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A LIANG CHAN

A LIANG CHAN


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2024

For the new/old year.

text: someone once told us that someone once told them that biting through a carrot was like biting off a finger. sometimes, we rest a finger between our teeth and dream of a life as something sharp and cunning— panels show ambiguous models of four-legged animals, finger bones, teeth, a view of clouds through a window. text: gleaming eyes and sparking nerves and coursing veins, emerging from places deep beyond surveillance cameras and multilane highways and stock markets. (something so perfect so as not to need to reshape themselves with their teeth.) panels show the darkness beyond the trees, ancient depictions of wolves, a set of sharp teeth, a border of neurons. text: we lay down the traps. we gnaw off our legs. we can't sleep and in the glow of our phones at 1am we type "do animals really bite off their legs in traps". we read through a long list of creatures in a tongue neither of us should have to be named. panels show a fang, a knife, a framed landscape painting, mouths shaped to different sounds. text: the veil grows thin, the storm looms on the horizon. the shape of the beast draws near in the fog. one of our teeth aches in the cold, and we imagine each one falling out like seeds into the dust. panels show a widening view, a cracked eggshell, lightning & heavy mist, an ancient rabbit carving. text: our rooms settle around us like a new coat, elaborate tombs to be unearthed a thousand years later. we feel each joint in our fingers, every loose seam. one day we’ll remember. panels show a figure on a tomb-like bed flanked by carved animal panels, strange vessels, glimpses of a bedroom. text: the course sweeps us along: lay down our body on the altar, prophesy the fall from the cliff, read the cracks in our ribs. the night cools our lungs. centuries whirl overhead and hold us in their gaze. we weigh our choices, we bite our tongue. there’s blood in our teeth when we wake. panels show blood dripping into a strange chalice, patterns of bones and teeth, a globe in a darkened room. text: we long for the dream of the pack. our many many feet wear down our paths through the ruin, and we make ourselves new homes. panels show the legs of a running pack, the shadows of broken columns, stars & roots. text: we are a small desperate creature caught under the vast expanse of the sky. but everything, in the end, will share our fate— panels show movement in the grass, silhouettes of claws & a finger on the trigger, a rotting apple, a toppled statue, fire, a carving of a sleeping creature. text: and the sky unfurls above us— a panel widens out into empty space.
© 2024 
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