There is a journey between the source image and the target image in the glitch. From the surface to the bottom. From what is rationally structured to what is its original code. In Rank, Kristine Snodgrass places side-by-side visual works and poetic writings that share the same root: a subversive intention with respect to the abused and crystallized languages of everyday communication and power, in search of what is subterranean, corporeal, germinal. "Syllables of mortal flesh," she writes. A gesture - in images and words - almost physical and performative, which demystifies the apparent and reveals the substantial. An act, which becomes aesthetic, of deconstruction and re-creation through the "error" caused in the image file on the one hand and in the structure of the written text on the other. The result, on the visual side, is different works in which the signification is entrusted to the constituent elements of color (phosphorescent and iridescent or transparent with suggestions of watercolor, inked and scratched or pasty, intensely sampled in the drafting of blacks and blues or fiery red), of the line (vertical, horizontal, or intertwined), of the sign (thick as erasures or minute as germinations, with words or syllables as resistance to slipping), of the composition (orthogonal, or specular, geometrically full-bodied or extremely fragmented). On the writing side, the "error," consisting of the vital and magmatic automatism of the flow of consciousness, deconstructs the language of rational communication, producing texts in which the different levels of experience collide, provoking sparks meaning, flashes, and illuminations. On both sides, closely connected, the heuristic encounter between author and user in search of a possible lost communication takes place. The error, the glitch (with what it implies of chance and chaos), the imperfection, forcefully brings back the uncontrolled complexity of life into the artificial simplification of the constituted order, that singular unrepeatable uniqueness capable of producing its own "native sound": "The ensuing light is a spirit departed from blood."
-Cinzia Farina