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Sebastien Chou 

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Not Me

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... 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...
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& i’m leaning hard in this doorway.  this carnival. & these images whisper. point. signify.  testify.  remind.  pun.  ping.  forge new neural pathways.  this way.  this way.  over here.  remember.  invent. discover.  this is what you meant. this is what you meant to say.  this is. this. this this this this. this this.
i’ve never talked to sébastien chou.  we write emails in languages not our own. the writing is just pretend.  a pretense.  these our actors etc.   we are children pretending.  we play work.  but:  it’s already written. my friend.  writ large in a puddle of water.  clouds moving across the sky.  wind through the pine trees reflected in a piece of broken mirror leaning on some crumbling wall in brazil 2012.  
all this trouble trying to get you from there to here.  reader. all these ridiculous mendicant words worth less ly falling.  father points a crook finger at the night sky.  look at the pictures, look at the sky, open your mouth in awe and silently mouth the word: owl.  


leslie winer
february 2012
vigny, france
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