Martine Flor - Event V: On Language as Distance
Underneath language’s structures, its alleged claim for representationality, underneath its skin, flows water written in white ink. It pushes, flows and pulsates; vibrates like the tension of it’s own latent steam, like the tension of all objects’ inherent opposites (the limp string shoots no arrow). It is the invisible, but is not hidden; the apparent that always escapes the grasp of thought. It is a residuum of the inarticulate of my mother’s tongue, a coagulated scab at the surfaces’ inevitable wounds, an unabsorbable moisture. (Narcissus never saw him-self, only his relations to others.) In white ink the arrow bends around time, space, movement, and gets caught in the wet membrane of the moment – a reflection.