The memento mori, the natura morta, all life still, vanitas, tinged in the passing, laced with latent death: an asymptote on approach to nihilism - sometimes masked by bright-lights-fun. Not here. “The abuse of time,” as F+W have called it, relates to Craven’s fordist version of it. One imbues, the other empties. We should be disgusted, but the artists, or assistants, who whittle away, literally, here, “facsimiles of the objects they depict, yet they are empty and insubstantial” are all going to die like all the rest anyway and so the question of whittling, of waste, is abuse only abutted against Borderless doctors, and vaccinists and The Cosmos. So many artists wanting to mark so much time, to reify its weight in romance, but nor should we forget the vertigo standing there, the world rendered plastic. This pile mid-use left in closet only makes clearer the accumulation soon to have its door closed, end of an era. NOSTALGIA KILLS / POST HISTORY 4 EVR
See too : Ann Craven at Confort Moderne
