2024
A clock stuck at 9, a measurement of change in stasis. I saw Marclay’s Clock on Thanksgiving. Elderly lady sat next to me in the dark viewing room giggled every time a clock appeared, as if the second hand tickled her and that time is a titillating, tantalizing matter of sensuous proportions. It was horrifying to be hurried out at 5:30pm, the gallery closed early. Having spent 5 hours in a dark room watching a clock. It does not evade real time by constructing an imaginary time to capture you, helping you escape. No story is shown long enough to be immersive, constructive, and instead the film created a nightmare of the worst kind, a lucid dream. I didn’t kill time seeing The Clock, time killed 5 hours of me and made sure I’m awake and aware for every second of it. The word “watch” came from Medieval watchmen that warned the safe passage of time, free from intrusions. I was constantly watching my watch, checking to see if Marclay had allowed in any asynchronous intruders.
Cornered in no matter where I look, and round every corner a careless cacophony of signs and symbols that points to nothing but themselves, endlessly self-referential; as the clock perpetually moves from the 14th second of 9 o’ clock to its 15th second, a.m. or p.m. it does not reveal—it forms a perfect shape. False exits and doors that lead nowhere, windows that become mirrors at night. A terrible sunrise, the worst and most silent of clocks, overpowering the projectors and the lamps, its coming to kill the chairs, it’s coming.