UK / Duration 15s segments / 2012
Gathered interludes ready for re-dispersal, all of same duration, all ‘circling about a temple of air.’
Orbiting, Moth-man a shaman of lost parts, is barely gathered before evanescing. Made from ill and unreasonable material, disjointed lepidopterist’s suit is both site and self, an incomplete catalogue without order or narrative. As are the clips documenting a restless presence in a landscape. Seeking shelter in momentary darkness between others more certain comments, Moth-man caught in the open, freezes. An image exposed, an unexplained visitor discovered, reluctantly baring the uninvited attention without either reason or apprehension but waiting til the gaze passes.
Sightings are fragments that can’t be known, other for in that instant, the other that, which constantly fills the us of our lives, with its own self. Never reaching within, other than as projection out. Close to, or, far distant, made out of sightings from the corner of the eye directed elsewhere.
Richard Powell is a maker of objects, drawings, books, prints and occasionally moving images, as sometime visiting tutor to a School of Architecture, when introduced as a ‘sculptor-artist’, it feels as if they refer to another. As if being known for the objects made, art created entitles the usage of such certain definition, but, this naming of acts and things appears important. Whether as symbol of the common-hood to be found within, intrinsic to, or as a derivative by-product of another concern, the art named, persists. Lasting for perhaps fractions of a second or perhaps decades the event, the ‘itself’ will with any luck strike home, become a lifetime within the viewers experience.
Practice is not always about knowing, of reaching out for the thing of consequence, or life giving, or worrisome, or even artificial, but rather about, casting about, of turning about things common, of seeing afresh, them and self. About making a commitment to a place in space and time, about when to stop, then knowing that the thing itself is no longer yours. To quote Andrey Tarkovsky, ‘So much, after all remains in our thoughts and hearts as unrealised suggestions.’ And misquote him. ‘I’m all for art being as close as possible to life–even if on occasion we have failed to see how beautiful life really is.’