On the ocassion of Victioria Borisova's solo exhibition at Yi Gallery, Kaila Rose reads recent work, written in dialogue with Borisova's newest body of work.
“To Cut”
Kaila Rose
The world was whole.
Pangea.
Pre pan-Asia,
Pre pan-Europe,
Non Continental.
Pre-pentatonic sounds detected,
But post catastrophic
Explosion of the deafening bang.
It was the biggest, and no one heard it.
Pre human.
Pre language.
Pre apocalyptic knowledge.
Life was the re-assembly of an atomic boom;
Particles momentarily suspended;
Matter re-positioned.
T’was pre philosophical conundrums,
Pre piecing together letters,
Pre post. Pre cards.
No blinking, fleeting frames
Of our disconnected communication,
Now virtual.
Physicality virtualized.
Pre speaking into the illuminated screen
To be isolated in a million pixels
Never re-composed.
Decomposed.
Pre the composure of oneself
In drops of pen ink,
Or the fade into greys of lead pencil #2.
Pre fingers and movement:
The visible output of our brain.
Pre pixels and pigments
All to be dispersed.
Pre image. Pre imagination. Or to imagine our birth,
Or figure,
Or feeling.
Oh! But now we know.
Now we know what it means to be here.
Means to be scarred and disassembled.
Dislocated in reconfiguration.
DNA spliced ––
CRISPR Cas-9 improved ––
To prove the genetic modification
Of the pre embryonic race.
“Futurity.”
Splicing to re-stitch the commonly uncommon ground.
Once was the fall of man
Which, falling gave rise to domain:
A hyperextension of a noble cause:
Borne for this erasure of life.
But, Times they are
Uh––changing?
“Time,” the constructed fallacy
To order ideologies
And fabricate idolatry
Worshiping the idols of
Self-intolerability.
“Change.”
The hatred of the masses
There for biting our own asses.
That bite to pass time;
That loss to save mine,
And in saving wallow.
Wallowing to waste
With the fact we don’t matter
Yet our matter will be left behind.
So, what to do?
Where to cut?
How to piece together
Pre-historic pieces left with us?
With or without us
Somehow.
Pull it together, maybe.
Reel it in so hard,
So hard that the pressure
Returns to that deep absence.
The deepest implosion of all things
Returning to the explosion of all.
Cut down to find
The whole world.
Before we can see, name, or call it
A beautiful life.
