York St John

I have collected dozens of tv sets each of which seems to have its own idiosyncratic personality. They don’t have the soul of a Vincent ’52 but the now redundant shapes lean well and sometimes change colour when they are angled. They now live in the cleaners cupboard, talking to each other in whispers. If you walk in on them they go mute, collective term for tv’s should be a Conspiracy. Results of incarceration shown here as taken through a peephole in the door. I think they are insanely beautiful.