Every story appropriates just as every draft lies. In a sense, the very act of storytelling is a form of appropriation, a borrowing, and the process of drafting is tantamount to the process of crafting a lie. We know this. We can accept it. So why do we invariably return to art and to fiction for an approximation of the truth? What is it about the story, the painted landscape, the finely crafted illusion that emanates the distinct odor of certainty? How does a reveal, a mistake, or an illusion all become part of the same nebulous other place?
All of the art in Mind Storm evokes a sense of metaphysics, of visual riddles: Oliver Jeffer's calculated seascapes, Marcel Van Eeden's noirish meta-narratives, Shea Hembrey's rectilinear cheat-codes to the universe, and Robert Currie's articulation of vanishing points into a visual conundrum. The exhibition is an arrangement of psychic substance. All appropriated realities, to one degree or another, story-works, stealing what is real.
"He had decided long ago that no Situation had any objective reality: it only existed in the minds of those who happened to be in on it at any specific moment." - Thomas Pynchon, V