GLITCH V

GLITCH V

Its field is overcrowded with fragments that seem
to have survived an event we were never meant to witness.

Scratched geometries, grids and damaged symbols
repeatedly approach the condition of language,
then collapse before language can claim them.

Nothing becomes fully readable. 
Nothing feels entirely accidental.

The yellow leaks through.
At times it gathers into marks that resemble icons,
coordinates, fragments of an alphabet,
perhaps instructions from a reality whose grammar
does not survive translation into ours.

Two small white squares preserve concentrated flashes
of yellow and orange at distant points in the field.

They feel like surviving pieces of an interrupted system.

Enough to imply intention.
Never enough to reveal it.

Black does not represent darkness.
It consumes territory.
Forms disappear into it.
Sequences are interrupted by it.

The result is not emptiness but a peculiar kind of pressure.

And withholding produces its own form of desire.
The forbidden has always understood this.
So has seduction.

Complete access ends speculation;
partial access multiplies it.

GLITCH V repeatedly brings the eye close enough
to believe that another fragment might complete the system,
then denies the satisfaction of completion.

Eventually something changes between the painting
and the person standing before it.

You stop merely observing the field and begin searching it.

There is something almost indecent about the human inability
to leave the inaccessible alone.

A locked room becomes more seductive than an open one.
A censored sentence acquires greater psychological weight.
Intimacy without access.

Revelation permanently one gesture away.

The yellow symbols… 
those brief luminous icons emerging from the red may belong
perfectly to an order of reality that does not include us.

Then the question: “What does this all mean?”,
becomes almost embarrassingly human.

Meaning assumes that whatever exists there
was created for our comprehension.

It assumes that our intelligence is the appropriate instrument,
our language the appropriate container,
our perception the appropriate scale.

GLITCH V offers no such reassurance.

The field continues operating without us,
leaving just enough evidence to make disbelief difficult
and certainty impossible.

Somewhere inside GLITCH V, 
something remains unresolved.

Not absent.
Unresolved.

Perhaps GLITCH V is not withholding its meaning from us.

Perhaps we are the thing being decoded right now…
by the questions we cannot stop asking.