Household presents ‘No Time To Die’ by Pierre Mukeba. Opening January 17, 2025.

Household presents an interactive solo exhibition by Pierre Mukeba. A meeting of Pierre’s painted works with steel and aluminium mechanisms — that slam, spin and shutter. Sound spills from their movement, created by the touch of the viewer.

“Command your mind to turn around and take 3x paces back, then move. Call upon the beatitude of 5x Bruce Lees to guard your aching animal back while you reach into the supraliminal for the physical and non-physical tools needed to complete your mission. A glittering cutlass is among them. Cleanse with fresh-cut roses as needed. No time to die.”

SHOWING
17 January 2025 to 14 February 2025
97A Hindley Street, Adelaide 5000

Words by Marianne Astrid Close

I. The beauty of the individual is lost on the group. Thereby, the collective will eat it's own head if so served. A malevolent sprite tugs gleefully at this thread.

II. The agony of metal work is an acoustic one. Do you hear the slams? Do you hear them again? Eyes fly open and frequency floods in. The dynamic mind perches on the shoulder like a parrot, hearing phantom slams long after the performance ends. What harrowing noises can be felt in our most secluded nerves, in the privacy of the form? What of our being resides there? Are we to abide the absurd notion that our bodies are unaltered by this frequency? What of the words that travel straight though us? What of the images that burn into our memories? What of the absolving touch? Sparks roar upwards and kiss the heels of heaven. Cycles of labour and violence become indistinguishable. A young black boy pumps water in the beating sun of the Tongogara and bears his unabated heart with a saccharine innocence.

III. Jouissance, a Lacanian derivative, is a transgressive pleasure. It's a pleasure so vast that it bleeds into non-pleasure. It's the pleasure of a stubbed toe, of a hot-cheeked humiliation. It's the precarious screech of a Hitachi want on a cello that crawls pleasantly down the spine. It's the bursting mean that breaches our submerged pain when a single razor blade is dragged across the skin. It's toiling over a manuscript in secret. It's the buried treasure of the trenches. It's madly pining, it's erotic hate. It's laughing along with the windows down to our own earthly torment. It's crying (crying!) over a botched canvas and the 36-hour workaround to correct it that though gruelling, can only lead to the exaltation of our talents. It's the masochistic twist of life, the last sip of a martini. None of this is easy. The death drive is the veiled drive for purpose and it not purpose; death. Anger tilts the wheel toward the median strip. Satisfaction begins in the quotidian. Jouissance is our smiling subversion of the death drive and into the fruit of Eros. No time to die.

IV. The ego exits to confront impossible tasks with sheer willpower. If you do not intend to make great art, nor to catalyse newness in the world, go ahead and have a docile ego. Cut the tall poppies around you. Resign yourself to mediocrity. View it as inevitable and loudly inform everyone as such. But if you intend to walk right past the perilous forces and to ripen your art to the layered cadence of your own bodily satisfaction - Ego, baby, ego! You're a 007 agent now. There's no better day than today to make your best art yet. Put on your Oakley's and let nothing stop you. No time to die.

V. Bonus spell: Command your mind to turn around and take 3x paces back, then move. Call upon the beatitude of 5x Bruce Lees to guard your aching animal back while you reach into the supraliminal for the physical and non-physical tools needed to complete your mission. A glittering cutlass is among them. Cleanse with fresh-cut roses as needed. No time to die.