"Full Moon in the Daytime"
R/SF Projects, San Francisco, CA
Q&A with Angel Rafael Vazquez-Concepcion: https://craniumcorporation.org/2017/01/02/full-moon-in-the-daytime-exhibition-of-the-work-of-artist-and-architect-tyler-eash-on-view-at-rsf-projects-in-san-francisco-from-december-9-january-15-2017/
The Moon is dead.
The corpse has been chromed, a futuristic mirror reflecting the evidence of tomorrow.
The Moon lives in the future.
The Moon appears when we are as a third party, witnessing conversation. Gazing through our periphery.
The Moon is reanimated.
We have touchstones of the future other. It is a possession of light. It is a possession.
The Moon is a Ghost.
The apparition appears in the nonfiction of daylight in its approach of apogee, briefly with us.
The Moon is living in the present.
The mirror dims, our brother, our future other. We forget the dead if they do not warm you.
The Moon is living.
For our love of stars we block the dead moon, not allowing its reanimation.
The Moon is trying to stay alive.
Yet we sleep at night, yet we confine our vision to the light we feel on our skin.
The Moon is dying.
In death it reveals itself to the living, fiction in non-fiction, a Full Moon in the Daytime (1)
Performance: If I dig a hole and bury my arm in the soil, if I lay on my side for 4 hours until my arms goes cold and falls asleep, will I cheat death? Will I give the earth some taste of my flesh to satiate its hunger for a few more years? If I am to grasp for a phantom limb when I am cold does the want to grasp define its presence? I am defined by incompletion, I the incomplete, I the wanting. I’m seeking some other that is the same as myself. I am a half rendered useless, I am reaching with one arm for the forgotten, the implied, the absent, I am grasping for the other. I am grasping for the Brother: Completed (2). Or in my uselessness am I anew? The tool without task is object alone. Its worth is in its form. Its intention is elusive. Am I the remains, the evidence of loss? What degree of destruction was inflicted in the severance? Am I the ruin or monument? Am I the banner of wars lost, the memoria of fatal memories? Am I the war field, am I the wounded? I am the agnosia, the ability of sight but the loss of seeing. The window with closed curtains is a wall. The Brother: Absent (3).
Yet in these inclarities we have a line. It is two tectonic plates that shift in anticipation of the inevitability of destruction. It is a blue mark where the bottom of the sea presses under this continent. Here the earth returns to the grave. Here lies a stone to signify the sacrifice, the serpentinite, the blue. Here lies the material that marks the inexpressible sensation of growing older than an older sibling, the living above the grave, the Evidence of Subduction (4)
There is a performance to looking. To see without being seen has an intensity of the gaze. We soften our eyes for strangers. The eyes of introspection are focused, hoping to catch a glimpse of ourselves watching ourselves, peering behind ourselves, a rear view, a history. July 30, 2006. He goes to pass, moving forward, a trace of himself in the rear view, a trace of himself in clear view. Yet, you cannot know what it is to be awake when you are sleeping. You see a mirror as a mechanism for looking. We soften our eyes for ourselves, the act of looking without seeing and The Inability to Remember Dreams (5)
When I saw him, I couldn’t see him. One drop of blood lay on the floor. I saw one vibrant trace of himself, young enough to be bright red and un-oxidized. In my fear of the reality of his death I concealed the drop with my foot. I stepped on the last breathing thing. I stepped on the last living cells.
My father rebuilt the motorcycle. Machines can be reborn, machines can live and die and live with the pulse of power. The Mechanic is the Reanimator (6). There is no permanence, yet reanimation.
I make marks and archive in an effort of immortality. I make marks as a way of making. I speak in empty rooms to strangers a Soliloquy (7), a confession, a resolution, a request. Loss is the realization of gravity it is a break in the knees. You hold close the closest things to keep from falling into the grave.
The willow grows on the edge of the river where heavy floods can break its brittle branch. The willow can be reborn. A sprig, a branch can root in clean water. The phantom limb can grow its body back. Through the effort of breathing we prolong decay, we purify through our Lung (8). We preserve our cut branch. Our severed limb can live through the efforts of living.
I don’t know if I believe in ghosts. I want to believe in ghosts. I want there to be some trace of himself, of myself. I want the full moon in the daytime. I fear the fading. When the moon is Approaching Apogee (9). When it is most distant and near death in darkness, it will haunt us in the day. I’m told that I look more like him now. I hope possession, like energy, is residual. I hope it can permeate into walls, into the clothing of those in the room, an Apparition (10) in day light. I the vessel, I the empty, I the wanting. I the fold of clothing in the corner waiting to be worn.
The ruin is marked by death. The ruin is the Artifact of Action (11). There is some reverence for things that survive. Greek statuary is remembered in marble though they were once painted. I think of temples, of memorials, of monuments. I think of the act of construction as guided by the act of deconstruction. I think of demolitions, of growing old, of being historic, of being remembered, of being canonized.
Can the body give a Performance (12) if the body cannot speak? Is speaking an action of sound or a vehicle of the soul? Does the soul live in the bones or is it an exhalation to be inhaled into the lungs of others? When my brother died my father wanted a grave. When my brother died my mother wanted to scatter his ashes in the sea. 1/3rd remains. There is 1/3rd of a body, a trace of himself in rear view. There is one artefact of action, of a man, one souvenir that couldn’t be parted with. There is one inability to give into impermanence. There is one fear of the inability to remember. There is one defiance of loss, a protest of losing.