The bent steel tubes worm their way into the skeletal structure of a chair. Straps of black-like leather bridge the structure, and enable a woman to hammock one bent arm on one bridge, lean back on two strips of leather, cross her legs along a sueded expanse, and plunge into a moment of postured repose. A chair and a woman sitting in the chair. It is hard to tell if she is enjoying this. Her lips purse into a smile. Her trunk and extremities are flesh, but her head—her head is made of brushed steel.
Bound in the tarnish of the steel head-case, her salivations would ooze metallic. Her excrement—likely born of grease, though not seen—articulates the space between the mechanical and the cellular, the way that her neck has to deal with both modes of being. The bent steel circuitry of the chair in which she reclines echoes the steel sphere that contains her neural kingdom. It is hard to tell, though, what is going in in that steel case of hers, since her eyes—large black dots that rest on shellacked-like white eye-shapes—beam out nothingness. Total blanks. Her nose panders to the rest of her face, a sculpted relief but of a material other than steel. Her nose doesn’t really matter. She rests in contradiction; the softness of her flesh body, the flow of her dress around her body form, the small blasts of her breasts, the bend of her elbow and her soft knee-caps all stand off against the rounded, texture-bereft form of her cranium and her utterly hollow, googley eyes. The knowledge her body contains and communicates dissolves in the face of her metallic head. Her eyes orient towards a spot to the right of the camera, her head turned just slightly more to the left than her body. Her flesh luxuriates in one moment while her head boggles and flits in an off-kiltering unknown. Her flesh, the leather, the bent steel frame of the chair and the way the leather strips give purpose and form to a tubular tangle of metallic amalgamations.
