THERE. HERE.

2010-07-28T07:52:00.000-07:00

GOOD TIDINGS

Marc Hulson 'L'invitation' oil on linen 180x160cm

'Theatre facsimile' oil on canvas 180x160cm

'Heare' oil on linen 35x30cm

'Five fifty five' oil on linen 17.3x15.4cm

installation view

'L'invitation' (detail)

'Les oeufs fatidiques' graphite on paper 17.3x15.4cm

'Scrypt' graphite on paper 18.3x15.4cm

'Sleep pattern' oil on paper

installation view

installation view

GOOD TIDINGS exhibition opening 23/07/10 photos by Wolf

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1. the sky from Five Years balcony 2. l-r: Marc Hulson, composer Mark R Taylor, writer & broadcaster Hannah Godfrey, artists Gordon Dawson, Charles Labelle & Tariq Alvi 3. from left: artists Michael Curran, Francis Summers & Esther Planas (centre) 4. Tariq Alvi 5. Esther Planas 6. musicians Charlie Finke (right) & Justine Armatage (second from left) aka The Cesarians 7. l-r: Marc Hulson, Justine Armatage, Esther Planas, Robert Ellis 8. Michael Curran 9. Michael Curran & Alex Schady (artist & core Five Years member) 10. Marc Hulson 11. the sky from Five Years balcony

2009-08-12T03:54:00.000-07:00

HOST

Marc Hulson 'Host' 2009 oil on linen 225x200cm

--Completing solitude in fragmented betrayals of the essence: more than one can fit within the frame provided.

The presence, heavy and deep-set, occulting passages (of time, speed, perspective-distortion, angles of desire, the focal variations that misuse of the skin has embedded in his/her breath)

Silence is the backdrop for something to be said, not crushing, not overwhelming, it will be crushed and overwhelmed, or maybe it will be the metal of a ring, ready to be cast. WORD is gem. You pick the colour.

Then the beasts appear and their slow and hushed advance in the night (Nightmares are triggered off by the electroencephalogrammaton we all foolishly believe we will override - us full of shit and full of ourselves) keep you from registering them in time – they call forth a denomination of the frequency, beyond doubt but before certainty, right where it’s pretty damn obvious the bad shit is coming, but it doesn’t have a name yet, probably cannot have one, ever, or it wouldn’t be THAT bad - triggered them off, then, within a system whose configuration truly cannot cope with them, was not meant to, or rather, was meant NOT to.

“i want you”, she says, eyes glazed in the others’ lurking fluids, the remnants of something toothed and fully-fledged, but with broken bones.

You cannot answer but it will pass as a radiant and grateful acknowledgment. Sitting there in the becoming of SILENCE, that son of a Cunt now vetoing every single one of your prayers.

You can look anywhere, anywhere you look is somewhere bled dry.

( Sound was once perceived as the emanation of divine particles that a closed circuitry had trapped inside cell walls, deep deep inside the marrow of our soul’s skeleton. Then they figured it out. Science and its golden tongue, its long, sharp-nailed fingers, its delicate way of fucking us over. )

There between the long gaps of our common history lie the little chunks of TRUTH that your teeth fell upon one after the other until you broke one, chipped the thin enamel, cut the soft membrane of your gums, thought you’d choke on them, broken glass, the tiniest, sharpest stones, the kind they could grind you with. Well, actually...

You count the numbers backwards – back to the thing it started from – back to You and the Other – mirrors – back to unity – back to infinity.

There are so many of you under this skin. How in the holy name of Fuck are you supposed to manage someone else letting themselves in smoothly, tenderly, full of promises of blue suns, bright nights, but forcefully as bulls on the charge ?

(They only attack because you did it first. That’s how martyrs handle the concept of responsibility)

Frigid like a mural of arctic contemplation, white forever because there are places there’s no point in setting foot on, and everybody knows this.

It’s all come down to this.
No one to say it’s a pity, it’s a waste, the damage done, all that.
Who gives a shit. It’s all come down to this.
The very place you used to inhabit you now haunt.
Felt, vaguely, but never answered.
They cannot tell your frame from the curtains’ shadow.
And you can’t tell their words from the wind’s holler.
Transformation is not a process, it’s an event.
Hammered repeatedly into the bones of your plurality.
Going nowhere, so fast it hurts, so slow you can’t see it until you’re there.

The air is a grid. Vacant until you fill the little boxes in. But with what? All has been said, the words placed like in some bad cosmic version of scrabble where it’s always the others’ words that count more and win.

(Emma Wolf Deraze 2009)

Installation view at Area 53 Vienna June 2009

2009-05-08T09:56:00.000-07:00

one room is never clean but its dirt must become irrelevant

everything is hidden behind it. the noise, the motion. a ghost

that you cannot name. this is not about what we see, but the

unknown, that lurks. maybe you are the lurking. the lurker.

some fractions of noise coming through the walls. not those

walls, the walls of the image. identity has shifted your focus

towards further within, and you see right through the skull.
another version of the present. how many there are is beside

the point. we must find how many we are. one colour is

designated, sacred, ancient, weighing the lies. the truth is

collapsing.
whoever said the eyes were the windows of the soul never

pried any door open. you can walk in there. get trapped, settle

inside, forever. or come in and out of it.
this is not about what is there. so much is concealed, we have

no time for the there. there is gone already, as soon as you

touch it. the shadow is denser than the light. particles know.

you got it all figured out without knowing. what you thought

was a question is a statement. there is a skeleton under the

stairs. its spine was broken. by the weight of all those who

climbed up. towards fuck only knows what. they didn’t.

know. they still don’t. only you do, and you don’t know it.
one room is never without precedents. you must fracture

them. make your way across the fields that bear only remains.

under the ground is the seed. the latent monster. one room is

never clean but its dirt must become irrelevant. one room is

never new but you can start it all over every time you speak.

every time you say.
you won’t find the zero. but you can create it.
the more void you try and represent, the denser your matter.

how can a blank eye overflow? a blank eye is zero.

overflowing is the task of the infinite. zero’s contrary. but no

eye is truly blank. even a dead eye is not blank. do you

believe the last thing one sees before they die is recorded in

the vitreous humor?

(Emma Wolf Deraze 2008)

2009-05-08T09:48:00.000-07:00

Installation views of the exhibition 'One room is never clean but its dirt must become irrelevant' by Marc Hulson: photographs by Emma Wolf Deraze

UNTITLED SEQUENCE exhibition at HOVEL

2009-05-08T08:31:00.000-07:00

‘one room is never clean but its dirt must become irrelevant’

an exhibition of work by Marc Hulson.
This is the first intervention by an individual artist at HOVEL.

Address: 37 Evelina Mansions,
New Church Road
Camberwell, London SE5 7JW

Exhibition runs from 8th May - 23rd May 2009
Open Fridays and Saturdays 1pm – 6pm and by appointment
(02077036337 hoveltenant@googlemail.com)

From Camberwell Rd. go to Bowyer Pl onto New Church Rd.
Transport: Elephant, Buses to Camberwell, 35, 40, 45, 171, 68, 12.
From Oval, Buses 36, 185, 436