Holy Head Of Albino John
2015, wood, acrylic, synthetic hair, glass, flashlights, wooden box
The box – an interiorized parallelepiped, a closed space, sacred, balanced, mysterious by default, that can contain something, anything or anyone.
Or something of anyone.
This wooden box contains a mute representative of the frail equilibrium between timeless essence of the spirit and the perishable human cover. You cannot touch, but you can look. Endlessly. He is the last one, or maybe the only one of its kind.
An albino, insufficiently prepared for the world, for its heat and light, always at a disadvantage, he belongs to a different regnum, a different language, a different chemical alphabet. He is rather nocturnal, like a ruby red eyed bug, a bridge between the odd natural worked and the familiarity of the human shape. The saint in the box, caught between wood and glass, becomes almost a fetish object, a piece in a Curiosity Cabinet that we can return to whenever, holding our breaths in anticipation of a twitch. The air around him is steady, the box is always nocturnal.
He is always there; he has no body to be carried away by.
Or something of anyone.
This wooden box contains a mute representative of the frail equilibrium between timeless essence of the spirit and the perishable human cover. You cannot touch, but you can look. Endlessly. He is the last one, or maybe the only one of its kind.
An albino, insufficiently prepared for the world, for its heat and light, always at a disadvantage, he belongs to a different regnum, a different language, a different chemical alphabet. He is rather nocturnal, like a ruby red eyed bug, a bridge between the odd natural worked and the familiarity of the human shape. The saint in the box, caught between wood and glass, becomes almost a fetish object, a piece in a Curiosity Cabinet that we can return to whenever, holding our breaths in anticipation of a twitch. The air around him is steady, the box is always nocturnal.
He is always there; he has no body to be carried away by.