Fred Adler exposes you to a world where questions and silence fuel beautiful insanity.
Art, as a language, is silent; its birdsong is mute. A secret folded under each stroke upon the easel, every one dangling a separate world of enigma, blinding eyes blinking the harsh truths of today. The beauty lies in its holes, the serenity in its cracks. Fred Adler at 'Anti-agency' buckles in secrets and zips them up, fills the room with cracked smoke, consumed in a cloud of silence. Art is not art without a few dirty secrets.
Taking her camera on an intimate trip behind the painting’s colours, Mollie Dendle captures the unspoken answers in a world where questions and silence fuel beautiful insanity. His doe-eyed gazes fill the blank walls with teen excitement, whilst gripping still onto the slow movements of the morning. Beautifully sad lyrics drench those pristine white walls and soft whisperings emanate from within those creased sheets, but he is backwards facing. Squinting into the mirror, hoping to overwrite its songs with the chorus of his reflection. Listening past the endless screeches outside the window, attempting to muster the patience to hear the true beauty in the track that comes next. Art’s album is the best, and you don’t need any high-tech headphones to listen.
Not everyone understands, not even Fred - but his entire entity in this moment is drenched in the art and its sordid beauty. Lying in the silence, absorbing every minuscule vibration and passionate beat of the brush on the canvas - imperfect scratches on the keys, accepting art’s alluring nature for what it is. The boy, slowly becoming unexplained. Sometimes explaining art ruins it.