Exhibiting at the Crypt Gallery: ‘Blinds Shield Me From What I Distrust’
My proposal was selected for the ‘Blinds Shield Me From What I Distrust’ exhibition at the Crypt Gallery, which turned into the work ‘Blank Canvas (With Love)’. This was my first time exhibiting here. Located under the St Pancras Church, it had a distinctly unique atmosphere that inspired the writing piece included in the work. It turned out to become a final letter from pseudo-fictional character announcing their death as a painter.
Read more about the piece here.
Group exhibition ‘Blinds Shield Me From What I Distrust’ premieres at The Crypt Gallery on the 23rd of November
‘Blinds Shield Me From What I Distrust’ is a group exhibition containing artwork from 18 emerging London-based artists, collectively exploring the bounding relationship between comfort and discomfort as intrinsic opposites.
The exhibition runs from the 23rd to 25th of November at The Crypt Gallery, on St. Pancras New Church, the premiere runs from 6 pm to 9 pm. Creating in response to both this common theme and The Crypt’s tunnels, the exhibition spans a variety of mediums - from two-dimensional work, to installation, sculpture and projected film - which aim to bring thought provoking counter perspectives to the conversation.
In this way, ‘Blinds Shield Me From What I Distrust’ proposes a challenge to the public as well for its participants, to build a dialogue around the leading nature of the collective display engaging with thoughts like intimacy, the body, privacy or place.
You can find the works of Lauren Bauer, Agnes Brandstaetter, Gem Bryant, Wenxuan Chen, Amalia Clements, Gabe Duarte, Adelina Hess, Yulin Huang, Sara Jarrahii, Hal Lewis, Joan Low, Leah McDonogh, No Man’s Land Collective, Marine One, Estelle Simpson, Wendy Sin, Ziqi Xu.
‘Blinds Shield Me From What I Distrust’ premieres at The Crypt Gallery on the 23rd of November, from 6 pm to 9pm.
Blank Canvas (With Love)
THE CRYPT, in all its suspended glory, served the perfect place in which I write my final letter to you. I hope you find this well.
The truth is, I found myself a painter no more.
To use a cheap metaphor, I was but a squeezed out empty tube of paint - wrangled, to the ground like some curious sought-for weight, bitter, like my whole life depended on it.
I do not know when this death happened. Perhaps when you gave me this blank happy birthday card, an empty celebration. its garish canvas depressed me. Even more so when I found this wrapping paper in the trash. I had to save it.. I felt a profound empathy for it. I cannot help but keep things that have called out to me in anguish. but Now I am a painter no more. And I cannot answer you in the same way. I hope you understand.
So Here lies the Leftover, the Scrap, the Scavenged Nothings that were once full of [tomorrow]. They are evidence I once existed, dear life, I held onto them.
When I pronounced them dead they instantly ceased to exist. I forget what they whispered to me in the dead of night. it is impossible to revive them now.
So Now you read my words aloud and they become a spell. Let them echo so they can flutter to a stop. they are tired of only being pronounced at the end of it all. (rest in peace)
This is a hello, a goodbye, a happy birthday, a commemoration, a yearning, a post-card to wish you were here, and I guess it came true. what better way to say good night?
And I Am Here to [put the past behind us] in order to [grieve the potential of our future]. it’s a cliché that makes me sick on the pavement. but clichés are clichés for a reason. I took your hand in mine for that reason. same reason why people send each other cards and wrap themselves into the present, [with love].
And so IN THE VAULT UNDERNEATH ARE INTERRED THE REMAINS OF one such painter, one I greatly admired for their strength in staying afloat, and their reservations for a world where balloons do not sink.
I write to you for no particular reason. I guess I wanted to let you know of my tragic end. please keep me wrapped tight in a memory far away. this is me calling out to you in anguish.
For the rest of your stay you should walk around until you realise that you are standing in a [conceptually strange place] - this is your crypt tonight.
anyway, we both know empty paint tubes don’t really exist. there’s always something in there in the end. but for the life of me - I can never get the last say. wrangled, to the ground, and sought again.
I shall now depart to the sacred memory of you, [a grand exit].
sensational, so to speak, as the day you were born.
with love,