In six new canvases, Porter Post-Postmodern uses raw, organic means – his spit – to improvise a variety of motifs. The pieces of paper he spits on represent things that can be spit on, providing a cerebral, one may even say existential, field on which Porter scatters fragmentary drops of liquid…just like water splashing unpredictably on the spiritual shores of your reality and dreams and space and protons and stop reading I’m erudite.
The works’ shared title: “I’m spitting on a piece of paper…my rich aunt has connections in the art world and I need something to do,” is consistent with this incoherent show’s look and feel, reminding one of the surrealists’ conversations behind closed doors (when not spouting bullshit about the unconscious mind and chance): how the fuck are we getting away with this?
The art has a child-like, can’t communicate or shit properly in a toilet yet, feel, with cartoonish shapes, scenarios, and more shapes depicting a complex world of messy undergrowth, dirt, parasitic plants, and trash.
While there is a lot happening here, bullshitwise, Porter’s denial of explanation or context ensures that the works formal elements are at least as significant as their ostensible subject matter. What does that mean? Shhhhhh, poor sucker, shhhh, give me money and massage your idle ego, shhhh. In every case, the playful action takes place on a piece of paper, which is the background, on which the artist juxtaposes liquid forms (big spit, little spit, is that spit? No that’s the glare from the fluorescent light. Are you sure? No, why are we having this conversation? Because I want to understand this-There’s nothing to understand, it’s just a waste of-), and space on the paper. (Space, ah, space.) Surrounded by empty space, the droplets of spit engage the imagination, while making sure your faith in the world remains broken, distorted, and tainted.
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