... as clear as a cut crystal pony. outside of language, outside of space, outside of time. he throws it down, right here, right now, right nowhere every where. revealing: that which transpires behind that which appears.
his photographs too Inform in a way we haven’t named yet. necessary because there are no words. trans-trans-lingual. using that very stuff that dreams, clouds, memory & cricket sound are made of. that’s as close as i can language it. & these are someone else’s words. no doubt. we are all word thieves. tea leaves. & i can see two tiny pictures of what i mean. one in each of your eyes.
the ethereal material Beauty of sébastien’s work
is way the fuck beside the point, almost a shiny object to distract, pretending to be the thing. no newtonian measuring can get at it. what it’s Doing. what it Does. all known parsing strategies fail. sound & image flakes falling. this happening is taking place someplace somewhere else. noplace. where gravity is an add-on. what is happening here is something else entirely. a portal. an event. a verb. his work is Verbing Large & to try & de-scribe it as an object is lost keys the minute you’re not looking...