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Exhibition Text
Thomas Greig & Lewis Henderson: Any More?
Limbo Limbo, London

Written on the occasion of Any More?, a duo-exhibition of new work from Thomas Greig & Lewis Henderson at Limbo Limbo, a studio provider and project space in Peckham, South East London. 

The creative text was inspired by each artist’s fascination with the process of filtering: of shifting through visual and physical clutter—whether on the market-stall tables or online image-boards—and the creative will to choose that is engendered through this sensory overload. 

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Extract —

    “The oily and taut belly of the market-trader protruded from under a stained white vest, dripping with an obnoxious liquid. As their leer reached upward, they were confronted with further unspeakable horror. Where there would have usually sat a human face, was simply a blank rind of pale flesh. Its only visible details the stretch marks that pulled the oval mass of skin back in on itself. The stretch marks too had a sort of wicked energy to them: they rubbed and graze against one another, as if itching a sore rash. The crowd had now grown to an insurmountable number, entering a frenzy. The swarm soon resembled a furious live chat: a rapid succession of bodies spontaneously emerging at its head, with those at the bottom sunk beneath its weight and crushed. Their eyes were all catatonic. As the sun set behind the stall a peculiar yellow gloom engulfed the sprawling market. Traders began shuffling endlessly between one another. Tables vanished and appeared, each home to a preying mass of bloodshot retinas.

    The street’s cartography stretched from 1:1 to infinity. As the fabric of the air ripped and tore, the wild oscillations of a black and white substance enmeshed in their own molecular activity was revealed. Entangled and disjointed, the limbs of the crowd now levitated at least a foot from the ground. They pulsed like a jellyfish. The intensity of their stare had begun to seize control of the monster, a coordinated and collective gesture of the audience-body could cause the monster to lurch from one direction to another. The squirming face of the market trader convulsing inward like a black hole. Spasming, he coughed forth a nugget of fresh mucous, green with bubonic shades. It slumped on the table, whining and helpless.

    With a click of ⌘F3 the scene shot back into the distance, joined by seven other variable wormholes: a pdf of his personal artist portfolio; several unfinished TextEdit doc coloured with turquoise and yellow highlights; a pirate copy of The Gagosian’s The Show Is Over catalogue. With a second click he was launched forward at incredible speed. Everything around him submerged into a deep crimson red. In an instant, nothing else had become intelligible, just limitless and pure colour. Hesitant for a moment, his finger gravitated in its former position. But soon the feeling was simply overwhelming. Staring into his glowing screen, he fell into it, like you would a fever, or a daydream.”

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