“What should a lover want of time? If you run backwards down the staircase of a day, can you make novelty grow? Or freeze desire?” Anne Carson, Eros The Bittersweet; Ice-Pleasure, 1986
It is in its nature: Desire moves. It runs in buttery swooping trills and loops. It swings itself into your heart seat and tightens the veins, riding you like a horse into the landscape of longing and deep, incessant need. These works are an expression of the desires felt under the skin. Their shapes reflect the character of wanting, bending gracefully to the impulses with consistency. Though grounded in the physical, the forms shift with the perceiver in motion. They insist on the journey, on the breathless, continuous push toward the beloved. In process the surfaces both resisted and gave freely to the blade, with the familiar push-pull tendencies of a desire that knows its completion will be in tandem with its loss. Their skins remain raw, feeling. They hold each other, hold us, hold time in a hot, stunning second. They can only be what they have ever been. They know this. They dance. They melt it all at once.