Juz Kitson: on bones, Buddhism and bull (testes)




I hesitantly knock on the flimsy ply door of the Australian National University’s Ceramics Workshop residency space and venture in. Usually a blank and uninspired space of mismatched worktables and drying racks set to the audio accompaniment of humming electrical mains, it is transformed by each resident artist into a world of their creation. This time the room evokes Kubla Khan’s pleasure dome; the racks are filled with pearlescent erotic forms that seem to pulsate behind pieces of languidly draped fur that obscure them from view. The floor is covered with work, a matrix barrier that separates subject from self. Sitting cross-legged, all fiery curls and delicate hand movements, Juz deftly places each hand-rolled petal-like form onto its friend, pressing them together at the base, leaving the fronds to wave free. Anemone-like, they invite touch but, as with a lot of Juz’s work, refute easy classification.


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