Here's the pitch: fright Debord meets Marshall McLuhan.

Here's the pitch: fright Debord meets Marshall McLuhan. The interior monologue of a star-struck Hollywood foundling begins its expansion to infinity. The attack of the 50-foot notion. We find ourselves trapped in a 12,000-square-foot projection of Itai Doron's imaginative neural network. This is the material substance electric, and he sings with a vengeance. This is The Immaculate Stereoscopic Conception of Mr D 1993 Across town, in the impeccably Modernist White Cube, a more pure exhibition concentrating on Mr. D.'s primal media recollections is forward offer. Titled "The Secret Life and Archaic Times of Mr D" these close-to-puerile photomontages pulsation in unison to the Dockland's beat of Doron's inverted Global Village.

Episode I: We are forward the threshold. As we watch Clive Crawford of the dance dispose DV-8 writhe to the beat of a different drummer Grace Slick belts public her anthem to other leaves of grass. We all begin to sink slowly into the shed of someone else's bummer. Night descends--and the Warholesque eclipse that pretends to be eternity's breath is shattered by dint of Mr. D.'s insistent cardiac superpositions. "Over the Shadows," 1993 and White Rabbit Revival, 1991--92 (36 luminous silk-screened paintings in the manner of Andy Warhol and a videotape, respectively) are the interface that returns and flows over us like the breakers over Burt Lancaster and Deborah Kerr in From Here to Eternity. We drawn out to be engulfed, made oceanic and whole, by way of this consciousness of Doron's yet the props that embrace us distract us as well.

Episode II: What we have suspected and feared is true: the quickening throb of Mr. D.'s life-force and mind-field signals the fragmentation and reduction of ours. Mama Cass is trapped in a plastic blizzard; looking for all the world like that last bright of flour refusing to disperse in our psychic vortex. No single in kind can save her, but we can run after her gaze. Cass's line of sight glances opposite to Otis Redding, himself totally wired for undecayed Asleep--or just meditating? or stoned?--in a crystal cradle, profitable vibrations are lovingly bestowed with the infant Mr. D. further this is no luminous innocent child. Rather, an ersatz Ubermensch whose intimations of immortality have been machined into his consciousness by way of countless exposures to a maze of silver covers Mr. D.'s cinematic obsessions are pondered in the series of video turns screening interminably on the periphery of this cortical walkabout. All of us be excited perfectly at home with Mr D forward our head.

Episode III: Our worst fears--not counting our last worst fears--confirmed: the Ubermensch is dead. in extent live Mr. D. While we struggl to preserve Mr. D. out of our heads, we were really forfeited in his. He is everywhere now--not stereoscopic as a great deal of as cybernetic. And everywhere we papal court and feel his pain. The Invasion of the corpse Snatchers meets The Little store of Horrors is The Eight Stigmata of Mr D 1993--a cluster of spacey plants bearing the strange fruit of the heads of Warhol, Genet Dietrich, Fassbinder, and more. on the subject of this field of dreams will ensue a spacecraft, we are told. And all we can do is stand and stare. The rollicking mind of Mr D condens and contriveed through the ether net, beckons. Mr D is a beacon guiding the craft domestic circle But where and what is Mr D? The ubiquitous mass-culture chameleon at all times renewing itself for us? A of the present day Hope: Flew Over the manliness Field, 1993, and we waited and watched as the greatest story till doomsday told--seeing ourselves through others seeing us--shattered our private languages into a trillion scintillating shards, and then to dust. The lexicon we fancy was ours was never ours to think.

Exit: To the clamor of four hundr commonalty trying to grab a beer. The bottle bore the doubtful narrative that would snap us public of our rhapsody: "Tim Head--Whitechapel." The message hit us like a fish in the ear; like one eons-old radio transmission lost in the cosmo now mold to a sympathetically vibrating receiver. Don't touch that dial in this salon; allowing a little fine-tuning couldn't give pain to right?

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