Julieanna Preston ±
Language is a substance. Like sound, in sound, of sound, from mouth, lips and belly. It is a flight of fancy, endearing and violent.
Language is a material substance. Ink, paper, paint, graphite – one material surface inscribed onto another, leaving a mark of its somatic utterance. I crush, slice, dribble, hurl, cull, smother and steam words just as I do clay, timbre or silk fabric.
Language is a performance. A temporal situated ecology of breath, gesture, emotion, aurality, acoustics and bodies, specific bodies. It will not just rest on the page idly; it flings itself out of my grasp, my gasp, stutter, mumble and sob.
Language is a system susceptible to subversion, corruption, and revolution as much as it is a subservient shackle to authority, power and propaganda. Sometimes muteness says it well.
Language is a social contract, the glue that holds me together to you and you and you, when it works. And when it doesn’t, we are on the outside, lost.
Language is a compositional improvisation spun through the teeth as much as the cursive stroke, one biting, one caressing. Its bitterness and acidity are sweet and seductive, and vice versa.
Like love, language is often not enough.