Front

To face something is to have no background left.

Front holds on a single plane, seen head-on, with no depth of field. There is nowhere else to look: everything that happens, happens on this plane.

A limit advances across it, as on a burning page: on one side, the intact paper; on the other, the ash, which keeps the shape of the page and is no longer one. Between the two, a line of fire that transforms everything it crosses. From one work to the next, what changes is the shape of this line: smooth, notched, branched.

The figure has been removed. What remains are the instruments: a colour chart, a ruler, the edge of a plate. What served to measure has entered what it was measuring.

Standing one’s ground, in the face of an illness: one does not choose what happens; one advances with it. Some wounds remain, others close, and this sorting gives its shape to what one becomes. What has passed does not return.

A front is not waiting to give away. It advances.