Honestly, I don’t know what’s happening here, and I don’t want to either, but it feels fantastic. The gallery crawl space starved of air is properly claustrophobic and weirdly prenatal, if such a thing could ever be the crime scene the floor suggests. Off topic, I’ve been re-reading A Fire On The Moon which someone once described as “a revenge of the self on history,” superseding an event while permanently fixing it in time; one man’s view of a moment so enormous it felt fabricated. I wonder, could some of this also apply here? Whether biography or fiction, Rajiogoogoo’s work flies in the face of convention (or etiquette, as the title suggests) which isn’t such a bad thing, it should be celebrated.
This room is for you, dad
“When forced to stand before the firing squad, and it had been quite a while, Raijogoogoo more than likely remembered that distant afternoon when she was slapped for the first time by her father.”
Rajiogoogoo: Dad said it’s rude to cross your legs
The White, Room #205 (Jimbocho, Tokyo)
March 3 – 13, 2021