The Hundreds: An Example

It’s the little round bulge of a nail on one of the rings of Saturn; both there and not there, a signifier of a gently rusting world, ionising memory as a little stain on a universe of plastic and painted signs, entrance points to a past so deeply buried in the pores of the World’s many bodies (the body of photography, the body of Morecambe) that its futurised characters walk through petrifying reflections, speaking in tongues – an incomprehensible language you immediately somehow get.  Its decay only intensifies the rioting pliability of modernity, in its hard, melancholic locales: Time’s negative.

(This is drawn from my Donuts and Seafood photograph.)

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