10/25/12
Hooks come out of caught fibers on yarn; the weight of gravity verses texture of linen. I’ve seen the hooks before – in the slaughter cave in upper village, gnawing at the weave of stretched, primed canvas, hanging the remnants of quickly painted figures from an earlier work. The hook is waiting for a catch, a dangling mark made by the folding of yarn. The folded strangled pieces bound to the surface are bodies, human limb, an encasement, trapped, yet mended, cradled, safe; suspended in space, emptiness, fullness, time, shape.
Kal L. Cloonan 