Between story and plot comes the end of the story, the grand and hysterical. Someone broke up with someone amorously. There was a vase. Now there is a vase with bloodied glaze in a room somewhere.
And we keep talking about it, and we’ll keep talking around it well into the evening, seeing as the overthinking tends to be funny, and to be benefiting a good cause, and to be calculating the cost per hour even of the burgeoning narrative voice:
“We find ourselves in a shop, visitors wearing visitor uniforms, witnessing. And we shall end soon, but before we do, we all want something even if small like a glass of water. And as we will imminently go about our ways looking for it, we shall invent. Here we will sense the uniform echo of formerly merchandised items and we’ll have remembered a shop, an actual store, selling workwear and sleeping bags to soldiers.
To our left, sleeping bag. An aluminum frame with an impetuous tongue of the newsprint drivel. It has enervated the room. It has risen like the scorching sun. A stockpile of plastic fabric remembering itself aloud. At second glance, it doubles the shopfront suffering a solemn arrest. Softly peeping against the nervous hissing of the passing cars just outside, it vibrates imperceptibly.
Further inside, Maria’s trough. A plastic bag thickness that channels clay remains of old works inside narrow plumbed outlines. An instrument of historiographic reflection. A diary entry submerged in a preserving solution. If the trough were to form a narrative voice, it would be lukewarm or warming. It would leak into the room like some thermal spill, visible only to those with open, resilient hearts.
And for the hungry who venture at the back, enticed to climb the stairs and look out from the mezzanine, there appears a model city of glassy panes on wooden beams. This small abstraction paints a Nicosian gestalt of the newest balconies forming across the horizon, above the meandering legacy of Neoterismoi Toumazou.”
Between story and plot comes the end of the story, the grand and hysterical. Someone broke up with someone, amorously. There was a shop with a name and a grandfather and a grandmother and a grandchild sitting at the back.
Now there is a soft tribute of honeyed temporality. Instead of produce, there is its shadow, sculpted and departing. And we keep talking about it, and we will keep talking around it well into the evening, seeing as the overthinking tends to be funny and to be benefiting a good cause and to be calculating the cost per hour even of the burgeoning visitor’s voice.
text by Maya Tounta
Sleeping Bag, 272cm x 208cm x 88cm, aluminum, glass, plastic bags, satin ribbon.
Residency drawing series on window, 38cm x 54 cm x 5cm, aluminum window, glass, paper.
“Spring opens like a blade here”, 83cm x 178cm x 39cm, glass, metal, wood sawdust, fabric, plastic.
Zoi (clay woman) and Golden award, 300cm x 20cm x 105cm plastic bags, water, clay.
The “all us” balcony, 500cm x 8cm x 6cm (dimensions variable), wood, glass.
Forced painting time at Nottingham on window, 38cm x 54 cm x 5cm, aluminum window, paper.