SOUS-VIDE’s framing percepts resemble neurological scripts [synesthetic tourettes]: What color isWednesday? Is the flavor of fava bean a prickly, pointed sensation, like laying a hand on a bed of nails? Do the words mannerist narcissist leave an earwax aftertaste? What shapes does conformity make? Globular? Holographic? What are the top notes in collateral murder? A custom built vacant tiled ceiling-less room, a clandestine archipelago, whose exterior wall dribbles and drools discount olive oil from embedded glossy, smiley, holes. Stains, anxieties, odor, flickering of eyelids, the senses hold ransom cognitive lumps which refuse to dissolve. The incontinent wall isa screen [an autistic flow chart stewing in its own juices] – leaking, recycling information from a prosthetic reality with screen sickness from too many or not enough clicks from the user? The scent of oil trips the memory machine resulting in sociopolitical implications for the body, the senses. A video projection of crosshairs poach and simmer laconically on a wall, floor, window. A residue of Bradley Manning’s passing of classified footage to WikiLeaks.
Throughout, SOUS-VIDE, residues are ubiquitous, sometimes they contaminate, sometimes they enhance. On the residue is founded umami. A flavor broken off from something immensely more vast, something that in its overabundance could not bear to remain whole. Mystery denies secure possession of truth. Further, scattered are sculptures of tactile matter in vacuum sealed plastic bags can be read as stomachs, bladders, brains, vessels for toxicity, consumerist digestion and cultural metabolism. Connected states of perishability and consumption. Manipulating, amplifying textures morph involuntary tactile unconscious sensations (i.e. offshore breeze, genetics, latent guilt, El Bulli trauma, etc.) with consciousness [or the breakup of consciousness] (i.e. geo-political fall outs, chemical intervention, mnemonics/mimesis, Monsanto, etc.)
SOUS-VIDE is a forage into the time of the wolf, a time when people are pets, mauve, driftwood, a loud shirt. Where gourmet consumers, or “diet human beings”, slough off into a forest of doppelgängers.
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