Uniforms

By now it’s a failed attempt, useless in every way. A review of an exhibition, but not about what’s on view. A creeping, creepy sound coming from the corners of each room, like a dissolved, diluted, displaced Miami sound machine. Who makes this music? Do they get money for it? It sounds like the fabric, cheap, but then again the fabric was a time sign, and this is not. It’s vampyric, undead, a party that has been forgotten by everybody who was there. Sound, music, things-in-the-air, they don’t help you, they don’t underline a story. So cheap, the silk on these shirts, but maybe silk was cheap in the 80s.

It doesn’t matter what you think of these clothes, they’re bound to time, they had a function. These ludicrous background compositions don’t. There should always be a reason, for every gesture, every noise made. Noises that are made without reason are, well, without reason.

It’s interesting how his own descriptions say enough about this, these garments, this time. But I still hear this abstract melody, and melody is really the wrong word, after all these months. Like saccharine, undetectable until you lick your own tongue.

I left with this thought: A swarm of moths, undetectable. You don’t see them, but they eat away at history. Maybe they eat it from the inside out. Or, maybe, the moths know that these garments are history. Everything should be eaten away, leaving threads of fabric. These shirts are so nice, they negate the world. But the world doesn’t negate them.