ALEXANDRA NOEL

A few days passed and I’m obsessively thinking about all possibilities of what the ball could be. I imagine that this train of thought can be turned into a text for this show but I fear I’m on a slippery slope of synchronicity becoming meaning becoming madness. Yet here it is. I’m electrified when I receive an image of a ball in an email from the gallery. Instant dialysis for a brain full of plastic. I don’t know what to do with this third coincidence. I can hear the man’s voice again, still and stoic as if to say the calming phrase, “there, there,” the ball is there. Instantly I feel the big ball beneath our feet, which encompasses all possibilities of what “the ball” could be.

A few weeks passed and the dust that falls on LA is shimmering. I’ve inhaled whole houses. My painting of the ball has become a pill tablet, I learn that the ball in the email is not full of air as I had thought, and now I am not sure what the man was actually shouting or if he ever stopped. Knowing it all to be just as meaningful as it is meaningless, I am here standing in the afterimage of one big coincidence, seeing things that are “there, there” or “là, là” la, la, la-ing while pushing paint around until another one shows up. I think of this show like that.