Gestures.

It starts with four paintings, hung two by two at right angles, but really, one single piece. Let's call it "Eraser," with a slight pun, unintended, when you break the syllables after the 's'. It starts with four paintings that used to be the beginnings of a thought, an ill-thought mishmash of inadequate attempts. A gesture, sterile, but meaningful. Now a gesture, pregnant, but meaningless. Contextually meaningful, but empty of information otherwise.

See, it's about choices. It's about narrative. The empty statement of facts- meaningless gestures constructed in a linear fashion to become a history of what we were; the choices of interpretation.

There are no causes but the causes we make for ourselves, and these are often either random choice or consoling lies. We do and we don't, and then lie to ourselves to absolve us of having done or not done whatever we did: the reason comes after the action. It is post hoc ergo proper hoc.

So, empty gestures become meaningful because the witnesses to these gestures ascribe causes to them- the viciousness of a hurt animal, the emptiness of an ill-lit basement room, these become nodes in a narrative, and so we build a story around the harmless movement of particles in a vacuum, the soulless rearrangement of objects.

See, it's about narrative. It's about the lies we tell ourselves to keep going; or the lies we tell to tear ourselves limb from fucking limb.