Gina Levi

VIRTUAL TOUR

ARTIST CATALOGUE

dog-eat-dog

The forest is pale and and the trees are flat. The roots are made of masking tape and it is never too hot or too damp or too quiet until it is. I sleep upright in the left corner with a dog skull on my back to scare off the (placeholder)s. We know that it is not right to bring something into the world just to let it rot. We know that rot is the only good we have left anyhow. But rot does not bite when we love it too hard, it just reminds us that the laundry is still unwashed. 

We know that there is red anyhow. Red which prods the gappy teeth - which long for softer things - which strain to follow the form - in between their (placeholder)s. A pack of vi(s)cous dogs finds me under the wax tree. They lick the crack in my head until it fuses. I do not know the words "sagittal suture” yet. But I do know how a sentence should not be formed. And I do know that “enmeshment” is undesirable in a family but not in a pack. Pink dog dreams of clowns unfolding into planes of liquid (placeholder). White dog dreams of guns. I dream of the black dog. 

We tie a string around a plume of steam and we are left with a flaccid and damp line unravelling at the points that were most tightly bound. The string is tied to itself at the ends. It is an ouroboros - like when your dog licks their anus. There is wax and oil and pigment and paper and resin and canvas and string and metal and wood and clay and bloody flesh all over. And then there is (a) painting. That’s all,