all that we cannot see
by casey callahan and marlon kroll
After working so hard and for so long, I dream of rest. I crave respite from this madness, from the tedium, of ambition, of urgent desires. I ache for that which needs no explanation, whose joys require no legend.
Art might be that simple treasure. It is a window into what we cannot see, a brush with what lies beyond our reach. It is a form born of necessity, compelled by spirits stubborn and ineffable. It is an altar and a prayer, a divine transmission. It is that fragile thing we cannot ourselves contain, a cup that bears the ocean, the part that holds the whole.
I long for an art that needs no language; perhaps I have already said too much.
[Daytime. A large, brightly lit room. White walls, white floor. The ambient glow from a central skylight illuminates the space. The warbling of Finnish birds floats through the air, lilting echoes on a timeless field.
Small drawings by Marlon Kroll rest upon the gallery walls. They appear as spiritual transcriptions, cosmic neumes. Waxen surfaces teeming with hues far too ecstatic, forms far too enlivened, to be contained by their modest bounds; they seep into the ether.
Casey Callahan’s crystal beads hover in silent reverie, an invisible forest sown on virgin grounds of white. Gradients of soft color and mathematical grace; a thousand grains of sand falling from heaven, in perfect order, landing right here, right now. Meditations on presence, teetering on the brink of dissolution, blink and they vanish.
Marlon has given us the murmurings of birds from another time. He calls it Sound of Music.
Casey has made the floor white, unbound all edges, creating a positive void of light. She calls it Infinity.]
