Ladies and Gentlemen,
Step right in; Lift the Veil from your senses. You are about to enter a universe, but one supplementary to the one you’ve been living in. You have been waiting, we know. About time someone showed you the way to visions of a Paradise no one has ever entrusted you with.
Bill Fields, Bob Ruckman, Sam Taylor: three heroic figures, burning in order to redefine the meaning of heroic. The three together: you will know them by their tricolor: Purple, Shadow, and Echo.
Bill Fields: baroque stylist of the first order. At first we do not know that we are listening with our eyes, to Bach extending to this time his well- tempered fingers of multi-hued crayons. His mathematics are those of the alchemist. How Fields crosses, in the vein of Rimbaud, our conception of time with such velocity, is something he will never tell us. But it is for us to know.
Bob Ruckman: his starry night, controlled splatter contains oracles AND the Laws governing Exceptions— and when I say controlled, I mean the controlled volcanic splatter of a deeply enamoured and suffering Brahma, the King of all things in the fine splendor of this terrible universe.
Sam Taylor: his soundscapes underscore precisely what Andre Breton called for: feasts to be held in catacombs. The consecrated clang of keys to the House of the Original Memory, yet untaught harmonies, written in the key of the color of rainwater in Nirvana.
Ladies and Gentlemen,
Step right in. Lift the Veil from your senses. If you don’t know how, do not fret: this show about to begin will teach you. “Come this day and night with us and you shall know the meaning of all poems,” these poets are telling you.
