new-york

Ronald Jones

Sonnabend Gallery

Her voice restrained, even detached, despite the terror of her tale, she expresses no interest in reliving the incident, in imparting the drama of final moments, but, rather, gives a measured and factual account to guide the viewer from one site to the next. The planters, the ornamental bushes, the bronze busts, the bones, the black and white “snow” patterns synonymous with interrupted electronic transmission are all memorials to those who have not survived. Having met a catastrophic end, she is included among them. Her authority is secure in that she has known what each of us has yet to confront: the horrific white panic of living one’s own death. She is the voice of the Cyclops, the satellite whose mission was abruptly terminated in disastrous collision with the lunar surface; whose first and final transmission was but a few seconds of grainy static and noise.

The subterfuge of Ronald

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