"Mixing up several languages to talk to you, by only typing words our entities are enclosed through transformers. Grimacing without sounds a friskiness bounced, can a light headedness be evacuated from the responsibility of words?
But you are still the closest human being who delivers a delightful assurance we build diagrams piece by piece in verbal darkness, surely I make mistakes under the pressure? I don't know your real name, I don't know the look of your figure, I've heard your voice a few times and I know you're close, but our emails do not guarantee who we are.
Sometimes I talk to you with your language to try and know about you more, in the same sounds, with the same system, but I make errors. Seems I pretend to play with intimacy and here it is again, thanking you (for correcting my mistakes) and being sorry (for your additional work).
Is it greedy or as senseless as a petal landing on my shoulder, it's just the touch of a word. No matter what language we use our words are still light, sounds will leave me high, harmonising over my height."
An extract from Short Notes; a collection of paintings and writings by the Artist Hiromi Nakajima, whose images are quickly made merging primary tints with muddied shapes, perhaps in attempt to capture night thoughts or to stop the cool drift of forgetfulness.
Hiromi Nakajima performed Sleep Talking with Julia Waugh for the opening of Leaving Language. Her site specific installation called Sleep Working was on view at The Metropole Gallery Folkestone England.
Notes and images littered the floor illuminated by two upturned table lamps. The Art Nouveau interior could have been a bohemian apartment or a space of European opulence that had slid into an existential malaise. Some of Hiromi Nakajima's paintings were fixed with Blutak into the moulded frames of the walls but others were stuffed into shelves or thrown on the floor.
In the plastered corner reliefs of The Metropole Gallery, an observant visitor could see bagpipes, masks and coronets. This was a ballroom where Edward VII entertained and mounted around the perimeter were what appeared to be small brass doorbells. These perhaps summoned individual waiters to tables during the height of The British Empire. Dancers delirious on Champagne ordered Beluga caviar whilst Amadeus Mozart was played by a small ensemble when war was still distant.
Or perhaps these might have rung to wake up the Artist if any famous curators visited the gallery and she must again read in the twilight. The jet-lag creased texts were crumpled and dissipated, at the centre of this accumulation a tatami matt was covered in a painted canvas that become a bedspread
This bedroom space installation was called Sleep Working and invited the visitor to collapse on the floor to explore more closely the texts and paintings of Hiromi Nakajima.
Images of colourful balloons, broken horse hooves and mountains with peaks that overflowed in a creamy lava. Her decolonised psyche witnessed a ribaldest maze in which ideas were torn into fragments.
There is no space for translation in the dense prose of the Artist. These stories are all that now remain of the performance to launch the text and picture book Short Notes. Whose words are they, once the machinations of translation are activated: when Google speaks what poetry of interpretation is lost?
“Is what you see what I see?”
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