Saturday, October 15, 2011


I would have liked to have seen something such as David Lynch’s scenario. The colour blue was a sort of leit motiv for the exhibition. It replicated itself a few times in the art works and especially the nuance of the curtain took me straight away to a scene of either Blue velvet or Twin Peaks.
I would have expected a dwarf to open the door for me. He would have looked perfectly at ease playing with the water around. And he would have been a great Cicero indicating the show’s features. I actually can see him going around creating an itinerarium between Yao-Lung Cheng and Lindsay Boyd’s works.
CO2 space has become very theatrical yesterday: the artists and the curator Yen- Yi Lee put an electric blue curtain on the gallery’s big window: it divided the space from the rest of the surroundings, as it wants to represent a microcosmos apart, in which unusual and spectacular things can happen.
This blue, like the other colours chosen for gadgets such as the little umbrellas for the drinks, made a visible and shining contrast with the supreme whiteness that characterizes the gallery’s space. A whiteness towards which my reaction is still so undefined: I don’t know if it makes me comfortable or if I actually can’t physically stand it. It’s everywhere and this chromatic supremacy does affect you in some ways. But this Friday my attention was captured by something else for the first time since I’ve been to CO2.

One of Lindsay’s works is located on too high a level for me to be able to see it.
I’m aware of the potential silliness of it but I loved it. Not because I’m glad I couldn’t pose my eyes on something very horrible and so I saved my self from a tremendous sight. But because I’ve found it highly symbolic.
The location of the picture could indicate the difficult comprehension of some contemporary art works: willy-nilly the beholder doesn’t understand very often what seems to appear in front of him and when he does, it’s more likely to arrive to a different conclusion from the one of the artist.
Yao-Lung work is a journey along his everyday life, it tells us which objects are precious for him, without explaining the reason why. And that’s probably because a meaning is not always necessary.
For me, here there is a proper bulimia of things, their quantity reminds us of our tendency of keeping everything. The art works tell us about our fear of getting rid of even the smallest simulacrum we keep within our domestic walls.
The spectacle I was waiting for just looking at the curtain’s electricity did happen because a mini fountain has been situated in the middle of the room. The water’s noise kept me always somewhere else with the aftermath of an unstable position in between the ordinary and what I can’t reach as the picture on the wall.

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