The exhibition is divided into the four seasons, albeit out of order.
There is no irony.
There is no sarcasm.
There is empathy.
There is love.
There is a story.
It is a story of darkness and of light. And confusion.
The story is the same as it ever was.
It is a story of the seasons.
A narrative too complex to unravel.
No sense to make.
Things are mixed up,
not in the right places
but the pieces
Contrast and memoir are at the heart of this exhibition.
It is a dirge for seasons
and a celebration
of the graceful passing of time
by a change in the weather.
All of the associations we have with the seasons matter,
a life cycle,
a period of renewal,
a time for mourning
growth, change, and transformation.
What also matters is how we collectively recall,
or remember the seasons,
how we relate points in our lives
to particular seasons.
The seasons as we understand them have become the metaphors
for our passage through life,
but what happens if these seasons become mixed up, or begin to erode.
I am not interested in the end of seasons
but rather the slow dissolve
and how it relates to personal narrative.
There is a large painting in the exhibition
Of snow seen through a moving car at night,
The headlights create a phenomenon
As they project onto the falling snow,
The result is what appears to be a hovering ball
made of dots and dashes.
This painting is at once
and an end.
It is cinematic and represents a change
in the story,
A moment of meditative transformation.
Many of the works in the exhibition function as moments in a film,
pauses in the action that give resonance to the characters
or glimpses of the gravity
of what is to come.
It’s not about being hopeful or not hopeful,
It’s about the truth.
And telling the best truth one can in a culture so predisposed to counterfeit.
If there ever was truth it came to us through the seasons.
These truths should not be confused with understanding,
If you try and make sense of it all
you will miss the possibilities.