Lewis Henderson
b. 1993, London, England

Any, more?, Limbo, London (UK)_2017
07.12.17 - 10.12.17 (More photographs below)

Limbo, London

Lewis Henderson & Thomas Greig

In the blink of an eye, everything in front of them had congealed into a single,
amorphous entity. The market table in front of them, a thin tin-like sheet with a neatly
trimmed edge, was suddenly home to a living monster. An assemblage of rusty scythes and
trowels, busted GameCubes and pirate DVDs. The creature oozed a toxic mixture of copper
bile and pink gouache, wriggling in the pan like an octopus waiting to be gutted. The longer
they stared at this unnamed beast, the harder it became to discern its grim anatomy; its
synthetic carcass writhing around an emaciated spine like an ouroboros – locked into a
perpetual state of self-digestion.

Soon ten jellied eels began melting their way through the beast’s diaphragm.
Currents of electricity throbbed from their bodies in a nauseating ripple, infusing the
monster’s entrails with a carnivorous energy. Gnawed optical wires sparked with
luminescence, muddied family-postcards acquired a lenticular movement, a set of mangled
golf clubs spasmed like BigDog on ice. The pallid eels slowly receded again, weaving
through the monster’s innards like a bobbet worm through soil. The oily and taut belly of the
market-trader protruded from under a stained white vest, dripping with an obnoxious liquid.
And as their leer reached upward, they were confronted with further unspeakable horror.
Where there would have usually sat a human face, was simply a blank rind of pale
flesh. Its only visible details the stretch marks that pulled the oval mass of skin back in on
itself. The stretch marks too had a sort of wicked energy to them: they rubbed and grazed
against one another, as if itching a sore rash. The crowd had now grown to an
insurmountable number, entering a frenzy. The swarm soon resembled a furious live chat: a
rapid succession of bodies spontaneously emerging at its head, with those at the bottom
sunk beneath its weight and crushed. Their eyes were all catatonic. As the sun set behind
the stall a peculiar yellow gloom engulfed the sprawling market. Traders began shuffling
endlessly between one another. Tables vanished and appeared, each home to a preying
mass of bloodshot retinas.

The street’s cartography stretched from 1:1 to infinity. As the fabric of the air ripped
and tore, the wild oscillations of a black and white substance enmeshed in their own
molecular activity was revealed. Entangled and disjointed, the limbs of the crowd now
levitated at least a foot from the ground. They pulsed like a jellyfish. The intensity of their
stare had begun to seize control of the monster, a coordinated and collective gesture of the
audience-body could cause the monster to lurch from one direction to another. The
squirming face of the market trader convulsing inward like a black hole. Spasming, he
coughed forth a nugget of fresh mucous, green with bubonic shades. It slumped on the
table, whining and helpless.

With a click of ⌘F3 the scene shot back into the distance, joined by seven other
variable wormholes: a pdf of his personal artist portfolio; several unfinished TextEdit docs
coloured with turquoise and yellow highlights; a pirate copy of The Gagosian’s The Show Is
Over catalogue. With a second click he was launched forward at incredible speed.
Everything around him submerged into a deep crimson red. In an instant, nothing else had
become intelligible, just limitless and pure colour. Hesitant for a moment, his finger
gravitated in its former position. But soon the feeling was simply overwhelming. Staring into
his glowing screen, he fell into it, like you would a fever, or a daydream.

Written by Charlie Mills