Nicola Hattingh

Nicola is trying to function as a coherent consciousness in an epistemologically ambiguous physical universe. She may or may not exist in whatever form of considerable materiality you might find yourself lingering in in void of matter making meaning of moments meant for more succulent thoughts. Her mind is mesmerized by the things behind your eyes. Those things in empty spaces that have no attachment to form as of yet. Those things that exist as infinite possibility and might continue to do so if they can keep crept in crevices of stillness and lugubrious incontinuity.

She holds a deep mistrust for language, less so if it is in incomprehensible forms, but nevertheless a deep sigh emerges when attempts are made to capture concepts in substances that claim definition or understanding. Things like this, whatever you understand by ‘this’, that fail to give anything more than a nothing stewed in yesterday’s daydreams and left to settle on the windowsill of three weeks from now’s afterthought. She is a cat person. She does not and has never owned a cat. I suppose it is better to say she is feline in nature spending the majority of her time perched in unlikely places, gazing scrutinizingly at what is not there. She also may have a tail but what is meant by tail here might lead to a misunderstanding and is best left to ones imagination as we are far more likely to gain an understanding by throwing the old one out of the window. Yes, it would land on all fours as she is on the last of her nine lives and cannot spare another. Sometimes she pretends to be a painter to distract from the other things she has collected as her being.

On these occasions it is best to approach her with the uncautious frivolity you might your shadow after a night in a forest of fireflies that have just learned the meaning of enantiodromia. That is, approach with glistening eyes and a knowing that you know not a thing. But come closer, none the less, as she is fond of your mind for minds are great play things in which magic can hide. And as hiding leads to finding in which timing can slip, through the fringes of hinges that let conscious drip.