SυΠℜISε τð SυΠSετ is a curatorial project intertwining homes, artworks, artists’ writing, performance and video. Initiated and convened in 2021 during lockdown restrictions at Lichfield Road, London by Adam Moore. Spring/Summer ’21 ~ Rested ~ launched on Earth Day.

Until Your Touch

by Μαℜκ Β⌊εακ⌊εγ x SυΠℜISε τð SυΠSετ

Essentially flat, my intrigue bears more heavily in what it is that I can hold. This is the power that I wield: that I will yield to your fingers. We each hold ground. And weight. I separate: the real, raw ground, from the real, raw you. A more durable skin — to do what?

The visitation of a local frost saw a new community emerge, with new life forms thriving across the cold, frozen pond. Funny, how this old and familiar place was made new under seemingly unfavourable conditions, and used in ways that before were imperceptible — or unimaginable? I am a little like that.

Until your touch. Waiting: to be. Wanting: to feel completed when those fingers finally touch these fingers — if we use our fingers? Unless you choose another part? I have only fingers; what if you choose another part? I only have fingers, poverty.

Beguiled by the truth — thickly shrouded in the spirit-breaking and fear inducing guise of its sickly, anxious opposite (induced by seemingly poor conditions) — I keep reaching further into what it is I know that frees me.

[Reaches] 

[Groans]

I know I am misplaced, so smartly positioned on the fortuitous, smooth curve of the wall separating those two rooms. I could see another life — of spectacle; neither unfitting, nor right.

One day, I may end up on the smoothly sloping curve of a wall somewhere, though perhaps not for some years to come — if ever.

Briefly speculated on, I knew then as I know now: for much greater a purpose, I belong on the ground.

Having been and being on the floor, I come back to myself. Being with the ground, I wonder what I teach from here, and I wonder, what does ground teach?

Vessels

by Λησuςκα §αμμς x SυΠℜISε τð SυΠSετ

Yes, we are family in massive rebellion with theory in our gut. Passed down pasts passing through, and out, and into.

Physical–physical physicality. Traces of cells and skin, thrown and sunken in – the invisibility and unintentional, unavoidable introduction — of identity — we cannot migrate away from, though we sometimes try. High spirited stasis, markers and sequences in quiet subterranean, abruptly halted growth reintroduced: empty vessels, containing intricate and nebulous genealogies.

Volcanic softness. Crumpling, folding, crumbling, uniquely balanced individuals. The temperature, the fire, the lack of control; our proximity to others – changes us. Not tough (not really). Some parts aren’t so sturdy or strong, which is why we like being at home (because at home we have freedom).

Bigger machinery; breaking needles; finding it hard to keep in place; finding the colour looks so different when disembodied. We gesture with them, knowing they accompany so many glad tidings; peace, love. We never talk about flowers being disembodied. Hacked and starved and put in a vase, their beautiful full-blooming luminosity simply, marvellously fuelled by sunlight, gradually disintegrates as they drown — droop, stoop, and wilt. When they are sat on the table, or the mantle, flowers have no clue that they are already dead: slowly wriggling flora, gasping their last. 

Some carry others with more grace —some internalise migrants deeply more convincingly. As congruent as we appear, we ooze and emanate a strange truth that cannot be concealed. Is this love? ‘Is this love/Is this love/Is this love/is this love that I’m feeling?’.

Agrarian, of our lands: our flowers; our crops; shoots from our dermis. Excavating between cultures, generations, civilisations — between what might have been and what could be — and reintroducing back inside from outside, thoughts of love are caught in our flaming hair.