People keep going up to her writings in blood. As if they held some secret to her thoughts, wishes or desires. As if each fragmented de-nucleated cell was a mirror to Pandora’s box. They inspect her calligraphy in real time….. Words hit the page; she has literally bled for her art. “From her heart” apparently. There is a slight asynchrony to the four clocks that stand watching. Marginally out of phase, but enough to remind us of how realisations set amongst a crowd.
Each drip of blood that stains the white iridescent sheet blots out light that would otherwise bounce. These are the kind of tears that neither wash nor awaken. They mock our inevitable need to dirty ourselves so that we may become clean. It is not in the purity that we find peace, but in the cleansing. We are ritualistic bastards, illegitimate children of Faith and Controversy. Intimate bedfellows of process.