Christine Prescott
I create using a recipe of taste, touch
and smell.
My practice is grounded in process,
each element containing a memory specific to the work.
It is a weak attempt to deny the inevitability
of decay as we forget and forge our own memories, reconstructing our existence.
To the memory, smell is the most faithful
of the senses.
This work has crafted its dialogue
from scents; it is at once metaphysical, medical and poetic.
With a horn
retrieved from my jingling pockets
I construct methodologies of hope.
Works are absent,
leaving the form to make love
to my linguistic mind.
Holds me lost and salty.
I can hear that nothing.
It knows what I want and teases
the tip of my tongue.
b "It has always spoken, it will always
speak of things that don’t exist, or only exist elsewhere."
W "My mouth on yours forms words I
do not know."
b "My mouth it wouldn’t have much to
say."
W "The word and the kiss are one."
b "Yes, I was never silent, whatever
I said I was never silent."
W "Delicate words. Words of the spirit
forced into flesh."
I put the words into a flask
and flung them in the sea.
imaginary dialogue between the words
of Jeanette Winterson and Samuel Beckett
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