Frank Ahlgrimm
01 Feb - 28 Mar 2013
FRANK AHLGRIMM
CUTS
1 Febraury - 28 March 2013
QUESTION: How far to go?
Break it down. Peel it back like a scab. Scratch it off, for God’s sake. Let it in (they say.) Listen a little to the THING, let it purr beside you, my friend. Run a soft hand slick across its surface. Look how well oiled, jet spayed with high pressure hoses. Tensile. Never a vein, never a pulse under my finger’s touch. Inhuman yet there remains the implication of all that cum on the dashboard—yes, of course we can see that, you don’t need to name it. YES. NO. MAYBE. It’s a dirtier dance than even you can imagine and I know and they know how low it goes under the bar, how it cuts into the marrow, furrows up your hole, cuts tongue-bitten teeth on edge. What I want to throw back in your face is your face itself. Add it, subtract. Surface reflection. Remake. Remodel. Reform. I wonder, (she asks) if this is a Reformation? And if so, does that mean that all the statues can be smashed? All the heads bashed in against the wall?
The images you have sold me, these now I sell back to you with everything I have, with everything you have soft sold to me, put back in the box but now turned backwards, arse over tit, deformed, costs defrayed, meaning mutated.
Be like a daydreamer, she says, be the...somnambulist. Let your obsessions lead you. Fuck your obsessions. There is that here which refuses, which sternly refutes and obfuscates, allows ingress and then, gentlemen, ladies, the bolts are thrown. What we are is everything you are not. Be seduced. Mind the paintwork! Come inside, stranger. I will close the story on your fingers. Everything happens by means of short cuts, hypothetically; every advertised narrative is avoided. Between thought and expression, a lifetime lies, tripped out, ice cold, black gloss and supraslick rubbing up against the impossible coup de foudre. Click back into it and away we go, at the centre, yes, the eye but also an ‘I’ you never reckoned on but that absolutely comes with the territory.
An I who will no longer dream a lie.
An I who embraces photoshop subversion.
An I who will not dance to funeral baked beats, nor Retro Rejects Sold On Painterly Promises.
Undermind. Apartment Sized. Peel back the skin.
An I who can no longer be appropriated or subsumed, imagine!
An I who will stare back laughing AT, not WITH you.
An I who defies what you intended, whatever your intention.
ANSWER: Questions have to be asked.
QUESTION: How far to go?
DECISION: Yes please!
(Paul Becker)
CUTS
1 Febraury - 28 March 2013
QUESTION: How far to go?
Break it down. Peel it back like a scab. Scratch it off, for God’s sake. Let it in (they say.) Listen a little to the THING, let it purr beside you, my friend. Run a soft hand slick across its surface. Look how well oiled, jet spayed with high pressure hoses. Tensile. Never a vein, never a pulse under my finger’s touch. Inhuman yet there remains the implication of all that cum on the dashboard—yes, of course we can see that, you don’t need to name it. YES. NO. MAYBE. It’s a dirtier dance than even you can imagine and I know and they know how low it goes under the bar, how it cuts into the marrow, furrows up your hole, cuts tongue-bitten teeth on edge. What I want to throw back in your face is your face itself. Add it, subtract. Surface reflection. Remake. Remodel. Reform. I wonder, (she asks) if this is a Reformation? And if so, does that mean that all the statues can be smashed? All the heads bashed in against the wall?
The images you have sold me, these now I sell back to you with everything I have, with everything you have soft sold to me, put back in the box but now turned backwards, arse over tit, deformed, costs defrayed, meaning mutated.
Be like a daydreamer, she says, be the...somnambulist. Let your obsessions lead you. Fuck your obsessions. There is that here which refuses, which sternly refutes and obfuscates, allows ingress and then, gentlemen, ladies, the bolts are thrown. What we are is everything you are not. Be seduced. Mind the paintwork! Come inside, stranger. I will close the story on your fingers. Everything happens by means of short cuts, hypothetically; every advertised narrative is avoided. Between thought and expression, a lifetime lies, tripped out, ice cold, black gloss and supraslick rubbing up against the impossible coup de foudre. Click back into it and away we go, at the centre, yes, the eye but also an ‘I’ you never reckoned on but that absolutely comes with the territory.
An I who will no longer dream a lie.
An I who embraces photoshop subversion.
An I who will not dance to funeral baked beats, nor Retro Rejects Sold On Painterly Promises.
Undermind. Apartment Sized. Peel back the skin.
An I who can no longer be appropriated or subsumed, imagine!
An I who will stare back laughing AT, not WITH you.
An I who defies what you intended, whatever your intention.
ANSWER: Questions have to be asked.
QUESTION: How far to go?
DECISION: Yes please!
(Paul Becker)