Davida Nemeroff and JPW3 at COOPER COLE

Artist: Davida Nemeroff and JPW3

Exhibition title: Fry Guy

Venue: COOPER COLE, Toronto, Canada

Date: September 25 – October 31, 2015

Photography: images copyright and courtesy of the artist and COOPER COLE, Toronto

COOPER COLE is pleased to present Fry Guy, a two-person exhibition with Davida Nemeroff and JPW3.

Fry Guy? Tell me what you see?
Fry Guy, Tell me what you see?

With one eye I can see through miles that matter is a particle dissolution, a handful of frequencies off-gassing to violet as the sun turns down. With the other I see motion as degeneration: stop time/slow time/ speed it up. Meanwhile the bees are making use of friction to warm up the wax of the hexagon. These numberless days are such that what I feel as a proximity is perhaps only a pressure, and the cumulative generation of desire as a fifth space of reflection.

Fry Guy, I want to call you silent face, drone rhythm inscription: speak to me about about agency and avenues, your eyes so bright, lonely streets, blind lanterns patched with milk, lay on my dreams with two tickets left; one for tooth and one for claw.

We make chocolate while pretending to be hairless; we trace the gutters and drains of shapeless mouths while rehearsing the void – so why not submit to the secret agency of radical citizenship? In the first dimension one eye approaches the situation as an observation. In the second dimension the unseasonable eye removes itself from the situation. In the third dimension the collective eye gets down on its knees to ask for permission while introducing the situation as a relocation. In the fourth dimension the third eye bends that trust into availability, yes a westerly wind, yes the situation as object.

Fry Guy, you negotiate image as a contingency through a very particular process of burial and excavation: would you prefer to call it sleep before you call it the smile of the critic? The 40 year anecdote of the antichrist sees through the orchid only to discuss it as a repositioning of aura. For instance, I am sure I see this bookcase differently…Que vois tu quand tu dors?

I’m wet and losing my body heat. I am here only as a representative of the disintegrating integer. In the name of the perfect word, I use the power. Four eyes run into one just as I run my fingers through your silken hair as an index to what I ceaselessly believe in as love. Like Patti says “ if it don’t come out fuckin’ good we ain’t putting it out”, right? I have yet to hear it on th3 radio myself but I am curious….what passes as a mass these days ….well, quite frankly, it feels like a sham, a leftover composition of lesser-known evils, while blood thickens to the question:

Mist Mister

Misses Lips

Horse

Horses

Ships

Suck it

Bucket

Fuck it

Hips

Whatever

Happened

to the windblown ribbons of our scripts?