SOUND INSTALLATION
CHERYL HAINES GALLERY, SAN FRANCISCO
NICOLE KLAGSBRUN GALLERY, NEW YORK
1992/93
Alas...time consists of two main elements. First, a megachrome print containing images and text on a wall with a chair directly opposite it. The images in the picture consist of a reel-to-reel a tape recorder and a wrist watch. The other elements are a microphone, reel-to-reel tape recorder, amplifier and speakers set behind the chair. When a viewer enters the space, a switch turns on the tape recorder. The recording system is set up only to record sounds in the highest frequency, such as whispers or shoes scuffing the floor. The sound plays back into the room at a slight delay creating a steadily diminishing echo. The recorded audio tape “disappears” into a hole in the floor. The audio system is an analogue of the metaphors encountered in the text of the picture. The transcript of the text is below:
THIS PLANETARY SWEEP: BACKWARDS-AND-FORWARDS MOVES INEXORABLY TOWARD GRAVITY’S WELL. ONE WHEEL TURNS SLOW-ER, GETTING HEAVIER. YET THIS EXPERIENCE MOVES AT THE SAME RATE; BREATHING BLOOMS WHEN THE SPRING OF CONSCIOUSNESS WELLS OUT OF THE WINTER OF THIS BARREN, CREAKING EMPTINESS. THE FUTURE: THIS MAGNETIC RESONANCE. . . THE POLES BY WHICH TIMES SPRINGS.. WOUND, UN-WOUND. THIS TIME IT WOUNDS ROUND AND ROUND: FOREVER IS THAT MOMENT OF TOUCH, OF CONTACT. HISTORY TURNS SLOWER, A TURGID SPIRAL PULLING EVERYTHING IN: THIS ALCHEMY TURNS GOLD INTO LEAD. LEADS TO FORGETTING. PREMONITIONS ON THE WIND, UNWINDING TOWARD THAT HOLE. WHOLLY EXPECTING THAT WHICH WILL INEVITABLY COME: NOT DEATH, BUT AN END TO THE WATCHING. THE WITNESS TAKES LEAVE. THOSE OLD VOICES ARE REPLAYED BY OTHERS. LITTLE MOUNTAINS OF IRON FLECKS PASS THE WIN-FORWARDS MOVES INEXORABLY TOWARD GRAVITY’S WELL. ONE WHEEL TURNS SLOW-ER, GETTING HEAVIER. YET THIS EXPERIENCE MOVES AT THE SAME RATE; BREATHING BLOOMS WHEN THE SPRING OF CONSCIOUSNESS WELLS OUT OF THE WINTER OF THIS BARREN, CREAKING EMPTINESS. THE FUTURE: THIS MAGNETIC RESONANCE. . . THE POLES BY WHICH TIMES SPRINGS.. WOUND, UN-WOUND. THIS TIME IT WOUNDS ROUND AND ROUND: FOREVER IS THAT MOMENT OF TOUCH, OF CONTACT. HISTORY TURNS SLOWER, A TURGID SPIRAL PULLING EVERYTHING IN: THIS ALCHEMY TURNS GOLD INTO LEAD. LEADS TO FORGETTING. PREMONITIONS ON THE WIND, UNWINDING TOWARD THAT HOLE. WHOLLY EXPECTING THAT WHICH WILL INEVITABLY COME: NOT DEATH, BUT AN END TO THE WATCHING. THE WITNESS TAKES LEAVE. THOSE OLD VOICES ARE REPLAYED BY OTHERS. LITTLE MOUNTAINS OF IRON FLECKS PASS THE WIN-DOWS. WHISPERING CLOSE TO THE EARS WHILE THE TRAIN RUSHES SILENTLY TOWARDS THE WHIRLPOOL.
