just

below

 

the

sidewalk

 

 


oslo / no 

 

no highway in the sky

demon's mouth  / 2015

curated by Jack Heard
 

 similar

 

 

 

 

Jack has a pale voice with body. His shorts as I remember them reveal everything about his being while remaining just slightly above the knee. We connect over email after a break of roughly two years. He tells me he was hit by a car and I laugh. His foot still hurts but other than that he's back to painting.

 

I try to explain as best I can without being annoyed by myself that I would like to write a space for his show that builds a connective tissue between works which can only exist as ideas anyway. I wait for images and links. I wait for works in the conservative sense that never arrive.  Jack sends me an email from someone who attended the opening that sounds like it never happened. A really high couple stole beer and no one who committed on Facebook came. I’m hating Jack for this but love him for how much he frustrates me. I call him Juicy, Juicy Mangrove, or even Juiceteria when I'm feeling affectionate, but never Jack.  I don't think he's a curator but think he curates concepts into works of his own.  I don't know what a curator is anymore but know that its definition is under pressure. I’m happy for my work to be smothered in Juicy’s uncompromising French ideals of the void.

 

Juicy had a dog named Zeus who seemed too tired to actually be alive. Sometimes his golden fleece followed on command but mostly he ignored hearing his name which sounded like Juice in its echo. I understand the draw of a cold wood floor. I prefer to lay like a tired old dog when I sleep so Zeus and I are only different in terms of how we structure linguistic expectations. I come to eat when my name is called from another room and prefer to have both my arms surrounding three pillows and one between my legs when laying. Juicy has watched me shit the bed after folding a house, he has seen me cry without a doorway out. He once puked in our bed but made up for it by printing a blanket of himself at age thirteen flicking off the camera. It was his wedding present to me and Claus. Relationships across continents are unappealing. He told me about a basketball game he played where some prepubescent Hasids hustled him and his older friend.

 

Juicy explains a few of the works he wants to be a part of the show using mostly hyperbolic adjectives and doesn’t know yet who will send things. We sit and talk hoping that we can say everything before the hour ends. I stand near the window so I can smoke and he goes in and out of whispering because he’s in someone’s kitchen in Portugal. I’ve never been to Oslo but he says the space is on a street next to a coffee shop and that it’s small. Once we spent around five hours driving to the west side of LA because we were too distracted to follow a single cardinal direction. When we got to the museum we had trouble seeing anything beyond our own ideas and Juicy said he felt guilted into looking at a tryptic because of the security guard’s posture.

  

Juicy says it's all knife and no handle and that there's no highway in the sky.  I of course agree but wonder if I'll live long enough to see my son travel through space with belief.

 

He tells me about a guy who works with babies and a woman who he thinks is hot that is reproducing the scent of an Apple store. I try to speak through my work and we agree that it should function like a review. He says a rich gallerist will be wearing perfume.

 

Juicy can’t find the word for infrastructure then we talk about why we like watching certain people do things so much. We agree that it’s easier to like someone who’s inspired by insanity than someone who inspires it. We mostly talk about the performance surrounding music but not sound itself. We also agree that this show exists mostly in its marketing. A heating duct peeks below the ceiling just enough to initiate an outside.

 

I continue waiting for images that never come. I feel stubborn and want to write a space for the works to gather in but not for it to be too mystical. I don’t want to write a fiction but am not afraid of it being untrue. I send him a revision to my bio that makes me sound more interesting and qualified than I am. He responds that all of the bios will be revised but they never are. I visit the gallery’s website and look at images of people hanging out at other openings. There’s a small step that takes you down into a room which is just below the sidewalk. I watch a screen that never sleeps, a table waiting for rust, and a form looking for words. I still don't understand the curatorial turn but hope that it's as provisional as this show.

 

The space exhales with every reproach, weakened by every visit. Attention is fickle. A pocket sized utopia whistles and we all exit on cue. But maybe that's the point. A brief description follows the history of an object and its travels that we can never see.