A fully unleashed stateless Dadaist non-statement - did I mention “fully unleashed?”- perfunctorily states how "my” work is an ongoing border control failure: border, Grenze, frontière, frontera, bort der, b/ordre, ボーダー, all queued at customs with nothing to declare except a suitcase full of semiotisk schweizerost, the holes carrying more meaning than the cheese, bitte sehr. Sentences arrive pre-melted, fresh from the deli of Dalí, dripping hot grammar over syntaxes that have already given their two weeks’ notice, handing in resignation letters in quintuplet: resignation, resignación, Rücktritt, 辞職, je ne signe rien, each piece begining where the previous ones forgot they had ended, or began to end at the moment it remembers it once had similarly begun, sin principio ni “sin fin,” without end, without and, with out, with doubt, with douter, with der Doubtstraße 17b ringing at three in the mourning while reincarnating in three lives simultaneously. “Sin fin” confesses in English what it denies in Spanish; the phrase is a priest who keeps changing booths, shriving itself into simultaneous subtitles to its printing press diety, the page become a piñata of edible warm wet confetti spaghetti - papel picado, paper pixelated, Papier bitte, papier-mâché’d meaning held together by déjà glue; such installations oscillating between oui and we and wie and ui ui ui, a whole choir of almost-agreements deliberately rehearsing in the wrong key, such chorus chanting in eight-and-a-half languages at once: we, oui, wi, wie, 上, yeah, ja-ja, ha-ha, はは, ha-haut, all having signed a group show catalog none had bothered to rehearse or Venn-diagram, let alone read alone or en mas. In Japanese, 間 "ma" is space and pause; in French, “mais…” is objection; together they form a bilingual traffic jam at the intersection of silence and “but,” but also a four-way stop (with Sanskrit and Mandarin), where every word politely insists the others should go first. Thus a definitive goal, if any, of filling the pause until it overflows into a conversation class where students scan one another through scanner glasses darkly: ma learning to speak français avec un accent japonais très sérieux as, meanwhile, French tries on です/ます for the politeness it never ordered, resulting in a tongue that trips over its own conjugations, un accent qui fait des erreurs très bien, an exquisite mister and miss-take bonjour, je suis ごちゃごちゃ, enchanté(s)(e)(x). The language lab reporting that no known language survives such contact, though its echo does as a love child or two, happily unemployed forever after. Wonderland? NeverNeverLand? Thus the painting paints me painting the painting that is painting me in a universe where "me" has no meaning; mise-en-abyme, Meiß-en-Eibe, mais en abîme, mais en abîmer, mais on a bim! - a slapstick ontology on the one side whispering “artiste” while, on the other, Ourobos must speak - hiss, actually - “art is.” And, somewhere in the middle, a miniaturized bureaucrat stamping both as “insufficiently translated, please resubmit in gogolicate” as Said Ouroboros loops about pronunciation drills, tasting its own tail in a tongue so impeccable as to eschew diction, queuing up que / quel / kell / ケル / quel(le) horreur, which of course has the sound of all colors misheard as a white – perhaps merely faded - hypercube. Thus, as mentioned, canvas is no longer required; a blank impasto wall too obscenely figurative. Instead, the work is that of pretending in concurrent tongues: gleichzeitig in mehreren Sprachen, simultanément en plusieurs langues, 同時に複数の言語で, all saying “I” while meaning someone entirely different, in a place where perspective lines writhe, postponing convergence while gossiping outside a convenience store, cosplaying as vanishing points filing complaints for overwork while melding into a singular travelling artists' guild leaving only ellipses to history, along with train announcements and delayed languages blowing away in a breeze while explaining how this “artist’s statement” is an object trouvé that keeps losing itself into the readymade made unread, an anti-bio that keeps auto-correcting to “autobiodegradable” since, every time it mistakenly claims something, the claim slips on yet another stray phoneme and becomes essence → absinthe → au sens → ohne Sinn → oh, and nicht Sinn, just sin, again. And again, as screed revising itself in real time, via fonts no one installed, insisting that legibility is an illegal colonial project; that punctuation is performance art is " Je suis ce que je dis que je suis" is the am of what I say I am saying I am, in the sense of ich bin, bin ich, binär, bien air, bien R, bien Rrrrr, until identity is just a rolled consonant recoiling with stage fright, yes, just as is “Si.” Meanwhile whatever refuses to stay translated is mere rain-soaked detritus after customs closes the last suitcase of meaning now circling the baggage carousel, as unclaimed as are we - clueless travelers lingering about in lingerie or mythic Greek robes, waiting for our names to be called in a language that has not yet been invented, nodding how well we understand because, malgré nous, so precise a misunderstanding is the most precise translation we will ever get.
