• Angelica Jones


Mediums are anamorphic, and they stalk me across the distance to the moon. It is a 384,400 kiss, a tender gesture, it rips out my guts with its green hands, spineless and spoken-for. My methodology for art making is tuning in to the undercurrents between worlds, urging out the softness between hard rock realities, and writing love stories for two mute computer keyboards. I think of my text art like a parasite in the mind of the reader, greedy and green. It wants to be told more about itself. I’m imagining alien landscapes through imagined sculptures. Sometimes they exist and sometimes they do not, neither is important to the work. I like the embarrassment held somewhere inside our bone meat, a code that tells us this flesh suit is cringy. It’s hard to exist without thinking of your prime ultra-consciousness, and whether it’s sitting down or lying down inside your existence. How comfortable it is there, a tiny house inside a galaxy of conscious-y-ness.

The fabric of this reality is thin and obvious,

You could use your hand for instance,

Slick with petrol oil,

To push through and be other again.

You could wipe your eyes and be witness to the sleep that sits there,

You could retract your tongue into your female mouth and enjoy the pleasantness,

Of having no thoughts.

The fleeting joy of your empty head,

You could stop reading.

But you are greedy and green,

Tell me more about myself.

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