Using sculptural tools, David Diviney explores object relations that suggest narrative, sometimes humorous and/or parodic structures. His story lines are often left broken, awaiting repair. The work that constitutes the exhibition Decoy at Gallery 101 reflects upon these concerns, as the artist transforms various vessels -- galvanized steel buckets, tubs and trash cans -- into sites that at once store and dispense bits of information. The openings of these forms mirror our senses, allowing a point by which to access their content. In turn, these objects serve both literally and figuratively as vehicles that contain meaning, collectively formulating one's experience in the gallery space. In a recent essay, 'Letting the air out of the tires', Ray Cronin, Curator of Contemporary Art, Art Gallery of Nova Scotia wrote, "Diviney chooses subject matter that is ubiquitous, but somehow outside of the concerns of the art world. It's so familiar that it is invisible." In effect, Diviney's subject stands right before us; he is interested in the quality of objects as "things" in general and in relation to how they dictate our engagement with the world around us. Decoy Often, one wishes to be left alone. We all have ambitions for escape.Now that I’ve locked myself in an ivory tower par excellence as a consummate preposterous aristocrat, it has become apparent to me that I have little to do; this is a source of malaise. What I maintain is that I have my self-education to think about - my path as an auto-taught esthete. And my invention. Wandering in the darkness for a bit too long I came across a hollowed out stump, in the middle of the path. It was full of a kind of emptiness. I recognized the emptiness from a Void Diagram I saw in elementary school. Falling forward into the thing, my eyes, rolling back in my head, caught an image of a swooping owl - a paper cut out of a swooping owl? - feathering around my head. As it flapped, suspended, I heard its fibrous wings brushing my ears, calling up images in my head. (The sister sound of a fluttering wing is the dull clunk of a canning jar hit by a wooden spoon). This set my mind dreaming. A trembling expectancy glowed in my arms. The owl pushed forward my face, immersing it in the inky space of the voided tree and pushing my thoughts toward darkness, the ephemeral, and the subject of so many dreams: holding. I’m developing a new invention. It will be used for storage. There is nothing I enjoy as much as the promise of a false door or secret passage - other than the promise of mystery - and this invention is full of both. I held a pebble inside the invention for hours and it was completely out of reach. No one could see it. It was my most prized possession - out of vision. This pebble now has a tunnel inside of it. There are secret passages weaving through the whole thing. My first view of this filled my mind with a burning thrill. There are other things which will go into the invention and never come out. They will evaporate from the wisp of invisibility, and those vapors I can then store, retract and reconstruct. It is a breathing lung. It holds so much. This machine, the invention, will necessarily be capable of ‘holding’ and ‘cupping’ the shape of anything put inside of it. The pebble placed inside the invention still has substance. Parts of it are gaseous and floating away. These floating portions choke out noises. Other objects have disappeared. The owl had turned crystal. A drafting table was reassembled as a valise. In fact, many of the initial testings of the invention caused either total disappearance or reconstitution of their subjects. These are noted in my log as L.I.T [Lost In Tunnel]. The prototype for the Tunnel was modeled after the hollowed stump – placing my hand near its insides I noticed an erasure. By which I mean: my hand was erased. Whole chasms opened inside of it. And by this I saw that the container was of no importance. Its effect on the object held such promise. Mark Clintberg, artist, curator and writer.
Thursday, April 28, 2005 to Saturday, May 21, 2005Opening
- Thursday, April 28, 2005