A series encapsulating an obsession I have with soft, blobby things and their sensual qualities and connections. There's something borderless about a thing without hard edges: it seems, poised, at any moment charged with endless potential and possibility to transform, transcend, cross barriers, inviting us in to touch it.
The bling of wind-chimes, a broken bike spoke, an empty china bowl: these are the things that litter our world unseen. We notice the objects in our surroundings insofar as we need them to function. Real, fictional, tangible or conceptual, there seems to be an unspoken consensus on the self-evident hierarchy of objects. One of these things is more important than the other.
Why does an object cease to be itself when it takes on “human” qualities? Perhaps we should ask why we rarely consider an object to have true qualities of its own beyond its human-related functions, the real qualities of a thing stripped to a nakedness that is “unreal, smooth and enclosed like a beautiful slippery object, withdrawn by its very extravagance from human use.” What makes an Object an Object, and is it possible to conceive of a truly alien, brave new world where squares exist equally amongst wire, a bit of old chewing gum or a singular pearl earring?