French artist Théo Mercier rummages through history with a considerate and well meaning irreverence that congeals as unstable sculptures, eager cabinets of curiosities and fractured images.
Flattened time, with all the comforting moments squeezed out. Time laughing and in its tumbling loosing its polyped folds. Ground-down-to-powder time, floating uneasily. What snaked its way across multiple breathings and breedings now caught by its own jaw. Perhaps that is how ghosts are formed: burning white hot as they sense their partners’ proximity in the overlapping moments. Timeless tastefulness deprived of time and taste. Holiness and the garbage of the patio meeting in profanatory rituals, case files, promotional stickers. Horror clowning your tired eyes, mass-produced delight refined in the forthcoming second stone age.
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