EXHIBITIONS / RACHEL SCOTT

21.10.2010 to 13.11.2010

August 3, 2010: Kitchen Table, Apartment 19, 299 E 8th St, New York, New York. The cacophonous symphony of the Everyday. Shut up. Cake. I tried to hail a cab up near MoMA. In response: an immediate, intimate, physical gesture. He helped me lug the paintings up the road and we placed them next to some dumpsters. And the light is bright, almost too bright. It's like a beacon and it blinds as it hypnotises and beckons and transfixes. Each movement made concrete, each sound uttered is a form of exposure, presenting the surface as a ground of arsenic and old lace-space where the internal and external collide in a drama of convergences. September 2, 2010: Bed, Apartment 19, E 8th St, New York, New York. It's hot again. The plants are wilting. Heating my thighs as my body temperature rises. Upstairs neighbour stomping around, a practicing saxophone gently wafting down through the window. Shouting, laughing, horns, sirens. Saturday night, pink quilt and crooked still life print slipped down in its frame, my two canvases on the street in Bushwick. Take it all. The cab driver said they were very good and collapses into a bubble that floats within an atmosphere heavy with humidity, where pain is, and as I am, kind of annihilated. He, numbed by heat, distracted by actions and sounds, and contained within four white walls, was the only one who would take me. Corrupted. Defiled. Disoriented. A Sleep now. Abstraction. This was something I hadn't remotely considered. This space in turn becomes an obscured, eroticized place, where the irrational and grotesque reside, and fetid darkness grows despite the light. Sep. A chorus. Tember. Squeaky someone would want them, not just as raw material but also as paintings. Make something. Act. The hum of air-conditioning units and the L train wasn't working and it would have taken hours to get there. It's beckoning to the beyond, to swim within Kill its insides. It was horrible. Make a noise. All around. Quiet and subdued but with an intensity. The air is thick. Infiltrating. Sleep. Not a symphony, it pulls you down into your feet. Heavy like sludge. The computer on my lap is like an upside down stovetop. I had thought they weren't that good. Think windows open, so many windows open, the clanging and banging from a building site, a dog barking, the yellow glow from a kitchen light. Easy to fall inside, deep and wide, tumbling down and swirling around in the maelstrom. Don't think. And the heat is getting hotter. This all happened within minutes. As we drove away, we passed them and I couldn't help crying. Backwards, forwards. Upside down. Banalities and architectural supports are warped through the prism of the mind to present not the literal but the imaginary real, freed from Down, down, deep within. Get out. Swim out. Listen to the insides spinning, whirling. Don't refuse, remain open and respond. September 11, 2010: Room 201, Chelsea Inn, 46 W17th St., New York, New York. Sweat begins to form in droplets on my bare shoulders and back. Other people's pain. In the air, To lay asunder. He helped me. Eyes closed. Engines and whoops. Domestic utility and function translated as poetic portals resting in a couloir intrusion.

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