Tough and Tender
7 March 2020
Jess Cockerill, LCL, 2020, serving shells, expanding foam, chrome paint, glow-in-the-dark 3D paint, Cuddly fabric softener, silicone beads, dried parsley flowers, dandelion seeds, temporary glitter tattoos, diamantes, plastic gems, SNS ombre nails, scorpion nail charms, own fingernails, own hair (twined by Anna), haberdashery, chain, Easter shred, marine novelty erasers. Photo: Dallas Howell.
An exhibition about porous identities, pliable bodies, tough shells and tender edges. Curated by Anna Dunnill.
Carla Adams (WA) ~ Thomas Blatchford ~ Leonie Brialey ~ John Brooks ~ Jess Cockerill ~ Lill Colgan (WA/NSW) ~ Anna Dunnill ~ Hannah Gartside ~ kg [Karolina Gnatowski] (USA) ~ Kate Just ~ Grace McArthur ~ Danni McGrath ~ Kori Miles (Ngāti Raukawa) ~ Mitch Mitchell ~ Zamara Zamara ~ Athena Thebus (NSW) ~ Bras Tree ~ Paul Yore
~ Tough + Tender playlist by Thomas Blatchford, aka The Thomas Ferguson Band.
Thanks to Dallas Howell and Zamara Zamara for generously documenting the exhibition and event.
LCL
shells are some kind of home, some kind of body. when the snail secretes protein this binds to the ocean’s calcium, forming a hard mineral layer on their mantle. but they are not made of cells, and do not hold the snail’s DNA.
the snail’s shell delineates interior and exterior. and yet, the shell is made by unifying both worlds. it gives protection to the mollusc, but traps them, too. the narrow point of a conical shell was once the infant snail’s entire armour. the snail incorporates these old layers into their new shell continuously. a snail is always running from their own shell, their former iterations: the only way to grow, is out.
i can’t stop biting my nails, and i think it’s a way of checking i’m still here. creating a feedback loop with my own body, like pinching yourself in a dream. it’s grounding. you see your hands in almost every waking moment, they are the frames of your vision. the primary location of the self may be the head, but i think the self is also very much in the hands. we talk with our hands, eat with our hands, hurt with our hands, fuck with our hands. unlike shells, fingernails do contain cells, and DNA. once, we would’ve called them claws. they were our armour. but mine are blunt and bitten. they peel off if i let them grow too long.
my mother does not want to get into the water because it’s so cold, so instead she stands on the beach, waving her arms at me. i won’t get out. my fingertips are puckered, my body is losing the fight to stay warm.
‘we’re going to leave without you if you won’t come in,’ she threatens, as always. i duck my head under again, foetal position, and breathe out. i relax my muscles against instinct, become more similar to the sea, let go of all air. my body hangs between two lines: horizon and seafloor. the only thing i hear is the strange clicking of seasound. one day I realise this is actually millions of shells being ground, piece by piece, into sand.
we’re afraid of losing our edges, letting everything and anything in. losing our self in the onslaught. bleeding out. we’re afraid of being alone, too. getting all locked up. falling off the deep end into our own navels, our own fingernails. i don’t know the balance, except maybe that whole semi-permeable membrane thing our cells have going.
have you seen that weird scene from neon genesis evangelion, where everything falls apart? you should look up ‘nge freedom scene’ on youtube. imagine a cartoon without that line, that makes the ground. we like the ground. draw the line.
but now, you’ve lost one aspect of your freedom. you must stand on the ground.
without the monstrous ocean, the snail cannot form its shell. without the snail, the ocean has no sand. they draw each other’s line, together. calcium and protein.
