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From: Reg
Category: Exhibitions
Date: 12 April 2004
Brancusi A room of lolling decapitated heads rolling aound takes me back to my childhood where the cast face of a baby lay wrapt in my grandmother's chest of draws lurking silently. After passing though this battle field, the remnants of sweat and noise, hard metal on cold dead stone, heads start to grow bodies, grow tired and stop perhaps a little past the neck. In the next rooms is spittle, flem, glistening, hurtling, frozen mid air, mid flight upwards, as if spat from bellow by a mighty spitter. Immortalised gob spat from the mouth of a great spitter, champion for aim and distance, these birds are beautiful piercing instruments of shiney-ness possible weapons for nasty fights.
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