Lauren Taylor
w.i.p
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In this series of works in conversation, Taylor continues her practice of manipulating found and collected imagery, clothing, and miscellaneous objects. This site specific installation in the garden, seen as an accumulative note taking process, objectifies the passing of time as something both observed and simulated. Taylor’s infusion of humor into ordinary objects, by way of animated tropes of the female experience and a culled collection of maternal phrases and sentiments, call towards slights within the art world, a desire for control, and the bizarities of the banal that may go otherwise unnoticed.
CHORUS:
CHORUS:
CHORUS:
Some clocks don’t keep time at all. Would you watch my time?
wench’s impaled pupil
A torn piece of clothing, a lock of hair, a slice of tongue, might be preserved as icons or idols in prayer and ceremony.
A piece of petrified something becomes an axiom where I can now see religion sized up against my body.
All clocks have faces, and hands.
The closer the relic is to the being, time or place it was once a part of, the holier it becomes.
My mother still has Dan Folgenberg’s cigarette butt kept in a plastic bag in her dresser.
Once a dying man stumbled into a saint’s tomb and fell upon the corpse only to immediately stand up, healed entirely.
I sleep with my phone every night.
