“What should a lover want of time? If you run backwards down the
staircase of a day, can you make novelty grow? Or freeze desire?”
Anne Carson, Eros The Bittersweet; Ice-Pleasure, 1986
It is in its nature: Desire moves. It runs in buttery swooping trills and
loops. It swings itself into your heart seat and tightens the veins, riding
you like a horse into the landscape of longing and deep, incessant need.
These works are an expression of the desires felt under the skin. Their
shapes reflect the character of wanting, bending gracefully to the
impulses with consistency. Though grounded in the physical, the forms
shift with the perceiver in motion. They insist on the journey, on the
breathless, continuous push toward the beloved.
In process the surfaces both resisted and gave freely to the blade, with
the familiar push-pull tendencies of a desire that knows its completion
will be in tandem with its loss. Their skins remain raw, feeling. They hold
each other, hold us, hold time in a hot, stunning second. They can only
be what they have ever been.
They know this. They dance. They melt it all at once.