Gelitin
Sweatwat
Gagosian Gallery, London. UK
Last night, the moon shone green; the stars seemed to collide in the sky and angels, angels?? licked the salt from my eyes. Meanwhile in Kings Cross, I walked from street to street, I craweld the darkened streets, until eventually, I found what I needed. Outside on the street, I was waiting, they made me wait until the right number appeared on a screen, I thing they made me wait so I’d believe. Finally I got inside, and the rulers, the rulers asked me to sign a piece of paper, swearing to give up my rights to everything I’d ever thought or said or done or seen, saying that once I’d come in, I could never leave. It felt good to sign the contract, from now on, there was no going back.
After the legal issues were good and done with, I was escorted, by a security guard, to a wooden wall and ladder, then told frankly, “You need to climb up there” and told plainly, “It’s watery and pitch black up there” and given warning, “Just walk slow and careful and you’ll come to clearing”. In my mind, I’m a soldier. In my heart, the war is over. These steps I’m taking, these steps up through that great big MDF hole in the sky, I climb them, but I don’t know why. It’s an impossible situation, made concrete in this decadent gallery of ruins. In the dry zone, there’s an attendant. She attends me, dressed in a black swimsuit, offering a towel and place for all the things in my life that I no longer need. I take a moment to look about and see a bathtub above me, filled with water and a blurred naked body. I myself am now half naked, trousers were not something I needed. I wade through knee high water, into the main arcade to see what I can see. It’s a cacophony of anarchy. You have to climb up and over little mountains of old sofas and arm chairs to move forward. There are men walking around in hula skirts, women drinking cider and a strolling minstrel strumming his guitar. It’s a wet, wet hippy scene. Centre stage is giant sculpted nude personage, bending over backwards, dick sticking upwards and he’s taking a pee. Something resembling a cartoon gulliver rendered in a tone of plasticine. All these piss-ological, scatological images of deviance reminded me that I also required urinal relief. After climbing another make shift junk furniture mountain, I found a bathroom with mirrors on the floor so you can see the bottom of your scrotum as you wee. When you wash your hands, the water flows freely through a plasticine vulva, a pleasant way to stay clean. After that, I splashed through more water to the homemade sauna. The contraption was something akin to green meteorite, inside boiling water bubbled precariously just below my feet, the steam produced however, felt quite sweet. (Cedar Lewinsohn)
Catalogue "Gelitin's Sweatwat", Gagosian Gallery, London 2005
