Deinstalling turns out to be a sort of cinematic, archeological time travel.
I wasn't expecting it to be so strange but with each piece of paper I unstick from the wall there's a twinge of memory and a soundtrack too depending which of four albums I was listening to when I was creating it.
I lift the corner of a piece of paper and pull, the tape resists then peels from the wall I take hold of another oh THAT night (long strips of white, the peculiar dream, White Stripes) THAT day (red yellow orange blue green violet, fiddly strips why won't the black bits stick, date gone wrong Gang of Four) THIS part (is this working or is it dumb gold and gold more gold that was an odd text, Beggar's Banquet)...
It's as if the walls contain the temporal, experiential sequence of their making and deinstalling them unravels the sequence.
I've never experienced anything quite like it. You don't get to unmake a painting stroke by stroke not a non-digital one anyway, once it's done it's done, there is no >edit undo<. This is different.
I'm composing the walls subtractively as I go or I suppose decomposing them.
But I'm also undoing the doing of them.
It leads me to think about what it all means I mean what art is ultimately. Once these pieces of paper are gone is the art gone? Oh god there's that question, did it ever exist? If it isn't these pieces of paper then what is it? What did I make?
I took these thoughts to Twitter where I sometimes go to kick a thought around in the void but it isn't a void. A fellow artist responded and what came up for me was that perhaps in the end the most permanent thing about art is the effect the making of it has on the maker. And the viewing of it on the viewer.