As the tension builds up, a quiet and expectant air fills the room. The Cannon is warming up and a host of onlookers hold their breath at the sound of buzzing. As gas is being pumped through pipes, valves and tanks, one can dissect what is going on.
Throughout the works, there is no author, as there is no desired form. What we are witnessing are merely transient stages in haphazard physical processes. They would be best described as briefly embodied “What if...” sentences, conceptually floating around us. Almost like the gallery has tried to trap a passing cloud within its walls.
But somehow this apparent absence of author or tool somehow manages to capture a part of nature, that is too primeval to be created rationally. The pure brutality and persuasiveness of carving a square peg to fit through a round-ish hole or the wall that has been blasted repeatedly only to create an image more powerful than Guernica or chilling than Scream. The Cannon and its exhibited cousins speak a language of their own that instinctively connects with us.
And then BOOM! Wax is sent flying through the gallery and a gratifying thud lets us know we’ve just witnessed art being made.
