The natural order legitimizes itself but never without consequence, shrine, or wool.
Seeds disperse wildly into the air, transgressing their predetermined narrative.
The flower regarded as sin, its origins devoured by science.
An orangutan declares its supremacy in the animal kingdom then goes on to shape our perception of painting and otherness.
A singular experience confined to the role of watcher, mother.
Coincidentally, the name of this piece is called Landscapian Shroud of My Mother.
The absence of a crowd and subtle elevation in space makes the piece clear and breathable, even though it feels like it’s mourning.
A fly rests on a baby’s cheek. A cosmos bleeds into a microscope.
The irrational need for classification belittles us, causing restlessness and doubt. There is not much struggle to change the order of things.
Some are classified as more ‘wild’ than others. I misread the label as savage.
How to accurately read the lines of a crab, or the soft undulations of a jellyfish?
The question stays with me until a large battery resting on a pillow interrupts it.
Once a stereotype is set free in the world, a secret stairway reveals itself.
Funny how wool makes itself into Chinese paper, how breath guides us into foreign space.
Wool is dry and unforgiving when stretched over canvas. I find this fact troublesome. This one is called Black Cab 2.
The arrival of ‘outsiders’ raises questions about juxtaposition as a form of colonization.
In the case of a cosmos, marginalized individuals take on the quality of hallucinations. There but not there. There but only in the context of the Artist.
Here a grater is enlarged to the size of a baby elephant. Its violence is confrontational yet decent when mounted in the same room as a sofa.
My focus deviates from the walls to the significance of time and measurement when imagining the universe (not to be confused with the universal). The shift is slow, long and ornate, mirroring the wingspan of a bird.
Birds in cages, not even alive, become subtle extensions of reality.
Domestic textures become foreign, alien. I love the way they are reduced to feeling.
As if feeling is all there is when addressing kindred spirits.
Rosemarie Trockel: A Cosmos is on view through January 20, 2013 at New Museum, 235 Bowery, New York.