Orchids,… centers on an animated video in which Marten sets forth a sanitised and alluring world of free-floating and fragmentary objects. Excised from normal context and imbued with an impossible cosmetic sheen, these crystalline forms are conjured in colours that range from the surreally heightened to the deliberately banal. A line of toy-like objects – a train, a giraffe on wheels, a boat – trundles along on an impossibly turquoise plane. Parasitically followed by a swirling black fly, the unfolding narrative is one of production, consumption and saturation. Elsewhere, the naked human backside of the title (cropped and anonymous) is shown with a luridly-glowing orchid tucked between its buttocks. At points, the imagery takes on the semblance of a painting or diagram, both formulaic ‘analogues’ of reality, like the video itself, implying the knotty weight of a Cézanne still life.
Number Two’ is an audio visual work which materializes the definite possibilities of sight and the existence of light in space with the drama in between image and sound as a reaction . It treats the surface of the film itself as a digital artefact that forms an image with a human intervention .It can be seen as an enlargement of a moment in time where form and space breaks inside an indefinite reality .
A documentary that records the daily life of a mother with a limited life expectancy and a grandmother, directed by the daughter, Haruyo Kato.
Onward, upward, greener [redder] grasstures.
On the Clickity-clack Express it's clear I'm always under duress, unless I forget.
Rather pointless, rather stilted, fetid; not what we want us going after.
Don't ask me why, but I feel we're about to cry trying.
Still it's really tall. Still it's really floundering/falling/fading.
Slowed, stowed, achingly retold.
Locked away but not away; somewhere nearby but unreachable, a periphery so notfaroff it's always in sight.
Return to 'burn' only to find out you're already in that urn.
Beyond all human restraint lies one's lugubrious layers of paint.
There is nothing left to do but complain.
Wax and wane until there is naught but boring pain.
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Trite, closed memories flagrantly bleed into profuse openings mixed & held together by retaliatory colorations & obfuscations.
Platitudes begin at peaks then rapidly descend and dismantle in order to ascend more acutely until they repeatedly and successively overwhelm.
Time plods along in spattered irregularities as anger and depression coalesce in confusing amalgamations.
3 minute experimental film.