Colin Duncan
Digitalworld
First it was hours, then days, months and now years disappear in front of the computer. It is as insatiable as it is insurmountable. Day after day I throw out the net, into darkness of the pond, a slither of light here, some cast off resurrected from the mud there, all connected, all of interest.
It is a process of constant research, a linking of random connections bringing about random solutions. There is no defining point in art – it is all just process – pieces are shown not when they are resolved, but near enough some connectivity to the viewer.
The cloud, that the plane breaks through, a sign for a city below, like the graffiti on the back streets, full of imaginary projections.
Chat that is all too human in its banality, shorthand msg’s seemingly directionless, but spiraling in: a to b and back again.
Philosophic extracts: glib, beautiful, on generational refresh, like a starry night, the filmic edge of a planet, the crumbling of a cliff or leaves.
A digital image, found, re imaged, remade, returned.
