the very mark
that constructed it as such. If I have to locate desire in your body or in mine, it will be in
the head. I’m omitting it now. I’m not sure if the word representation would be the right
one here, maybe yes, I rather think of these paintings as presentations. Or the
discourse without text for the ads and the posters I’m distributing in Europe to find you.
In any case, as I was saying, the subjects depicted are sometimes generic headless
totems, rocks that look like people, unfinished torsos from bad sculptors in the 30’s,
red jackets and black pants ‘walking’ backwards and forward. They sort of echo the
basic premise for exchanging one’s own nude photos on the chat room: Always
headless, nobody will know who you are...You’ll avoid blackmail. I only have headshots
of you; you never got one from me.
On our chat sessions 3 modes of exchange took place. I build you up, I erase; I attack.
In all 3, there was the possibility of losing control materially, of not being able to direct
that curve, or this conversation. The paintings that came from the chat room are now
becoming a poster, an ad, a letter. So, in that (sort of) state of becoming, the
performance that was started by your image became extra-pictorial drama, and at the
end, what was left wasnʼt just a bunch of photos or paintings or letters, but rather the
scene of our exchange, its process and the memory of it's materiality, whatever that was.