Araxie Kutchukian

The body is a juicing machine; it takes in all the rich nourishment and crudely ejects all the colourless fibrous traces that no longer resemble the fruit but show the mark of the blade and the pipes through which they travelled. When left for a while the rotting fibres begin to weep through the canvas weave and threaten to infect you as it gets sucked into the cavities of your nose. The artist does not cower from the disobedient behaviour of these terrors. She strides side by side with them. Occasionally she playfully nudges them forward through to the other side where she shrouds the canvas in darkness in the name of seeking a celebratory light and where life feeds from darkness. The artist ghost is not herself but plays herself, as she paints the traces of her companion ghosts on the canvas. She is liberated from the creatures of irreverence with all their gruesome performance of abjection. She is robust and finds light laughter, light shadows, and even lighter highlights.