Daniel Feinberg on Nadia Ayari’s Tongues, 2012
Teeth may be the only bones that show, but the tongue is the only muscle that streaks. Wet (and dry) like a flash, painting can be the sudden occurrence of immolation transfiguring the stubborn (and sweet) fuck face, mind, body, spirit. Even in spite of the tennis, the tongue, as natural a savage as the revolting wilderness whispering its own appearance in a square or sometimes rectangular form. Listening to George Michael’sFreedom, listening to George Michael’s Freedom, 2012. Yet we must convince ourselves that painting belongs to an invulnerable breed that subsists through the grace of innocence and guile combined in one gaze – a gaze that the all powerful real world is too weak to bear. Fantasy, anarchic luxury, in the purple, in the green, in the darker green. Tunis el Khadharaa and the Massachusetts summers, trans gender trans forever trans retail trans peace trans period. Leaves like commas, vaginas, and canoes. Leaving, oil on canvas and so much leaving until nothing, but oil on canvas. Awakening to the red spring of pleasure, politics. Basically a still life, waiting, for alien transmissions from another world of perverse refusal. The tongue’s memory, the tongue’s future. Sacred plagiary in geometry. The tongue’s memory, the tongue’s future. In between, we find paintings, who dream of this world but love life too much to be part of it.