Hello Claire Fontaine.  I’m Jane Dadd, second cousin of Gene Skinner. I went to your expo in KARST on my meanders round Plymouth (Brexit city) Art Weekender.  These are my real reactions – you need to know, listen to me.  The burnt up matchstick map of the UK was powerful.  Obviously something serious has just happened.  I nearly tripped on a photographer swatting to get shots through the hole I had to stoop to see it through; even more like a crime scene – that was good.  And the scatter of ash and black rush of soot to the ceiling was all glorious.  I loved the destruction.  There was still a lingering smell of burning, something sulphurous too – was that the flick of His tail or a cable slipped?

I nearly missed the rest of the show.  The passage was dark and the small door almost invisible.  Suddenly I was in a huge space reeking of home decorating, distracting me with inappropriate thoughts of all the people and mess involved (paint down the arms and marks on the carpet) in getting it to this state. Another blank space, same as in PAC, but this one was definitely menacing – underground container for kidnap victims not back bedroom chic.  Someone I was with noticed the red light was exactly the colour of finger skin held up to a light bulb.  So Claire, you do art that gets under the skin and into the mind.  You flip ethical (and aesthetical) ‘right’ from subject to predicate in a pure flash of neon – not beautiful – but neat, I think. Very Baudrillard.  But I’m seldom sure of my rights and rightness anyway, and care less than I should.  Also you say not having things makes me bad (so true!); society defines me by what I haven’t got – not in Plymouth anyway!

Claire – you are the voice of Hyper-reality, and you want it to burn away, and with it the dwelling of the Good, the Beautiful and the True.  Their place has got impossibly ramshackle – blasted apart and fixed up again too often in the last hundred years.  They keep adding those hideous little extensions, walling them off from the main corpus and establishing Wacko style identity cults.  The muses have run off and scattered.  They’re not coming back, but they’ll find somewhere else, I know…

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