Standing in front of mirrors, learning to speak alien words by watching our mouths form sounds. The same mirror that is lethal, severing the rest of her body from its mouth.

By Brad Feuerhelm, ASX, April 2015

There is no terror in the bang, only in the anticipation of it.

-Alfred Hitchcock

Perusing images with the embrace of a spiritual black light and the hiss of a serpent. An imagined car ride in which the young couple searches for answers in the tunnel of love slipping into the coma produced under duress of entering the tunnel of death. Here, swathes of pantone and fragmentary glimpses circulate to elude.

These moments, stretched into eternity and fixed in shellac, dimly-lit. The stars in her eyes cut through by the scissors impulse to sever. Watching meteor showers while being seated on the back of the car, smoking perfumed cigarettes. An etymology of concrete matters and tree lined roads opening up into spring’s embrace. Cosmologies beating down on us like the sound of so many wings. Our world was about our inability to communicate. Standing in front of mirrors, learning to speak alien words by watching our mouths form sounds. The same mirror that is lethal, severing the rest of her body from its mouth. Rouge rendered grain and the smell of old mouldy newspapers fills the atmosphere of the small room. A slow grinding noise as he observes her from the crack in the doorway, his own torso elongated, but severed to the width of a 8mm camera lens gap.

Within, we observe…without language ,the back of things, not their insides. Small gasps from our mouths as we try to enunciate a feeling through the language of a peeling paint universe.

Within, we observe…without language, the back of things, not their insides. Small gasps from our mouths as we try to enunciate a feeling through the language of a peeling paint universe. And I need another drink. Warm meniscus sap flowing from the lip of the glass when it drops slowly to the wooden floor, its contents running through the grooves of wooden boards into the web-covered basement which houses rusty old bicycles and picnic basket with contents left to rot. These are not only metaphors, but rather safe havens for the slow dissolve of our memory together so many years ago.

Katrien de Blauwer’s “I Do not Want To Disappear Into the Night” for Avarie Publishing is a foray into the world of collage ruminating over the slowly cinematic. There are fragments of what appear to be film stills, cut and spliced into intelligent formal arrangements suggesting a heavy pathos of surface and emotion. De Blauwer employs the tactile backs of papers and her studio stamp throughout. The text in the foreword is also a fragmentary anticipation of a considerate response to inter-communications between sex and egos. The design is heavily measured on understanding narrative through its particles. Overall, it is one of the more successful publications and works dealing with collage and cinematic language.

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