Friends, I have done my stress-cooking for the night — and consumed the goods much too quickly for there to be photographic evidence. I have moved on, in my nocturnal navigations, to completing my House of Cards mini-bender whilst delaying my return to the more perfunctory tasks that await me. The hour, once again, is quite late. My eyes threaten to fuse shut if I don’t remove my contact lenses, which I will do just as soon as I introduce you to a gorgeously confounding collection of photographs I found over on Slate — as part of my equally perfunctory practice of procrastination — published under the heading “Narratives of Unknowability.” And I wondered, as my eyes flitted between and across images, whether that is perhaps the best descriptor of modern art: a quality of unknowability, rendering the art critic (nascent and knowing) essentially disempowered from the discomfort that comes from not knowing what to make of something. It is perhaps less an exercise in explication* and more an endeavor of experience — specifically, an attempt to create experiences for audiences, both known and unknown.
Eyes near-crying now… so without further ado, the photo essay.
(and below, two from the collection that I especially adore)