brian david dennis

In my window, a bed of analog television sets hovers just above the floor. Tuned to static, their screens cast restless light across the room while their power cords climb toward the ceiling. A roughly tiled photograph of gray curtains occupies the back wall: an ordinary domestic boundary enlarged into a blocked horizon.

 

The installation turns retreat into architecture. The televisions form a luminous cocoon, protective yet airless, while their static substitutes signal for contact. The work considers the bargain made by a frightened psyche: the world can be held at a distance, but safety obtained through isolation becomes another form of confinement.