Like a stalker, the London artist Quayola furtively moves between the natural and synthetic, finding his art in the interpenetration. Harmony and metamorphosis are the two key accents of his works. He reflects on the present flirtation of two worlds, hailing the beauty of the real, and the virtual.
The artificial elements surrounding the flowers of the Natures project become a part of a plant copying the plant’s quivering. In the Topologies, Velázquez’s “Las Meninas,” and Tiepolo’s “The Immaculate Conception” are almost abstract as they are pitted, wrought-up, and transformed beyond recognition. However, they are beautiful for they have been programmed by the harmony.
Chaos is the sterilized vassal of the universal mathematics, an organized albeit complicated emotion of the cosmic space. In the Bitscapes, the Australian coast mutates but it is not your video controller in agony or the decline of everything there is. It is the visualization of an Apollonic eye in its apotheosis. This eye gives birth to the civilization, sees an additional dimension of ways and potentials beyond the veil of things, and reveals a map of future images, forms, and structures under the firm reality. The human ability to see through the limits of everything available is the heroic feature of our entire biological species. It proves that we can develop the Universe’s design intelligently. Quayola is just a comprehensive explanation of how we could evolve from apes to humans. The artificial is our way to develop the natural.
There was a time when the incorporeal digital domain seemed a kind of a sucking vortex for the humanity yet it turned out that realities do not replace one another. They only intertwine, and renovate the global existence. No one is sucked into anything. Parallel to our “plunging” into the incorporeal ether, this ether “plunges” into our material routine. Ghosts step out of our monitors, and go walking in the flesh-and-blood parks. The border between the artificial and the real is becoming more of a rarified haze than a sharp line. In the relations between the artificial and the real, one continues the other. This is what neither Debord nor Baudrillard realized, them being two infantile neurotics who saw the peril to the authenticity where only other shores took shape.