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Lots of artists like to put phrases on signs, do it in a similar way. A particularly satisfying gesture: language, propelled with advertorial oomph, instead deadpans with its empty cymbal crash; be understanding the words but, devoid of context feel a little haunted, disembodied, ghosts of something far. Like Lippard's audio work, we glean through archaeology of their words the character. But Turato's texts and her own performances gleefully amplify a schizophenic fracture through estrangement and affectual register shifts. Disallowing complete connection, we instead begin to feel its loss through ears numbed by corruption. The garbage of the "infosphere." In an era when everyone spends their time off creating protest signs against politicians having clipped the sound bite down to two word phrases, the fun of creating your own haunting version, headlines like haikus, is fun. Cut the ends off a sentence and be left with a poem.
words on walls: Matt Keegan, Kay Rosen at Grazer Kunstverein, Gene Beery at Shoot the Lobster, Karl Holmqvist at Sant’Andrea de Scaphis, Sue Tompkins at Lisa Cooley, Jenny Holzer at Blenheim Palace, Barbara Kruger at Sprüth Magers Peter Fend at Essex Street, CAWD on Fetish
