I purchased the three chairs from a furniture store without asking any questions about their origin, production, or care. Knowing that they are hand carved, mass produced, antique, or born that day makes no difference to me. In fact when the salesman tried to describe details about the chair I made a rude noise a shook my head. I simply like the look of these particular chairs.
I did add a fresh essence to each by dressing their flesh in a luscious coat of paint. I chose a white chair for its purity and clean slate, black for its mysterious pull, and the yellow for its child-like exuberance. Black is calming, like midnight in the summer-time. White encompasses little pleasures like the first bite of a perfectly ripe nectarine, and yellow is a ferris wheel. They are each a solid color, with no intentional variation in the paint, and they have no visible tattoos, text, or other markings.
The chairs are placed in the most “normal” position possible for the area. By this I mean that they do not seem out of the ordinary in their placement, and do not draw any extra attention to themselves. I don’t want the placement of a chair to be why it catches my attention.
I noticed during the opening that the few oblivious souls who sat on my art, did so in a proper, careful, and respectful manner. I don’t believe their behavior was because they appreciated the art. I credit the gallery setting for such conduct. In fact I’d be willing to bet that if I plucked those rumps out of the gallery and put them in their homes, they would act quite differently.
I have always been fascinated by chairs as they act as an extension of our butts. I find it endlessly amusing but I have yet to find another individual who shares a similar logic.
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