Nice try, Donald. Or should that be nice assay. Which is, perhaps, the best that can be said of any of our efforts to contain. It's a tall order. This lending of shape to memory. This living on the never, never. With its constant attendants - risk, foreclosure. The nature of the beast. It's beastly nature. And when it's 'furniture'... Well, how can you... Begin... to say... to measure... words: worth 17 cents each, after all. If they can find passage, that is. Aboard vessels bound for (to?) contemporary arts discourse. Or does 'furniture' mark a limit, a line... of glowing buoys? It's problematic. Tempting to put it in the too hard (basket-weaving?) basket. To shy away from... not to risk... running... aground: forget process and materials for a moment. In fact, we're told almost nothing about them in the catalogue. As if they were immaterial. Just this one bold word, chosen to stand out amongst the teeming masses of them. Why this one? Chosen. To represent. Meaning: 'on the ground; stranded; a nautical term applied to a ship when its bottom rests on the ground for want of sufficient depth of water.' Why this one? This word that breaks so easily. Fractures. In two. Into: a ground. With its almost audible shift. In meaning. In the craft. Rubbing along the bottom. Straining to get into deeper water. To return to: 'dust, earth... the gravelly bottom of the sea; ...region; territory; land; estate; possession; field; ...the basis on which a thing rests; ...the foundation of knowledge, belief or conviction; a premise ...originating force, agency or agent.' Or to nudge a little further. Towards: '...surface worked upon in painting, etc., undecorated part, prevailing colour or tone'. And then. A gain. A movement. Into an (im?)possible form. Of music: 'The tune on which descants are raised; the plain song'. Or an even more unlikely shift. Into theatre. Into: 'the pit of a play-house'. Although Donald would probably prefer that to be 'the gods'... aground: representing paradox. Movement. Plotting a course. A departure. From craft conventions. Through those conventions. A bit of a tease. A touch of irony. Ambiguity. A hint of self-mockery. Or it might be self-importance. Ah yes. There's a lot to be said for naming (424 words already). It's often the first place we look. And the last. Doorways. Texts written within or on the main body of the text: transmitting a strong signal that challenges its reception solely on the grounds of 'furniture'. It installs itself well and truly in the littoral: that highly charged, over-exposed buffer zone of personal, cultural and natural associations, just waiting to be combed... For these words, for instance. Drawing attention to themselves. Right here on the page. Taking on form. Shaping and reshaping themselves into a fleeting kind of materiality. A shoal of them. Gliding along. Smooth. Quiet. Coming alongside the stranded craft. Broadside. So to speak. Suggesting an attack. Maybe a betrayal. Or friendlier: a rubbing. Up against. What they remember. Re-membering it. Each and every one has gone (to) aground. Touched it, in a sense. Which is how we get to read them. Each one. Different. Like this bold one here: bask. Beached whales or other cetacea? Look at the picture in the catalogue. Almost no information about scale. What do you see? Something you can wear on your lapel? Or lure (fish?) with? Sink(er) or fly: the exquisite trappings of trapping. Still more: exquisite creatures of the sea. Or try crossing. Make a b-line for that red centre piece. That sand. Speaks heaps. One need hardly go any further. Without risking, failing, falling into an ocean. And not even the familiar one of memory. Running out. Its here that it gets really interesting, depending on your point of view. Because, you see, here is the ultimate irony built in ('furniture'): termites! Hard to believe. But they'Õre there all right. Larger than life. In those mounds. Supporting those massive wooden grids. Lodged there at the (dead?) heart of all that serious work, hard work, long work. All that toil... soil(ed?). Very unsettling. Conjuring nature's little deconstructionists like that. But did the artist mean to? There's definite signs of fecundity to be seen here, too. In unorthodox couplings. Like bask. Showing off. Provocative. Sexy. Smooth. Skin. Almost necking in public. And (dys?)functional families. Like scorch. Impossible to hide behind. A screen? Or cloned individuals. Like assays, buoys. All resembling each other whilst still managing to stand alone. In fact, it's tempting to see batch product here. But then again, the only thing that looks really mass-produced are those high-rise grid patterns. Cast. Light and shadow. Dazzling. Plays. On the wall. Like Manhattan remembered before you've even been there. So, where are we after collecting all these washed up words? Still aground. A bit stuck. Certainly not going anywhere, for the time being. Any damage? Possibly. But it's difficult to see, half-submerged like that. What we can see looks highly polished, master-crafted, refined... re-find... found... found(ry)... bronzed... Aussies... Bask: in the latest shades of metallic lycra, of course. Off course. A risk of getting scorch(ed)? A bit too expensive perhaps. Dirt cheap next to a car. Which is where you might have to keep it. In the garage, that is. A second home would be better. Preferably by the sea. With high ceilings. And lots of space. Or something a bit more public, perhaps. Like a gallery. A permanent collection. Ah... the familiar smell of mothballs. There's no doubt about it, the market is limited here. Plenty of space. But no-one's got any money for this sort of thing. Still thereÕs always America. If you can overlook the dangers, the costs, of shipping... So, we're at sea again, are we? Risking. Running... aground again. Well, it's about memory. After all. Wading in. A fluid, transparent medium. Which is really saying something. About materiality. About furniture. Gone... aground. In a big space. A tomb. Dare one mention an overpowering (ab)sense. Of loss? Or the need/desire to fill it. If one must. By appearing. To fill it. With masses of perfectly square holes, laser-cut, burnt-out. Boxes. Made ofÉ Nothing but space. No dovetails full stop. Definitely for the birds. Dead ones mostly. Washed up. On the beach. aground. What... again? There's no escape from thisÉ 'Time gentlemen, please!' Ok. I'll buy it. Even though I can't afford it, have nowhere to put it (except in Theory). So, we're on a beach. Or it could be desert. Sands. Shift. Dune. Forms. buoys you can almost miss. Mistake them for merely lighting. Merely. How can you say that about lighting? For seeing. For finding your way. After all. No. For remembering. Remember? Is there a difference? Could be... The coast. All mapped out. Ordered. Scene through. Grids. Filters. For seeing... weighing... (anchor?)... But you can't see memory. You probably can't even have memory. It's more a matter of furnishing memory. And why (on earth) you would want to. Which depends on how much time you want to spend there. And how comfortable you want to be. And then again, if you were to leave it bare. Abandoned looking. Unfurnished, if you like. But this is not what the artist intended, surely? This is an entirely different sight. A demolition site. A re:construction site. In sight of... Still other places to go for getting... off for getting... on for getting... going... going... going...