Start at the end and wind your way first here, then there, a zig-zag tack from one wall to the other, and find yourself in the field of play. You observe, but are also observed, by shadow faces. They may not really be made out, with features enlarged to the point of non-recognition. But say, for now, that a clue is provided, that these denizens of halftones are spectators at a sporting stadium in Franco’s Spain of the 1930s.
What is this, a bull fight perhaps, or a fútbol match? Look closer, maybe some of those watchers are in uniform. And they are not watching you that have come to stand in this field of play, this gallery space, which like a story, has a beginning and an end, as well as the space you occupy, the middle. No, they look past you, from the past, to the opposite wall and ask, what game goes on here?
It is an American game, not the one you think, and happening not in the now, where you are, but in some other then —the 1992 riots in Los Angeles, an image taken from a news helicopter and published in the New Mexican.
Is it just a play of aggression and fear? Or is it a spectacle of the past and the present, and our potential future?