I take inventory of the physical elements of the installation, which on closer examination i discover is not a small building at all, but a solid mass. it could be an alien vessel that has passed through a wormhole between the universes resting here in this gallery chamber. In the centre of the space, on looking into it from a distance, there is what appears to be a small building, radiant, undulating in the darkness of the gallery. it’s dark in there, i can hear the soft sound of waves or maybe it’s wind. the point of view from where i sit is through the open doorway to the gallery proper. In the foyer of the gallery, in the foreground there is an intimate seating area, a love seat beckons me. as with most books there is a dedication: for jake flashpoint, the bookwork. images to trigger some memory, something that words can’t quite remember, like the smell of your grandmother’s house year after year always taking you back to your childhood. the images are sensuous, soft photographic studies tree bark, mattress, a faintly blurred image of a girl running in the grass… a personal archive, a photographic diary. i hinge open the doors of the book to the vellum paged rooms inside. the hinged plywood covers of the book reminiscent of doors, a coffin, a cupboard, the proportions of a human body. they’re static but windblown, the bottoms of the pages pulling up, weathered. in the background a warm pool of light spills onto a lone narrow shelf. A response to the exhibition by Erika MacPhersonĪ quick survey.
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