The Cook and the Potatoes

Synthetic materials. Very fluid. Viscose. Chemical substances and volatile solvent, harmful to the health, poisonous, and yet supremely stimulating. Otherwise, how can I account for the fact that my digestive tract has already yielded up more than 150 Trashstones? Intense odours enrich the air I breathe and accompany the sweaty process of producing my stones. Treacherous smells bring back memories of my earliest childhood, and only my breathing mask saves me from trusting the tempting olfactory associations.
Latent insecurity.
I walk into the exhibition gallery without my breathing mask. The characteristic smooth aroma of varnish will not have dissipated entirely for a few days. I look at and touch the surfaces, sealed at last, of these amorphous volumes. Stored inside each one are things that acted on my consciousness before my systems of reference began to disappear. I feel their presence.
Pacific beings, volatile molecules, amorphous shapes, or potatoes?

I’m cooking.

Withelm Mundt