Chloë webster

 

About

Artist Statement

 

 

A Curious Limb

Props 4 a Show

 

Peep Show

 

No One Can Die in Disneyland

 

Speculation's a Fine Thing

 

Electro Deflecto

 

Cruisin' for a Bruisin' + Booty Call

 

Floater

 

Where Did All the Good Men Go?

 

Tweetie Pie

 

Ode

 

 

 

 

CV

Contact

Speculation's a Fine Thing

 

Wall-mounted collage and text

 

Aluminium coated wood, digital prints

 

2019

 

 

 

Oh, she’s helpless, hopeless, but most importantly VERY SEXY. She is a golden girl post-transmission but before the lens stands a form whose outline, or what we might refer to as skin, glows in a dark deep blue. In the midst of her tele-transformation she has been re-coloured to the intents and purposes of those who cannot understand that her true representation is far more charming. In these spaces, lighting draws the line between pleasure and necessity, mystification and clarification, comfort and fear. It delineates the form to its definition or to its spectral silhouette and either way there is something to be gleaned. The flesh of the filmic image is informed by the pixel of the viscous liquid in the photographic laboratory. Not only this but the age of pre-production has informed the manner in which post-production seeks to replicate it, the forms are not of the natural world but of the man-made material experimentation of slime, goo and muck.

 

The line between science and science blurs as they become like a snake eating its own tail. One feeds into the other and fiction inspires science to discover what it might be capable of, and science feeds the very foundation of its fictional counterpart. Our differentiations between what science is technically, metaphorically and speculatively capable of and what we form in terms of fantastical fiction are exchanged and blurred in said exchange.

 

But why must it be that the landscape is beyond us all, defining our perspective and making it horizontal? The linear boundary around us might appear to undulate but it is stagnant. Area 51 is interchanged with ASDA and suddenly they are selling hats with the slogan “E.T. Call me” on sale for a great deal less than I paid on the open road back in America. Now what? This globalised horizon makes me feel as though it’s all a hoax anyway. Perhaps that force never chose to channel my flesh for communication but I desired it so badly that I somehow created a vibration throughout my bones and convinced myself that there was something else, an alternative, another mode of being. But alas, I fell for it and the capital tongue spoke to me in such dulcet tones that I ended up with a material memento instead of realizing that it was within my power to create this alternative.

 

It is at this point in our intergalactic journey that we come to the realization of how science fiction and fantastical writings have expanded the bounded earth and rendered it two-fold. The queerness of life is clearly more communicative than the linear dynamism of a graph. Where science fails, costumes provide the pizazz and elocution necessary to dictate a hopeless, apocalyptic monologue in a manner that makes you laugh rather than cry. Criss-cross, clash and sparkle, the scene is a set rather than a morbid reality that we deconstruct at will. Carbon fiber is covered in leopard print and buttons are simply diamanté studs. Function must at some point sacrifice itself to glamour to keep us from total and utter insanity. With the help of stylists, we begin to understand the true force of gravitational pulls, not towards a black hole but toward Black Friday.