Does living perception start from the gaze of the other, or simply my own? This underwear, on the ground, what do I lay onto it a-priori, what pre-definitions? My subconscious, part shaped, part inherited, defines my interpretation. All lived time narrowed through my own little lens. I will live through what I believe, defining what is and what comes.

Within this is perhaps the power we hold. Reclaim your own path, your own gaze. I get to choose which way the buckle of my belt faces follows a slow pathway to the attempt of a year of learning, unlearning, relearning, etc. Inviting you to observe the body, the personified objects, the only materializations of a subconscious, and to question, you, what is yours?

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There is the illusion of the mundane
And the previously abstract realities
which become truth.
Maybe lifetimes came down to this.
With time, I will overcome the loneliness.

Yesterday, I dove into murky waters.
A total letting go accepts what is, floats and flows,
with potential to sink in pleasure.
In this city, water can stagnate. It becomes infected
with its habits, its bitter taste normalised.
Outsiders show me the odd taste of that water.

There exist places where time doesn’t matter.
Where we were born to grapple together.
I saw them partying on a roundabout years ago.
Is this the compromise of a life

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​exhibition text by Emma de Warren

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