St Just

Sam Hain

Here is St Just.

An aggregated mess of incestuous overlay.

Scorn dressed as form.

Knee deep.

Look, piles of trophies and confections hewn from ancient technologies, paralleling histories and toothless fictions.

Observe the dowsing rods and Parthian batteries.

Herein are the fairy folklorists, jackdaws, magpies!

Whole murmuring persuasions of neopagan plot, armoured in the ornate lore of pretence.

I can describe them because I’ve seen them.

Swollen in rags or shrivelled into hats, wrapped around whirring steam technology, shrouded in the reeking smoke of burning sage and caramel vape.

Make a note.

They are the kleptomaniacs of massive cosmic misappropriation.

Mind-bending malapropism.

A self-fulfilling admixture of structural and wishful projection.

Very comfy.

Detours and mutations.
 

Written on the occasion of Steven Claydon's solo show of the same name at Kimmerich, Berlin. See 'exhibitions'