More than any material foam interrupts the sanctity of emptiness and absence.
Does an artist have the right, the voice, the purpose to assail that emptiness?
Is speech voiced in material inevitably mute? Foam lays it bare.
Foam carries no authority, no cultural history (naked as it is here). It is devoid of romance and its existence fills us with guilt about man as pest.
These blocks are sound walls that cut the silence that is already there. While you can slice the air with a quip, can foam equip?
Their scale, their simplicity, their rough human subject make all these questions beggars.
And starvation was a necessary condition to bring us here.
Long live the void.
Should the author appear in the work?
Is there a human condition that has not already been amply represented? Are we now new?
Are we as an entity singular, or attached, as part of another? For how long?
Our task is to find a voice that is as ancient as it is modern. After modern, came all things. In what conditions do those things prosper?
We can be no more than what we are, which is
Foam is nothing. The bigger it is, so does nothing enlarge.
As it builds, it gags. Its particles clag the lungs.
It was made to be cast adrift, landings for boat people who could float forever. Made for flotsam's gain, to be confused with shark eggs and to provide siblings for sea foam.
Foam was made, like porcelain, to be broken. Naturally, it comes in shards , blunt, if you are sharp enough to pick them up before they blow away.
Foam is the nothing from which too much not should not be made.