Wave
Steve Barry

WAVE

According to the Mayan Calendar, the world was to end. December 21 2012

It did not,

With time on my hands I began this body of work.

The Ourobus is an ancient symbol of eternal renewal. A snake swallowing it’s own tail. The Cycle (Homeric and otherwise) is an old saw made evident by a profusion of circles in my machines. Attempting to end the constant repetitions of Euclid while allowing a continuous path forward, I turn to the snake for guidance, Euler‘s spiral, sinuous in nature, is suddenly alluring. A dusty French curve, handmaid to the Beaux Art, rejoins the square and compass on my drafting table. The swells and peaks of the transparent template evoke the pleasures of a wave.

Rivers produce stationary waves. High velocity water obstructed by rock rises up in a glassy face that may be surfed. Carving back and forth, the rider plays gravity against the downstream current, neither the surfer nor the wave move downstream. Paradoxical pleasure is found in the equilibrium between ferociously fast water and hovering in one spot. Movement without change, the relationship provides everlasting renewal, undiminished by use. Wavelength, current, frequency, flow are all technical signifiers that refer equally well to rivers as to other forms of energy. Graphed they look like sine waves on an oscilloscope.

Minor artists like myself never fully escape the orbit of History. Maybe it is love, or for lack of trying. Standard stoppage, chocolate grinder and cinematic blossom; echo Duchamp. The slightly sour taste of forbidden fruit is a passion doubled. Reveling in optical delirium, hallucination, while deconstructing the illusion of our spectacle are ways of dealing with the thornier moments of our time. Waiting for an end that has yet to fully arrive.

Steve Barry