Kit’s works are the garbled recordings retrieved from the black box of a plane that went missing behind the lifted veil of Maya. Play them over and over and you might learn how not to crash a plane.

Kit Christian: a weary Greek chorister

 

Kit Christian has mutineer blood in his head. He is a direct descendent of Fletcher Christian. And as such he has a deep genetic predisposition to see what seethes below deck released - and let stab towards the helm before ignorance, error and hubris sink us all. The Greek tragedians of 5th C. Athens had something similar simmering in theirs. For Aeschylus, Sophocles and Euripides had the portrayal of mutiny against fate (and its resulting catharsis) at the core of their work too.

 

At the height of Athenian power its citizens would gather annually to experience a full fucking day of moral horror stories by their best playwrights. And through this they would achieve catharsis. Like bingeing an entire season of Air Crash Investigations (or Succession or one of the many reality shows starring fame thirsty psychopaths) they would learn at arms length that suffering is universal, inevitable but ultimately solvable, or at the very least avoidable. This is the key to catharsis. Learning the lesson of burning yourself without actually touching the stove. Gaining warm reassurance that if you glean enough structure from chaos you can grab the reigns and make your own life (and your fellow citizens) more palatable. Or at the very least not stab your estranged dad at a crossroads and double down by running to the nearest population centre to fuck your mum.

 

At first blush these works look like a bucket of white noise at the end of the doom-scrolling rainbow. Confused, untethered and unreadable. But you would be a foolish fool to think so and should probably just go home and press ‘resume’ on your open ‘Big Bang Theory’ Netflix tab if you do. Much like a play about a hot-blooded Greek royal family slaying daughters, plotting revenge and generally upsetting a myriad of easily butthurt gods, once you dig past the initial confusion you receive a visual manifestation of catharsis. 

 

Archetypes, (dogs, horses, Johnny Cash) little islands of the recognizable, are scooped from the milk of oblivion but teetering poised to sink back into it the second you look away. From hazy memory palette backgrounds (blue, beige, white, black), muted by prescription SSRIs and the worn thin hangovers of a jester too long at court, reassuring definite structure surfaces like a sibling returned from war, or a boon from the gods. Through these we can have a tangible foothold in chaos and use it to progress. 

 

These works are a Modern Greek chorus. An out-of-fucks detective munching a loose kebab at the foot of the slab while the autopsy of the enlightenment takes place. Not tidy nor respectful but only because they are focussed on solving the case at hand.  The shapes and images that emerge are the slurred corner pub wisdom of Shane MacGowan before he got his teeth fixed. And that cunt started drinking at age 5 so he’d have some shit to tell. 

 

Kit’s works are the garbled recordings retrieved from the black box of a plane that went missing behind the lifted veil of Maya. Play them over and over and you might learn how not to crash a plane.

 

Steven Charles William Latimer III