“Ah,” I think, “it’s the credits. I’ll just watch so I start at the beginning.” Names scoll, white on black, and they continue to move from top to bottom on the wall, then slide out of sight. I recognize a few. I wait… My anticipation does not diminish when I read on the checklist: EJ Hill “Every Artist I’ve Ever Wanted to Have Sex With” 2012 video edition 1/3, in fact my desire to watch… evolves: now I wait to see the names of friends and acquaintances – oh, him for sure, yep – check, this one too.
I sit on the cool floor, still watching and now writing. The player hums (is this sound as material to the work as the click-clack of film projectors? I think so.)
Jonathan Apgar, Danny Escalante… Hmm. I don’t find any celebrated names – while famous, any of these people the artist could have met. Is sex too intimate for stars? When called upon to make a list, would I think if people I can touch, or would I think of dream figures whom I idealize?
Again I think of movies, of the cinema (I see that Collin Pressler is last and James Cackovic is first) and I recall my pleasure when sitting in the theater, watching the credits roll: “I have seen something,” I would think, “and now I have a moment without input, and before reflection; or, “In a moment I will see something, and I don’t want to rush ahead.”
I savor the in between-ness of this piece. Before me, behind me, desire is often a thing I can’t grasp.
Writing from Chung King Road, Geoff