Curated by Sean Boylan
April 11 – May 9
I sit on a bed and look down at a screen. I have just daydreamed about something forgettable while staring at the pattern on Stan’s shirt.
A bird’s eye view of Stan posing in a somber stance swiftly changes to a belt buckle height view of the Lieutenant walking and talking with Rico, Trudy and Sonny. The florescent lights behind them make dramatic angled horizons that wrap around and frame the characters in my focus.
I am back in the heat of the dialogue. Trudy, who stands to the right of the Lieutenant, shares info she just scooped, and peels off to her right. Her blue dress has this specific cut. The fabric opens at the arch of her back and casts a parabolic frown that mimics the shape of the Lieutenant’s downturned mustache.
I look up to my right at some painted clouds on a poster. I zone out for about a minute.
Sonny and Rico now walk through a lobby of what looks like a big city commercial building. They approach a monitor that is situated at their waist level on some sort of table. The screen is angled up to face them. Rico points at the device, and just then green letters appear across its matte black surface. The verdurous typeface spells out company names and office numbers. Sonny wears a gold watch and has purple sleeves.
I am now close up to what seems to be a women’s left hand filing the nails on her right hand. There are many women next to and around her. Each speaks into a telephone in a sultry tone. Suddenly, I focus on one women who, besides speaking on the phone, is bicep curling a small free weight. She wears a sleeveless yellow shirt and a tattoo of an indecipherable image on her shoulder and arm. I stare at many foreshortened women. One catches both my eyes because she seems so carefully positioned. She has a large perm and advances her left hand fingers at a specific pace through the tan curly chunky chord that connects her receiver to the listener on the other line.
A new woman appears sitting at her desk alone in an ostentatious office. There is large cursive font on a wall adjacent to where she sits. She appears more prominent than each of the previous women because she sits by herself at her own desk. I see only the left side of her. She reaches to her left and shuts a glass door. I regard the solitary desk woman from her right side, and simultaneously at a three quarter angle. She is foreshortened. Behind her and through the glass door I spy a single foot.
Caprice presents the work of London based artists Nicole Morris, Robert Rivers, and Sarah Pettitt.