Spam Plaza: BRINK

Rose Higham-Stainton traces the brink as a liminal state—personal, social, chromatic. She summons, with near litanical urgency, the tipping point or personal brink, in time through an assemblage of thoughts and visual and literary cues, from religious liturgy, to James Baldwin to Quinn Latimer.

The lusty blossom brink of sticky fingers black print ink jet on the meat the water the vessel; of the daffodil’s yellow sweat and brown peel chrysalis; of the Passion Chorale’s can death thy bloom deflower? at Pascal liturgy in the draughty north aisle, south aisle, nave; and of the lamb’s coagulating blood; and of systems which will not hold you, will hold no body carefully but capital; and of colour subverting capital; and of the river swollen and yellow and the chimney stacks under the pearl sky; and of those yellow paint strokes he strokes, in smoky-yellow bistros and zinc covered counters; and of the yellow glow of the wine and the many dull colours of the oyster where the sun struck it; and somewhere else, the brink of a field of salt, a sky of salt. Sky as white as roof or field. As fault —whose fault?—an edge that folds; of future-made; of no tomorrows…

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