I am at an auction and a group of battered school chairs have caught my eye ... they are all in various states of disrepair and, inexplicably, scrappily painted in an array of harlequin colours (from sweet to nauseating)—although many seem to have originally been a forest green underneath. They are all similar in construction, but not the same; they are obviously handmade. I think of the plastic moulded chairs of my own childhood that purported to be ergonomic but always dug into my spine. I think of Jules Michelet’s discussion of nests where “the instrument that prescribes a circular form for the nest is nothing else but the body of the bird”: chairs have an intimate bond with us that is dictated by our bodies; they trace us, hold us (however awkwardly) and bear our physical imprints. Chairs can represent power, death, passion, mischief, and everything in between. I am interested in this melting pot of associations, as well as personal relationships pertaining to the viewer, as always. I am not used to working with such strong colours, but to repaint seems dishonourable somehow so I scavenge organic matter to make stains and remodel other objects at hand to mimic what is there for my additions, feeling like a foley artist using the sound of falling coconut shells to conjure galloping horses.
