Picture yourself flying through clouds in an enormous flute of clear glass. You’re flying over the american landscape: a passenger in a glass flute. You feel the breeze blow in through the many finger holes; and you try to count the holes, but you only count: 1, 1, 1, 1. Suddenly, the whole flute whistles, “Who is the master who makes the grass green?” You look to the left and the right to see the population of clouds. As you fly past a cloud (or it by you) you notice that at each new position you take (with respect to one another) the cloud seems to be a new cloud altogether (and you think to yourself, “that’s silly”). You look down below you and see the american landscape passing by. The perfectly rectilinear fields of crops are never quite rectangles: they bend through symmetrical spectra of parallelograms as they pass from before you to behind. You look back behind, and there at the mouthpiece is you, lips pursed in determination.
Imagine yourself behind the wheel of an everyday car, driving through Chicago. As you press down on the accelerator you feel a familiar vibration in your foot. The vibration is strong, and suspiciously similar to one you have felt in your head and in your chest. The resistance from the accelerator pedal never ceases. It appears that you and the car are in a sort of shoving match, the accelerator pedal being the crux of the struggle. You think that perhaps as you push to accelerate the car, the car pushes back almost as if to accelerate you… The tension in your hands is so much, and you just barely see the white of your knuckle bones pushing clear of your skin. A blue USPS mailbox passes by to your right. You sense that the mailbox you see on the approach, is not quite the same that you see on departure. A virtual blue mailbox lingers in your visual imagination. As you stare at the way ahead of you, you spin the mental mailbox, somehow superimposing it on the approaching road.
New Works + sodA mundial are proud to present Tunnelscape, Michael Ray-Von’s solo exhibition.