Original Copy

Solo exhibition by London based artist Jack Brindley.
Private view: Friday 5th June (6 - 9pm)

By appointment 6th June - 5th July

To eat, to laugh, to drink, to smoke, to smell to feel and fuck. To sleep, to run, to suffer to celebrate and to realise that fatigue is everywhere. To sweat, to toil, to feel hot and cold, to piss to taste, and to hold a belief in the world or a grudge if it suits. 

Be carried away by useless words, adopt a stutter, stammer, pretend to love, and actually love. To be in a crowd and to be the crowd, to hustle and to be hustled, to be at the centre of everything, to look outward, to turn on the spot, to truly believe that everything emanates from a source radiating centrifugally away from you, to take a step, to feel the forces of resistance, movement and momentum crashing together in a confusion of intent. To feel full, to feel hollow, to feel like you have a grounding like a stone sunk deep inside you.

Step into and out of spaces, rooms, galaxies and cosmos, drink in air, breathe and believe in the volumes that you occupy. Take hold of a space; take it ransom, at hostage. Be its sole tenant and landlord of your own accommodation, common law of real-estate, no credit, debit, borrowers or lenders, equity that is responsible for nothing. Be aware of your construction, architecture and biological engineering. Learn to inhabit the rattle of your chest, the slight asymmetry of your pace due to your fallen arch on your left foot, the droop of your upper right eyelid.

Be political. After all, Capitalism is the system we all die under. The infinite multiplication of values. MAKE LESS, BE MORE.

Be more than the space you inhabit, be more than a volume of displaced air, be more than you were yesterday and the day before, exist outside of history and exist now. Extend your fingers outward, reach into an ill defined space and claw at the skin of understanding, and watch how the light bends and distorts around language at the event horizon of its meaning. A picture isn’t worth any number of words. Thrash out a series of marks that illogically scar a billion silent retinas. Supply the press release to the cleaners only. Let them mop out the drunks smashed on Biennale sponsored wine in the European tents.

  Jack Brindley, Cactus, Liverpool