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La Conchita mon
amour takes place in the aftermath of a mudslide caused by devastating
debris flow in 2005, north of LA. Since then, this small town has
built, and continuously maintained and rebuilt, an improvised zone
of very personal shrines just off the coastal highway One.
What’s
the love part? Past participle. Pris-partie: to take part. To take
apart. It was an accident.
La Conchita: little shell. A swervy
curl riptide inside the Red Mountain Fault at the base of the Rincon.
Fibonacci-ing. Exquisite climate, you can live cheap, the Rincon
surf is perfect, surfers say, best above LA. You can live cheap
because the price you could pay for being there is your life.
The
sensuous surface whispers I am putting up with this, no you are
putting this up, we are in this together. Fatal nuance of the lusciousness
of everything, being in the lushness. In the heart of this, a lot
of black. As Nevelson believed, the nascence of everything, the
best color.
Their improvised, haphazard, profuse responses to the
mudslide compel some kind of mimicry on my part. La Conchita in
love: a state of continuous error, a 10 hectare mistake that keeps
pushing back up out of the dirt. The video as glossalallia, compulsively
trying to repeat a message—I love you, I love you, I love
you.
A subMerzian mission: make a large dark body of strange dark
photomontages, a cinematic video, nearly infra-thin drawings as/if
debris flow, an eight channel video installation, and various writings
including an essay and interview, and a small self published monograph.
I used hundreds of images shot over 15 months; many are lost in
the remix and in the darkness, as the impulse to strip things to
bare bones colludes with the archive. Swerve: lost things come
back.
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