Fan (Domestic Ponge)

Fan (Domestic Ponge)

Three curled blades with smooth graded edges and scalloped surfaces are locked in to a central revolving axis, so that they resemble the leaves of one enormous black clover. Air flows freely through the brick grill on the outside wall, through and around the fantastic triumvirate, not as in diagrams by way of ideal arrow directions, but in any way that air moves into an available space, and thus into the happy haunt of more meditative moments. In this place of airiness and light the artfully constructed clover takes on a cumbersome and utilitarian feel that can make someone uneasy or, at least, jolt them back to reality. All of this is very difficult to see because it is fitted with a circular plastic grid that is attached to the wall, both to obscure the vicious miniature reminder of the industrial revolution there in the very midst of domestic life, but also to repel all reminder of our more distant and even uglier victories over the insect queendoms. Lint and the singular mosquito have collected without choice along the finer parallels of this grid, leaving a murky look. Something very shadowy is back there, so keep the circle on. If the blades began rotating they would build in revolving waves until suddenly into wombly firmness spinning, into airy thinness beating. Adults do it, adolescents do it, even very tiny children with the assistance of special laminated lids do it, and after they’ve done it they will often go to the manoeuvrable dimple in the centre of the white gleaming plate near the door, switch it, and so ignite the jolly decent gyrations of the ornate triumvirate. Irrevocably another sitting of Parliament has dumped incredible rubbish down the system. Imperceptibly, the noisome Neapolitan pollution is sucked from the tiniest room. A pretty, laced sachet of lavender beads and a cute bowl of rose soap discs help recall more pleasant times. Also, clear daylight is seen through the wall for the first time ever, as the speed of the blades, already returning the place to some semblance of normality, is such that they vanish, giving the buoyant observer an insight into the wires and grids that keep the gadget going. Through the brick grill a hotchpotch of blue and fluffy clouds is in evidence, presumably wafting off with the unsightly odour.

[Circa 1991-92]