Kylie Minogue's, Cant get you outta my head is a song acclaiming pop-culture icon status, which explores the consuming and obsessive infatuation experienced in the pursuit of love. My pelvis is brave. I yield to the explosibility of textures lubricating vulnerability. eroticism. the intersections of research apparatus. a sense of curvilinear emotionality My love for the kinesphere extends through and beyond spatiotemporal boundaries of the artist - my practice navigates the potentiality of my skinesphere. I am interested in the practice of muscularly woofing as a form of revealing architectural structures of kineticity. My work centres pouring into, with attention to the spatiality of pouring into the sensitivity of my pinky toe.

Result #1

A growing sonority of my partners to my eye seems to be percolating between the walls of my studio, some of which suddenly seem to be quite different, others just as volatile.I am unsettled by the possible disavowal of my own stylistic genre. What if I walked through this exhibition—looking for something, really, and found myself, more or less alone—and found myself, in a way, looking at, hearing the voice of the kinesphere? The presence of this, or other, time-based gestures in my work is a tremendous reminder of the divisiveness of selfhood—the danger of being self-consciously involved. What if the kinesphere, whether in the form of my own act or that of other artists, were to be found in some of the streets that would now constitute the post-Fascist post-millennial landscape that exists around me? A man in a hoodie, his voice belying his intentions, makes an announcement in the city, which is now closed to his recognition, and it is one of many lists of things that he is announcing.

Result #2

I love faucets as a means of pumping fluid into their orifices, making them grab and spread. They resemble playthings that have crossed with the sexual. they resemble porous skin, or a turd, or a udder, and they look like the scum of the earth.I love the things that only a lot of my heterosexual male friends associate with the word. The ubiquity of this aspect of kinesphere—its capacity to be sold, borrowed, worn, sold—is linked to my love for my own sexuality. I am haunted by an interest in what was, to a certain extent, a ritualized activity: raising my arms above my head, touching, touching, and pulling my hands into a cast, pulling them into position.My kinesphere is a kinship of the human-scale, the human-scale, the body-size, the grotesque, and the animal-scale, and of this collective queer, and I like that. Its a radical experiment in which I could feel a kinship with the human-scale, with my own body, and with my body, that still gave me a sense of identification. I could see how it was just the body I wanted. I could see how all these things would be vital if harnessed.I love to be small. I like that.I am short and I am me. My kinesphere is a gift, a potential ciphers of my navel and my belly and my body, not so much with my hands as with my tongue. Its a gift to me, to see that these cutouts do not seem arbitrary. My body is a space for expansion and contraction. My kinesphere is a visual archive of potential movement, a caresser of possibilities.

Result #3

At first, I felt that I was looking at a collage of disparate materials, all of which were there and perhaps useless. I realize that some of the latter had the exactness of monochrome in themselves; theres nothing undercooked in my desire to water down my appendages or to displace my form. In one sense, I may be a scientist or a contortionist or a teddy bear with a brain.I can only convey my curiosity about the potentialities of what would be called semiopicture, and my identification with the young women who have confronted it. I dont know if they have been particularly affected by the stuff. some of it is simply lurid. The intrigue of the works represents a repressed desire to be art, or to remain elated about art as an unassimilable self. I can imagine artists like Janet Cardiff questioning the appearance of artist in their work, and asking whether it is really art. Its not so far fetched. Its not self-reflexive. Its just unverifiable. Theyve not been made to stay, and theres something faintly perverse about having to. Theyve become a bit too comfortable with themselves. Just as discomfiting to me as it is to one. What to do? and the answer is—nothing, because thats the risk.

Result #4

I refuse to be certain of my complicity in my own facilitation. But by smacking myself as a suggestion of passing out, the process of revelation brings to mind the tailgate of an unreleased road rage video (which, with its buzzing sound, becomes a low-tech anthem for all being an asshole). The ruptures in my psyche are the result of a history of violence in the artist's studio, and to me these ruptures are resolved into a physiological structure—a trauma threshold. my own body, my memory of being in danger of being hit by a driver who is now sitting in the driver's seat, my body as a shell that proves to be a door frame, my body as a shell that cannot be erased or repainted. I do not emerge from the sanctuary of purposive pleasure, but from a world of ambivalence. I am born and bred in an avant-garde culture that goes well beyond the authoritarian with whom I identify. I would rather be a self-referential creative object than one whose effort to atone for its self-inflicted violence creates a state of inclusion that is confused. I would rather be a collision of metaphors than one whose disjunction is mediated through language and media. I would rather be a work of art and myself, a situation in which the pressures of corporate capitalism are ignored. But while I reject the logic of the commodity as an end in itself, I recognize that the curatorial conceit of the exhibition will ultimately have to give way to the empirical.ll map of the absence of any work whose presence is guaranteed to fall between the cracks.

Result #5

I am interested in, then, whether there is any way in which the law of painting, the simple but perverse motion of paint, could conceive of images that would be capable of and capable of an act of erotic domination. The artist is a voyeur, but I am not: Im a performer. What eroticism can be is there in the tip of one of those paintings.