(noun) nonchalant absurdity with a dash of embarrassment.

(verb) to be shark bitten.

(adverb) in a manner that is nonchalantly absurd and embarrassing.


23 October 2011

Urs Fischer @ Gavin Brown Enterprise

[PRESS RELEASE]Beneath our feet is an inverted pyramid of excavated earth. It is the cup. The martini glass that will hold our DNA. Hovering over that mythic cup is a horizontal plane of our invention. Together with the chair, the table is a first sculpture. Not a tool or a weapon, but an object autonomously itself while simultaneously integrated into our lived experience. Just like your dog, your table has evolved and entwined with us. It has run alongside, becoming indistinguishable and invisible.

The table is part of the family, it is the stage on which we act. The small personal universe over which we talk, eat, plan our future, pay our bills and raise our children. We see that she's got clean clothes. We put on her little red shoes. We show our pictures on the wall. We sit at the table and look past each other to see the pictures on the walls around us. We look down at plates of food below us on the table, look into each others eyes and we raise a glass. You get up from the table to close the window to the cold and wind. Just then a sparrow flies swiftly in the room, circles round us at the table for a moment, and just as suddenly flies out through the window on the other side.

When we create this new flat space, the earth is lifted up to float 30 inches above the globe. We defy physical reality, make a mockery of gravity and discover ourselves and our imagination. This imaginary plane is the site of an original collective unconscious - spread out flat before us as we gathered around it. A psychic space that was midwife in the birth of our first terrors and the comforts we seek in each other. Above us was an indifferent and infinite dome. Time and death became our intimates.

We are sweet landfill, our own dusty molecules borrowed from the earth. But these objects here now are the feral forms of our unconcious, the aliens. Unmoored from our endless cycle they are lifting off into other dimensions. They are holograms, only resembling 3 dimensions, their imagery like pools of water at night, reflecting us back on our selves. They are our beautiful excess and accumulation. They sit in anticipation of our love and hunger, our nourishment and conversation. Breakfast, lunch and dinner.

Gavin Brown’s enterprise
620 Greenwich Street, New York
212 627 5258
T – Sa, 10AM – 6PM




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