Slide on freeway, slide off, silent engine, no excess, just the flap of the wheels over the join in the piecemeal cement work. The feeling and sensation of driving, built up from a collision of disparate attributes. Automatic engine, straight roads, stop go, cement slabs, blue sky and dead left foot.
We go to film in the underbelly of LACMA, see part of the unseen, the bit from which the crust is skimmed. The rounded crock of art drawn from which are presentations to the conveyor public. Exhibition slid like a distraction screen from the growing, breathing, pulsing ever rotating cannonball hid behind. The vulpine people own it and add to it and take away from it and donate it. Currency.
The film takes on a story forced like squeezing a spot into eruption, from a greasy shoulder, going before you have chance to think. Making real time with rubber think. All bent and rolling.
The difference between real and fake, like the peach and the stone. The stone discarded from a moving hummer as I walk the sidewalk thinking about the life of solid things, of touched, of handled and then encased things, and their meaning. It’s like clay pebble, then inter-interpretation. The non physical existence of objects, our minds like the portholes onto the ocean of object hood. So we pretend another day, on film.