Philip Iosca
Moment, Monument

Marh 15–April 14, 2013


Addressing the topic of gay bullying with a series of minimalist works, Philip Iosca presented HOPEFULLY I BECOME THE UNIVERSE at Pacific Northwest College of Art in 2011 to critical acclaim. Previous exhibitions include Water Sports at 12128, Portland; Eveything Matters All The Time Cleaners at Ace Hotel, Portland; Catch All, PDX Across The Hall, Portland; Amsterdam Biennial, Amsterdam and Portland; as well as an invisible monument for Car Hole Gallery in Summer of 2010. In 2011, Iosca published his book of poems, Ballad of the Sad Young Men.

Iosca is a graduate of Rhode Island School of Design and Weiden+Kennedy’s 12 Program. He lives and works in Portland, Oregon




Where are you, my lost love?



Here.



I'm here.



I'm with you in this room.



No, you're not.



That's already no longer true.



Help me.



I beg of you, help me.



Take my hand.



Yes, you were feeling better.



Hold my hands tight.



Yes, you'll get some sleep now.



Yes, you'll be beck on your feet for that Ackerson…



Where are you?



or Patterson…



whom you're to lunch with.



Don't let me go.



You know it's too late.



Tomorrow I'll be alone.



I'll find your room empty.



I'm cold.



You need nothing.



Not yet.



You don't know what came over you downstairs just now.



You don't remember quite what happened.



You hope you didn't cause a scandal, screaming like that.



When this man who may be your husband had gone,



whom you may love,



whom you will leave tonight forever, without his knowing it yet,



you packed some personal affairs



and prepared a quick change of clothes.



We agreed to leave during the night,



but you wanted to give one last chance



to the man who still seemed to have a hold on you.



I don't know.



I agreed to it.



He should have come.



He could have taken you back.



The hotel was deserted, as if abandoned.



Everyone was at the play,



announced so long ago,



from which your fainting had excused you.



I think it was --



I forget the title.



It was due to finish late.



After leaving you, lying on the bed in your room,



he went down to the little theater



and joined a group of friends.



He'd have to come up before the final curtain



if he really wanted you to stay.



You were dressed, ready to go,



and you sat down to wait for him alone



in a sort of hall or salon



that one had to cross to reach your rooms.



Out of some superstition, you'd asked me to give you until midnight.



I don't know if you were hoping he'd come or not.



For a moment, I even thought you'd told him everything



and arranged for him to meet you.



Or perhaps you were thinking



I wouldn't come.



I came at the appointed time.



The hotel grounds



were laid out like a kind of French garden,



devoid of trees, flowers,



or any kind of vegetation.



Gravel, stone, marble,



and straight lines



marked out rigid spaces,



areas devoid of mystery.



At first glance, it seemed impossible to lose your way.



At first glance.



Down straight paths,



between statues with frozen gestures and granite slabs,



where even now



you were losing your way



forever,



in the stillness of the night,



alone with me.




                                                       - L'Année dernière à Marienbad, 1961



 

                                   







FOURTEEN30 CONTEMPORARY
1501 SW Market Street
Portland, Oregon 97201
Friday        12–5PM
Saturday    12–5PM
and by appointment