ROUSE

Horizontally wooden with great, flat spaces of white ascending upwards—this was a space, which became a gallery, which might always be a canvas of sorts. It has been interesting to see its growth and altogether surprising one has not yet seen the walls breathing. The space seems to assume the shape of its purpose and has the capacity to be a vessel of many vessels. As the group passed through the halls in clusters, one saw its current form—the temporary home for several stirring minds and makers. ROUSE. Still, the collection of people traveled without much sound.

I will speak now.
I nearly tripped on the words. “I won’t starve, bitches.” Stead Thomas gave the audience seventy-six bricks of gold, a collection of comics, and a compilation of ideas. Nearly all backed away from the invitation to come and see what was offered and gain more insight into the man who would not give up, even though that was what was expected and will continue to be. He extended his hands to create a visual of the stereotypical ideas he sought to abandon. Thomas gave claims that he was trying to still do in a world where all had been done, and I wonder greatly whether or not he had already started giving up. Even yet, the starving artist still lives to tell his tale. Or should.

In the center of an open room stood a massive block, a cube starved of colour with crossed out lines and white spaces of blank. Everything poured into the piece, each message carefully found and copied, and only a single, simple work came into existence. Victoria Lee Skelly geometrically displayed her idea that the process of constantly erecting bridges between individuals and gathering the semblance of the final piece held greater value than the end product itself. Only a tiny space of beautification—community and colour—was contained within the constant stream of emailed rejections and requests.

Now begins the madness of creativity uncontained. It may even be called the rawness of artists unleashed to unsuspecting eyes. I heard the next work before seeing. Despite the scope of unpleasantness, the strange video tapped into enthrallment and some indulged fascination. The rough cuts of animation, commercials, sounds transfixed childhood memories and ideas with the new age of abandoned innocence. Carmen Tiffany had created a masterpiece of the impoverished and tainted collection of children in this nation. It was atrocious and played in an endless loop.

Emerging from the small space of a crowded hallway, I beheld what might have been a circus. Mastodon of crocheted blankets and discarded memories, a peek into a virtual realm that could not decide whether to be dys-or-utopian, large-framed glimpses of sexuality. No ringmaster, no crowds, no shouts or the shitty realization that the popcorn you just bought was most likely week-old. There was only the invitation to join the notsospectacular, far less than greatest, show on earth. Thank God there were no flashing lights or the smells of funnel cake and vomit.

I believe I found my eyes first following the anything but straight lines of a recycled elephant to the ceiling. Each small look revealed a new part to the whole. The shape of found object was not a perfect creature, not in the least. And yet, somehow, eyes gave it form—made it real. It was as though the earth opened up and, from the soil or synthetic flooring, there rose an animal not yet seen and still familiar. Andrew Nigon released already used and now reused objects as a sculpture brought to life. He did not speak of his intention or ideals—everything was left hanging. All stood in the same unknown way as the free-standing pacaderm.

That which went largely unnoticed were, perhaps, the most intentionally obvious. In the corner, there was a screen. A large screen on which one could travel through a horrible-wonderful world: controls—click left, forwards; right—backwards; middle—restart. A Russian theme park, given the shape of a mind and divided between a dystopia and utopia, was as close as a button and imagination. Amusing. One could see the point at which they were on a map. There were stops for God, for bearwrestling and a temple of Marx. The unreality was astounding. It made sense.

A gallery without shyness could be found along the remaining walls of the space. There was a theme to the show—sexuality and pleasure without the form of a woman. In the place the female figure out to have been there was, instead, drag queens and animals from childhood rhymes. How effectively did this, then, capture the very essence of ecstasy and those moments of joy found in pleasure? It did not cause heads to turn and palms did not break out in sweat. Was there any feeling at all, Toni. I will not call out your name. The photographs and installations of the show were vivid in colour, yes—brilliant with lights and shrouded in some secret dark but all carnal bliss seemed absent. It was a carnival but where were the surprises waiting around each and every corner.

The one who remains: Ariel. I saved her last. Her ideas were never compromised, nor her mind or individuality. The pieces did not yell from the walls. The many-layered pieces were and infinity of thought and movement. There was a film giving the motion of the series of strokes. Everything served a purpose. Integrity. I thank her.