whiteout

pQuad is the culmination of many years painstaking research to develop a gallery wall finish that could replace paint and its abject association with decor. White paint struggles to be more than a bland interval between wall mounted objects. Its very neutrality espouses narratives of purity and transcendence pitching focus away from the actual work through an expanse of white noise. The wall repressed with white paint returning as a simulated shroud.

Our aim was to create a wall-as-image more consistent with contemporary spectral presence and virtual immanence. pQuad transcends surface by staging perpetual becoming within a matrix of lyrical instability. Its precisely designed visual mode oscillates between absence and potentiality, an exuberance of quantum equivocation. Searching beyond traditional materials and methods of application we discover that the optical properties of pigment in the epidermal structure of white whales provides the streamlined visual slippage and permeable presence we seek. An optimised tonal offset in the balance of lighting chromatics by combining spotLess and pQuad delivers the ultimate in gallery derealisation. Skeins of the finest prepared skin are deposited electrostatically onto a base derived from platypus milk expressed in the first minutes of lactation. This produces a lustrous seamless indeterminate candid white experience bounded by corners and edges of the gallery that, under certain conditions, register as a real periphery. Your eyes move over pQuad in a smooth glide that sucks your subjectivity into a reconfigured resonance with the space. A shadowless embodiment between scintillate and sheen that refigures potencies to the dimension of your own financial leveraging. An eye or camera tracking the spectral presence/distance foretokens the body’s distension into a nexus of probes and the haptic extension of the image through the thronging crush of a new opening. A tactile haze projecting off the walls and intersecting with vision to subsume bodies into a single pulsating organism hurting for rapture.

Al Held in miasma. You are the aura of this space, the perfect transaction medium for the currency of taste, a cosy intercession for the freighted cocks that bud at the softest flutter of your assent and nipples that return gentle (hard nosed) succour and erotic focus. Cunts sworn in as badge-carrying aesthetes in the know. The collector node oozes against a potential acquisition, triangulating the new shredded time with their own portfolio, history on the fly, provenance, curation, context.

An orbit pulling big G’s, Larry the Gallery, Gugenheim, Goldsmiths, Gerhard in a botox centrifuge, rictus face stretched into a collapsed black hole of fake memory. As if white were once again the new black. An Ellen Gallagher tunes a tingle right down into the scrotal and sympathetic lateral lines resonate with the space as though at last, or once again, the present moment is vibrating at the peak frequency of creative optimisation.

Out in the yard three SUVs – Blind Mouse White except for the Porsche painted Jankowski Gallery White – which somehow lacks the strict milky rigour of the other paintjobs – are specific and interchangeable. A Turrell light wall screens the office. She plops out an artist from the smooth folds of her scroll list and although any gravity might be sucked from off of them and they are as awkward or refined or knowledgeable or as uncomfortable an adjunct as they are required to be, they are part of the broad sweep of crafted dazzle. The real money is only drawn to simulated production. The impossibility of death in the mind of the aesthete as Carl Andre’s wife is relaunched back into the system. We track over to a tableau but fail to identify the beginning or end of a buggery coil which is more limited edition continuously wedged mouth over cock into arse animation on a perpetual loop. Witness your own progressive dismemberment into the frieze.

A limp hanging rope of disinterest jerked to attention by a Judd wall stack. Still cool, still cool. Doing some lines off a Smithson mirror piece. Keep your snake-eye good and dry as a distancing device. The performance is a dull orange sodium glow that is breathtakingly in-Zone. The camera pans round to see it swirl into their guts like a psychic handjob, a virtual finger along the silky gums and pink tissue that raises the profile five points. Simple saliva morphs into desiring drool. A floor-piece that Marxes up to her desk and begs to be trodden on.

Beauty moistens the collector’s eye and decants into a mist of digital greenbacks. The eye has ocular force but no owner, now suborned to the endless skein of pQuad and press releases. Some late career objects that seem to be well hung. LeWitt as a non-Descartian hole you could get access through. A special rig was made to process the whale skin into fine sheets machined to meet without visible join. Even the stationery refracts the definitive optical range. The paper was grown in the rarified pure air of the high Himalayas (47% less oxygen) processed over seven years, fermentation that produces the information rich nimbus through which a cool brand projects. Combine with the voracious indexical veracity of the installation shot.

The smooth arc through the vortex of bodies leading to the violent ugliness of their genitals. The collecter-o-gallerist machine grinds and flexes, a self-exaggerating oiled orchestration geared up for another juddering climax. Meatspace vaporising in the behemoth of white rooms. You and Sherpa Flensing having a whale of a time in dripfeed exchanges of your own recycled images. Faces cloaked in refinement. It might be your turn as the intern in one of the cars parked out back splayed and opened out against a leather scented interior, a conduit to lubricate the strobing gaze. Her anus tunnels the space above as a white spiralling funnel, a tornado mirror extruding your reflection stretched to the vanishing point of an infinite yawn as though looking upwards at a reflecting Kapoor. The collectors are juicing, gliding on their lubed vanity in the blinding veracity of white, rising to the occasion within their enhanced reflections, shoehorned into a burgeoning indeterminate lack. A collection of outrageous inflated cocks quiver and preen as the bids pump and money and aesthetics bind and entwine in an ecstatic quadrille. The glistening sheen on everyone’s lips more than equal to the blinding lens-flare from spotlights and popping flash bulbs. Wetted expectant labia.

As the money shot approaches and every attenuated nerve bristles in the onrushing moment, swung into view as a predestined image before the gavel descends, in the last cliffhanging seconds before oblivion, a heart-stopping twitch of the second hand before it advances to close the moment, an endless desert of waiting between inception and conclusion, all staggering pent up psyche and tensile expectancy poised to gush, rigged to trip at the final word, primed to come with “gone”, the nanosecond before the milky release of every last bidder in attendance’s shouted inundation erupts in a record busting puddle of joy, it goes unnoticed, unremarked, that the room is already white.

What whiteness, you say, can you add to this whiteness?