El Anatsui

El Anatsui

Stressed World

2011

     Sewn together with copper wire, more than 2’000 bits of discarded aluminium tinker and breathe in unison, forming Anatsui’s curious perception of what the married words ‘stressed’ and ‘world’ mean to him. Bent, scarred and coloured differently, each aluminium scale (once a bottle cap or component of a food tin) embeds into Anatsui’s work an idiosyncratic history of its past use, however long a time this may have lasted. It creates for itself a tiny but significant niche from which it may comfortably expose its story with humility, forming a link that is both invaluable and inseparable to those surrounding it. As one, the scales crystallise into a single breadth of hide, barked and wrinkly, but entirely intact. Their collective imperfections strive to illustrate the strength in their continued existence; the fight against deterioration and their disposal as things supposedly no longer needed and wanted. They emulate the drive behind evolution, or at least that which defines the constant regeneration of something’s purpose and function, as well as the unlikely place from which a new face of beauty may surface. Anatsui’s metal weave expresses the power of self-healing; the ability to grow from pain and use one’s wounds beneficially; the test of tolerance and sustainability, and the resulting reaction and recognition of one’s new skin.

Hidden, Never Lost

by (signed) ‘Reg/yo’ (?)

Untitled

circa 1930s (?)

     A picture whose rustic strokes define an anonymous pledge of passion, here is a scene beautified by the timeless undertone of simplicity. The hands that once flitted across the board of paper, surely as coarse and thick then as it remains today, channelled an impression that was immediate and profound to the observer’s eye. Something characterised this moment in time as purposeful; as meant to be translated by and through the keen fingers of one who recognised the specific beat of its short-lived heart. Maybe this something lay in the way the patches of snow scaled the tree’s bark; in the scattered scintillation of gritty ground beneath the cart’s wheels and the horse’s hooves, encircling the onion-domed church; or possibly in the steely skies themselves, blanketing the square in a peculiar warmth not commonly exuded by grey tones. Unassuming and humble, this vignetted village centre slumbers with an ease that is oblivious to the passing of time. Its painted ambiance emulates a calm, sluggish way of life, one that is both paced and unchanging, regardless of what might live beyond its protective mountains or, indeed, its carton surface.

Norman Bluhm

Norman Bluhm

Crustadele

circa 1976

     A film of feelings finely lining the face of a star. Grazing the depths of Outer Space, she exhales a light both brilliant and blinding, as fierce as a lemon’s spray. Each drop boosts her imploding life, shedding a fan-like trail out from her tail, so tart and darkly turbulent. From this to that and from here to there, her moods determine her destinations. She sways angrily from right to left, shooting through time without fearing its loss; without sensing its weight; without knowing its name.