How many exhibition works:
Under clear, magenta skies they choose to settle, nursed by the shade of passing trees. Warmth still lingers in the grasslands, but the day is fading fast. Shadows of nightwings flicker over the hay, swooping into branchy nests.
Step lightly, take care of the amoeba underfoot. Leave no trace. The pitter patter of pseudotoes echoes down desire paths, between the shallow groves. Time glides with no familiar route ahead, and dappled light scatters like so many marbles over the blueish plains. The sun is falling, auburn rays shine over swathes of caterpillar reeds, their eyes peeping into the beams of lastlight. Cat tongues uncurl from bleary faced cocoons, eager for the night, for a taste.
Orbs wait above a lake, rolling in place, humming an absent minded tune. A purr of regeneration dances on the air currents, charging the lake below. In between contented rocks, jewel water flows, giving life to uncommon lands. Fur laden tracks lead away, soggy from the fuchsia puddles, fluffy ends squeezing into secret mossy holes.
Look down. Fleshy cups, suckered at the rim of the lake spit pearls along the shoreline. Hungry mouths gape, teeth brace, swallowing dusk. Lichen bubbles between a chorus of drinking bristles; the body hair of this earth. Life is not just surface-bound and sensible. It rains onto the ground, sunstained, settling to graze on this rich mess of violet roots.
Don’t touch the wildlife; take it for what it is.
New and unexpected stars yield an entangled bond, shifting form when seen or unseen. That which happens, happens here, between each button paw, each craggy horn, each stalking eye. It plays out all at once, under the trail of the moons.
Can we ask of hills and waters, or sing of bracken and fungus? They murmur into each other’s ears. They come down over a cliff face in a river of slime and leaf-fall, tumbling into the reflection of a low pool.
Here, in the age of unconquered pasture; the wind grazes an unembraceable heaven; a shyer blush of pink and blue. Rosey hills fold neatly, with an orange sun hurrying to set between them. The beings beneath its gaze continue, undisturbed, as they always have.
They rest. Their silence whispers, off you go now, this place was never meant for you.
Text by Charlotte Cole
Kenji Lim is a British artist based in Essex and born in Singapore. Lim studied Sculpture at the Royal College of Art, London (MA - 2017-2019); and the Ruskin School of Art, Oxford University (BFA - 1999-2002). Lim works through sculpture, video, digital collage, installation and painting. His work reflects and refracts the experience of landscape through the prisms of culture, myth, philosophy, and the metaphysical; returning the gaze of Western cultural norms through the eyes of other-than-human actors. Part archaeological, part Fraggle Rock, he navigates alternative modes of seeing and understanding the world and its inhabitants. Lim’s work is shown internationally, including recent exhibitions Tourist at Galerie Reinthaler, Vienna, and Perishing Thirst at Quench Gallery, Margate. He is currently an Acme Work/Live Artist at High House in Purfleet, Essex.
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