certainly an objet d’ard but why should it remind me of a tongue? until I separate its teeth, its yellow teeth, and the gaps, the startling gaps between them, from its form; like a ball of flesh in which the discernment of tooth, or hair, or tiny misplaced limb articulation, is all that gives it away as foetal: it’s a clearly partial object, from Melanie Klein’s ‘theatre of terror.’ (And feet-al(!): the heel, sole and palate; and, to follow a Keatsian symbolic-erotic morphology, a cavity cast.) Hard to say whether out of mechanical, digital focus or intrinsically, instinctually out of focus, it’s poised to wag and found at the end of an alley where it debouches onto Custom Street, central Auckland.
