E Park

Remnants of a conversation in autumn over a faltering telephone line: the art world, how weirdly institutionalised and commercial it is, how online connectivity has degenerated into a constant demand for self-representation, you must be out there, visible — it’s exhaustive, exploitative. Chilly winds, leaves falling in golden light. Photos of E’s EKWC studio, the incredible poetic beauty of a fragmented vision that will at some point be organised into a vast mosaic of tiles and shards connecting everything with everything. A wall covered in schedules suggests a meticulously planned work in progress, a tentative but determined search for order and coherence in combinations of colours, textures, rhythms, symbols, signs, words. There are shackles, chains, links, there are keys. Sketches of feet, legs, asses inserted with tubes or whatever is going on — hands holding an egg? More physical allusions, vaguely erotic, repetitive, obsessive, fascinating, absorbing, ever-shifting elements of the moment.