One is straight away struck by the paucity of words availed to expound this chanced-upon poesis born in the crevasses of cultural hybridity and nourished in the no man's lands of ascetic transmutation...

Not for your amusement, but your edification | boomtown ports

How do such instances of vital sensibility sustain themselves in the ambiance of memory? Why do they impel us – call attention to themselves – like private graffiti dragged into the alleyways of interfaciality and interspatiality?

What can be supposed from these collectible emissions – as if children who demand to be seen and heard – and who denounce curatorial arts as bollix and play at what they do until their made to be sickened by the grovelling Contemporary Art charade and its growing ranks of Tupperware hosts...

What is to be drawn from these ethnographic galleries that mimic trade procedures of an early modern era when ridiculous breeds of men changed hands on the docks of cosmopolitan boomtown ports?

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