Christopher Mayer

There is an idea of chance, of moments in history when everything breaks apart, when, for one reason or another, one speculative idea is lost and something else, something more or less likely takes its place. In order to do this, the sweep of time has to be great, has to touch on a multitude of different areas; perhaps it is through this method that bigger, interwoven, confused pictures are built. Pictures that can give us clues for survival.

Ideas seep alongside the narrative stream of the work, interlinking, building into their own crescendo before falling away. A compost; rich in nutrients, a humus of thought, spread out around the base of other stories allowing new connections to grow. It’s messy, theoretically messy, how could it be anything else. It must attempt too much, drive in circles, make furrows across the tracks. It can’t attempt to come to any destination, it is as always was, in flux. We live in entangled times, complicated, collaborative, individualistic times. Genomic evolutions give way to acts of shared experience. Systems seemingly unmovable, socially enslaving, are only moments in the eons of the ages. A story of chance, of info-spheres, mechanic operations and capital. A tale of facts as myth, science as myth and facts for fleeting moments as facts. A story of the implications of all this confused ruination, of peoples and things who break apart and ideas that can stand entrapped or separately, but then also the inevitability, despite blindfolded eyes, of the end.