Give me my robe

Put on my crown

I have immortal longings in me

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At the Cannes Film Festival in 2022, Carla Bruni endorses Bulgari’s latest collection of emeralds. She tosses her head back and reclines into a lounge under the pavilion. “J’adore vapoter’’’. She loves to vape, yet a cigarette rests between her fingers. She eventually draws a light to the cigarette and after a deep inhale, exclaims: “Aaaaaah. I love a real one!” This house of mirrors effect that occurs when the sun shines through an emerald is alluring. The unique step-cut along its crown and pavilion cause a kaleidoscopic array of green, internal reflections that stream outward.

 

In the LAILA gallery, I follow the six-pointed symmetry that draw hexagonal lines from the window to each of the four uncut pieces. Here we are enclosed in the heart of an emerald. Cracked open, the three-fold nature of an emerald is revealed in Liam Costar’s Fitting robe; liquid, gas and solids are at once enclosed in its blue chasm. Shards of amorphous gestures frozen in a drunken dance. Striped like burnt matchsticks against a nebulous haze of smoke. I pull apart the rectangular frame of the cut emerald.

 

The illusion of vibrant colour bleeds out, revealing one, two, three properties constituting its glow - chromium, vanadium and iron. The pervasiveness of touch impressed upon the textured earth in End of Endlessness mirror the green formed by chromium and vanadium. Iron is what induces emerald’s uniquely blue tint. Absorbing the sun’s heat, a real emerald’s colour remains intact regardless of exposure. IRONLAND radiates this untouchable strength with its formidable presence.

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My eyelids are rose petals and this sandy towel is my bed. Green dots roll in like marbles as I blink away the sun’s flames. The green dots oscillate in undetermined inquiry, then merge into a solid hue that flattens as the sun descends upon the horizon. Wisps of wind whirl like white halos, tinkering in a stream of darkness.

 

Andre’s Wax Shadow reveals itself along with my reflection. It slips away insofar as my arm extends, remaining as elusive as the translucent reality lost in the house of mirrors. A framed cut of reality is a commonplace incision. Like taking a photo, choosing the least bruised banana from the bunch, or decidedly loving someone against all the rest. Wax Shadow is not a framed incision upon reality, rather, it's a step aside to let it in. I hold a flame to the shadow. Immortal longings of a constant that is real, certain like the stars in the sky, is barren in my mind. There is no real constant to hold on to - even stars die.