Throughout, we witness an implicit acknowledgement of abandonment, isolation and identity-failure, balanced deftly by a subversive positioning of the spectator. There is an exploration of how as an idea is disseminated and graduates from its source, it degrades, deteriorates and is slowly emptied of its meaning.
Missing is a desire to derive ultimate meaning from replication. In its place, there rests a muted nod to what we learn and what we lose in the process. There is a risk in showing preparatory measures. We are not prepared for it, nor are we ushered toward what it articulates. The veneer of candour is fragile. Beneath its controlled lines there exists a chaos crafted through the obstructive paradox of diligence and disorder.
A stroke on a page does not denote meaning. It is as vacant as the instrument that delivered it. A stroke is nothing more than a bruise; an insult to the architect whose only compulsion is to create. It exists on the surface against the unrelenting axes of time and space. Behind the minutiae and chaos there lies an invisible pattern both simple and profound, pining for its revelatory power to remain hidden.
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