Tom Harker

I stayed in a haunted hotel, terrified of the noises and
shadows at night. You know something is there and it wants to do you harm but
its hard to see. The layout was like a labyrinth and most rooms are closed off
and uninhabitable. Locked doors, with things inside we
would rather not face. We would not bother to enter, but know that they reveal
themselves in the space between one state and another, pushing through the
cracks. The communion is internal, like an inner vision, the thoughts do not feel
like your own. It’s the feeling of profound meditations, ancient wisdom, and tired
metaphors.

A surface wiped clean to forget the
abyss. With mass caught in the unfathomable undercurrents. The world is fluid.
It gives the sense you can move freely. At times it’s uneasy because there is
nothing to hold onto to. Skimming your hand in the water, it feels thick like
butter, suspended. Everything is in play, unbounded and
accessible, atemporal and deterritorialized. The ambivalence of floating
through space, through collective imagination, through
the subconscious mind.  

There’s the presence of the hand set
in the material. The illusory surface and paintings
own inheritance, which lives like a
specters will. Fragments are cut and pasted from
linear hierarchies, and slip between categories. Drawing from the complex
histories behind them, easy travel is resisted as new sets of associations are conspired.