http://www.no-w-here.org.uk/index.php?cat=7&subCat=docdetail&id=115
6.12.09
3.12.09
2.12.09
21.11.09
antepress @ Whitechapel, Saturday 21st November 2009
I will be performing a text at Volatile Dispersal:
Festival of Art Writing at Whitechapel Gallery as part of the Known Unknowns, organised by Francesco Pedraglio.
http://www.whitechapelgallery.org/shop/product/category_id/27/product_id/385
17.11.09
15.11.09
13.11.09
12.11.09
11.11.09
This Is The Lake Of Our Feeling
I was having a conversation with Landscape Architect Apasia Kouzoupi in Athens with regards to a lake she is working in Greece, with with some students:
There was a lake in the mountains, that was two metres shallow in many parts, and every time it rained the boundaries of the lake would shift in and out of the landscape. The lake teemed with freshwater fish, and many years before the fishermen from the surrounding area moved onto the lake, building small floating platforms with conical dwelling structures on them.
The shallow lake also provided an ideal habitat for mosquitos, and because illness transmitted by the mosquito bites was rife in the area, the lake was eventually drained by the authorities to remove the problem. The entire unique socio-architectural tradition of lake dwelling was eradicated, and passed into the memories of the people who lived in the area.
Recently, due to infrastructural demands, a reservoir has been created in the area, and so the lake was replaced. Fish are being reintroduced, and rivers diverted to feed the water supply. The local people think of it as their lake returned, but the lake is now a reservoir, with a civic function. It's re-emergence is estranged from the original common ownership and use, the dwellings cannot return, and the dwellings have forgotten how to return, but the people still think of it as a lake replaced, even if it has become the image of a lake that holds them at the shore.
10.11.09
3.11.09
30.10.09
Locus Solus update
LOCUS SOLUS
Byzantine Museum, Athens
7th November 2009
http://www.outoftheboxintermedia.org/
27.10.09
25.10.09
24.10.09
23.10.09
22.10.09
19.10.09
14.10.09
18.9.09
antepress @ FormContent
On Saturday 19th September 2009, 12-6pm, antepress will be presenting recent works and discussing strategies for collaborating with FormContent in fostering a dialogue between various exhibition formats and what constitutes art writing. This relationship will culminate in a publication released in 2010.
FormContent is a curatorial project space, initiated in 2007 by Francesco Pedraglio, Caterina Riva and Pieternel Vermoortel in London’s East End. Its mission is to create a space in which to experiment with ideas and exhibition formats, to foster an active collaboration between artists and curators while challenging their roles.
7.9.09
3.9.09
On leaving
______Clear views faced forwards, wide to the horizon.
___There were bone-rimmed holes, milk-coloured, and rust-rimmed
_____________________________________________They built a shell
__Succulent eyes were pulled backwards through these burrows, and narrow architectures were popped away from limb by limb.
The crisp edges of doorways form fades.
____________________________ Now it is brittle
____________________________ brittle waiting to be ground down, or smashed into fine sand beaches amongst all the other husks coughed up on the shore
______________________________________________All movement had been lateral
_______________________________________________________________________________________
Clear views faced forwards, wide to the horizon
There were rimmed holes, the rust-red eye-stalks of cannons watch blankly against blinkers
They built a shell knocked into the rocks and waited soft in the shadows for hard things to come and split them, flame licks and the mosquito whine of engines
Succulent eyes were pulled backwards through these burrows, and narrow architectures were popped away from limb by limb.
The crisp edges of doorways form fades.
_______________________________________________________________________________________
26.8.09
18.8.09
6.8.09
18.7.09
MOCCA screening 18.07.09
I curated a screening in collaboration with Ben Prus, Executive Editor of One Hour Empire
Museum of Contemporary Canadian Art
952 Queen St W
Toronto
Ontario
30.6.09
Resonance - Digestives
A short fiction about a man obsessed with mapping all the matter in the omniverse into a single diagram, that lives in a tobacco tin in a swarm of letters.
http://www.antepress.co.uk/digestives.php
http://resonancefm.com/
Broadcast 30.06.09 at 4.30pm
Repeat 03.07.09 at 7.30pm
>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>LINK HERE
23.6.09
16.6.09
6.6.09
5.6.09
4.6.09
3.6.09
1.6.09
Location of A Circle - Sol LeWitt
Lewitt, Sol, “The Location of a Circle”, in Ann Demeester, Will Holder, Dieter Roelstraete (eds.), F.R. David: “The Stuff & Nonsense” Issue, de Appel arts centre, Amsterdam, 2007, pp. 45-7
To unravel the planar knot of the diagram in language can be agonising – we can refer to Sol LeWitt’s The Location of A Circle from 1974. Cut loose from the illustration, it becomes an obfuscating horde of points played out amongst their relationship to other points in a narrative that positions them in a buzzing field of nested associations. In isolation this reads as a hermeneutic translation rather than a model for a heuristic process. LeWitt challenges the relationship between an idea as diagram and the art it produces.
31.5.09
curves
The walls of the Whispering Gallery at St. Paul’s Cathedral are scuffed paint, rising, buttermilk hued, with block-cut Portland stone, behind. Pressing against the membrane of the paint, it demonstrates right angles nestled.
By an accident of architecture, the walls are so thick and dense with matter that the frequency of the human voice cannot penetrate.
If you were to lean into the curve and speak softly, the sound would remain trapped, swell through the plenum wavering above the vertical drop, and collect into a point on the opposite wall, unscathed. There an osseus labyrinth may collect the sound, funnelling it past vestibules, navigating the canal, converging towards the cochlea. It can be siphoned, absorbed, rattle fine bones.
We could have begun this before by ascending, there’s already a trajectory here, bounded by a narrow spiral skirted by more cut stone. The treads are shallow, but deepen, the frequency shifts. Time is variously a labyrinth, a spiral, a crystal: shapes cutting against the shapeless, shifting.
The voice itself is an accident of architecture.
27.5.09
26.5.09
Kenneth J. Knoespel
http://www.lcc.gatech.edu/~knoespel/publications.php
Generous array of pdfs on the diagram.
24.5.09
Stalker Lab
19.5.09
17.5.09
Robert Harbison - Eccentric Spaces
Andre Deutsch, London, 1977
Chapter 8 - Contracted World: Museums and Catalogues
p.141
"... Ruskin's chapters are the reader's days--he takes him down the Merceria and across the Rialto Bridge, tells him to look back and he says he is looking at the end of the noble Venetian history. He repeats the same walk the next day looking at different things and chooses a series of five architectural sculptures, making a historical set that begins at St Mark's and ends by Palazzo Labia near the railroad station. These five little examples tell the whole history of Venice's rise and fall, her glory and degradation, the movement away from the centre of the city coincides with the terrible moral progress. Ruskin is a thoroughly spatial and kinetic thinker who expresses here a mythical idea of the space of a city.
His experience feels more literal than that of other critics, the chance encounter of a real man with a real thing, which leads to unforseen consequences for both of them. His immediacy and his urgency converge in the hope of solutions springing up in walks through the streets. Though like all guides and guidebooks he is a parent, his imaginary tours constitute genuine initiations into reality. His objects are works of art and his collection of them into a book a kind of museum, but he brings together a museum and a map, because he locates his objects in real space. Most museums now try to take their objects out of space and produce a neutral filing, laboratory slides, so the best embodiment of that mentality would be a slide show that called things before our thought without requiring activity. By giving a sense of a few things with a lot of space around them Ruskin conceals the fact that he assembles a museum, but his powers of selection are making an order discriminate like a museum, not indiscriminate like a map, and what feels like a further freedom, leaving things where they live, is the occasion for a further order."
orphaned pavilions
I can't remember where I found this.
AH (thanks Gemma): ‘The Hut Project’, 2005, Fold-Down Expandable Structure, Wooden Pallets, FM Radio Transmitter
http://www.limoncellogallery.co.uk/pages/thppics.asp
16.5.09
Rosie Pedlow and Joe King - Sea Change
http://cms.streamuk.com/import/brandcastmedia/rosiepedlow_full_16.9.mp4
Time. Glide. No inertia. Silent documentary. Perfect.
Winners of Jerwood Moving Image Awards.
Umberto Eco: Casablanca, or, The Clichés are Having a Ball
http://www.themodernword.com/eco/eco_casablanca.html
When all the archtypes burst in shamelessly, we reach Homeric depths. Two cliches make us laugh. A hundred cliches move us. For we sense dimly that the cliches are talking among themselves, and celebrating a reunion.
Notes: Peter Wollen; Cinema 2 - Chaper 2; Kristeva's Genotext/Phenotext
http://www.luxonline.org.uk/articles/the_field_of_language_in_film(1).html
Verbal language is a crucial component of film, both as signifier and as signified, as crucial as the image. Each is deprived of a dimension of its sense in the absence of the other. This is not to argue, of course, for a mutual reinforcement of the two-standard practice in commercial cinema, where word and image are used to add more and more reciprocal redundancy. On the contrary, it is in the dialectic of fit and misfit that the value of working with both word and image lies, as well as in the heterogeneity of the registers of each. Language is the component of film which both threatens to regulate the spectator, assigned a place within the symbolic order, and also offers the hope of liberation from the closed world of identification and the lure of the image. Language, therefore, is both a friend and a foe, against which we must be on our guard, whose help we need but whose claims we must combat. Hence the fractured and dislodged body of language in our films.
---
Cinema 2, chapter 2, Recapitulation of Images and Signs
pp. 24 - 5
Relations between cinema and language.
Christian Metz asks: ‘under what conditions should cinema be considered as a language?’ – a double reply, first as a fact and then as an approximation.
1st reply – constituted as such by becoming narrative instead of in other directions.
Approximation: from that point, the sequences of image, a single shot, are assimilated to propositions, or rather oral utterances: the shot will be considered the smallest narrative utterance.
Metz himself underlines the hypothetical character of this assimilation… substituting an utterance for the image, he can and must apply it to certain determinations which do not belong exclusively to the language system [langue], but condition the utterances of a language [langage], even if this language is not verbal it operates independently of a language system. The principle according to which linguistics is only a part of semiology is thus realized in the definition of languages without a language system (semes), which includes the cinema as well as the languages of gestures, clothing or music. There is therefore no reason to look for features in cinema that only belong to a language system, like double articulation. On the other hand language features that necessarily apply to utterances will be found in the cinema, as rules of use, in the language system and outside of it: the syntagm (conjunction of relevant present units) and the paradigm (disjunction of present units with comparable absent units). The semiology of cinema will be the discipline that applies linguistic models, especially syntagmatic ones, to images as constituting one of their principle ‘codes’. We are moving in a strange circle here, because syntagmatics assumes that the image can in fact be assimilated to an utterance, but it is also what makes the image by right assimilable to the utterance. In a typical Kantian vicious circle: syntagmatics applies because the image is an utterance, but the image is an utterance, but the image is an utterance because it is subject to syntagmatics. The double of utterances and ‘grand syntagmatics’ has been substituted for that of images and signs, to the point where the very notion of the sign tends to disappear from this semiology. It obviously disappears, clearly, to the benefit of the signifier. The film appears as a text, with a distinction comparable to that made by Julia Kristeva, between a ‘phenotext’ of utterances which actually appear and a ‘genotext’ of structuring, constitutive or productive syntagms and paradigms.
---
http://www.eng.fju.edu.tw/Literary_Criticism/feminism/kristeva_1.htm
III. Semiology is based on two concepts -genotext and phenotext.
A. The genotext is the body of the bio-physiological process constrained by the social code, and it is not reducible to the language system.
a. The genotext exists within the phenotext, which is the perceivable signifying system.
b. Genotext ,which Kristeva refers to here as semiotic disposition, breaks those normal rules.
B. Semiotics, as a metalanguage, cannot get outside of the signifying system to explain the deviations from the system. In other words, as soon as semiotics tries to deconstruct the signifying system, it recreates the signifying system.
----
Theodore Tagholm
Shortlisted for the Jerwood Moving Image Awards.
I have been thinking about this film in relation (structurally) to Sundial by William Raban, 1992, and The Black Tower by John Smith, 1987.
Notes on a weird postcard.
In one thousand years (I say in, but actually we speak at the opposite border, the exit route, so the in is watched backwards from without, and the time between is lost apart from the traces of its play on surfaces.)
After one thousand years facts such as blue skies and sunshine will probably remain. This building will continue to have become a museum of itself. The shape will remain unchanged, apart from the odd bubbling of wear and the snapping in of new bolts and scaffolds. But, slowly, unavoidably, the intention will have shifted, simply because as much as old knowledge desires reinscription the code mutates with every death.
The fence that it is viewed through, a grid, a grid, will have been replaced and replaced. It will have become more or less vicious. Sometimes it will have kept things out, and sometimes it will have kept things in.
13.5.09
12.5.09
11.5.09
folding
The folds in film and text perhaps bring attention to the surface into play...
1
The Baroque
…If languages can be said to speak only of themselves we draw back into etymologies of words and their objects to begin multiplications. 
The epidermis of the mantle, or pallium, of a mollusc, more specifically that of the oyster, secretes alliterative calcium carbonate and conchiolin and sculpts a shell around itself. The words mantle and pallium both originally referred to a cloak or cape, the shape frozen echoed by draped cloth which folds around the wet beast inside.
When a foreign body invades the flesh the epithelial cells form an enclosing sac which secretes a crystalline substance named nacre, or mother of pearl, that builds in layers.
Within these alchemical transferrals of matter between surfaces emerges a pearl, whose surface gave birth to the terminologies of the Baroque. Synonyms adduct materials, that hover in common parlance. As if a soft tongue rasps round sediment and licks a fresh word into shape. The mollusc gave birth to a rough pearl that named the Baroque.
The language of the fold is baroque as the era that birthed it, and calls attention to the soft surface of itself. There are folds, crenellations, waves, tuckings, pleatings, images concertina with sharp edges, or fall against smooth curves. Things crumple, or envelop.
Leibniz sees curves, repetitions, and snaking lines as matter unfolds to produce new matter. All the words and frames carry alongside them all the memories of perception. We refer backwards, and backwards to Greek fathers.
10.5.09
Yes, yes, I know what it is, but what is it not?
A MORPHOLOGY.
One, the Splice
“The image must turn from extension or exteriority or extensiveness in space toward a genesis in mental relations or time…“
Clear then, the binding of adjacent frames, whirling in as opposites, but these images cross-fertilize. You know the brain (I say ‘the’) must unpick and fray the edges of all things against all other things. Kuleshov or otherwise, we know what is coming. Sort of. We mark velocity. We feel anxious.
• a tense constricted feeling in the body
We watch water approach the deck, water, deck, water. Zoom in, and the smooth blond wood whorls and darkens. To keep moving in is to be swallowed by detail. The narrative thickens and slows beneath the crust of image.
• a hard lump of tissue in an animal or human body.
This would be a dead end perhaps, a swelling head:
Two, the Manrope
All strands are gathered and form a sphere. The resolution is tucked inside, somewhere, tight and hard. Or invisible. But, bored of this seal, perhaps eyes reverse up the rope, seeking:
• a tangled mass in something such as hair.
• a complex and intractable problem
Next week:
Eight, the Overhand, and also Eight, the Figure of Eight
(Watching forms form, no prestidigitation, and also, attempts at modelling infinity under finite conditions)
END
A useful way to visualise and manipulate knots is to project the knot onto a plane—think of the knot casting a shadow on the wall. A small change in the direction of projection will ensure that it is one-to-one except at the double points, called crossings, where the "shadow" of the knot crosses itself once transversely
A knot is created by beginning with a one-dimensional line segment, wrapping it around itself arbitrarily, and then fusing its two free ends together to form a closed loop (Adams 2004)(Sossinsky 2002). When topologists consider knots and other entanglements such as links and braids, they consider the space surrounding the knot as a viscous fluid.
9.5.09
Architecture and Fiction
http://htcexperiments.org/2009/05/01/fictions-genealogy/
HTC Experiments
Experimental practices in architectural history, theory, and criticism — organized by David Gissen
8.5.09
3.5.09
2.5.09
28.4.09
Gary.
(exercises)
There are 30 seconds wedged between programmes.
They fall out barely remembered between the recollection of those that watched and read.
You cannot remember sequences.
Gary is approached with a pensive certainty.
30 seconds is condensed to the single text that breaks between two phrases.
It was not Gary.
---
A approached barely between between between breaks.
Cannot certainty condensed fact fall.
Gary Gary it is is.
Not of pensive phrases programmes read.
Recollection remember remembered.
Seconds seconds sequences single...
---
Gary clicks footstep upon footstep tracing parallels against storm drains and nude cement, a shape growing into himself, light blue and tan, emitting sounds first and then swelling as he tunnels out of the horizon.
The clicks become interspersed with the snare swoosh of denim, between, and smothered inaudible to the outside, between betweens, the soft click of a knee from an accident.
Facts arrived later, buttons gripped crossways by dark cotton, a grease spot birthed as a french fry tumbled sideways from the space between fingers and the small arches bubbled out of the furrows formed in closing lips.
Memories collide of you and Gary, Gary in the bar gripping brown bottles that wept into pools on scratched formica. You remember knuckles, and bootheels worn down on the inside softly kicking table legs in the hopes that in twenty five years they will buckle, but not yet.
The way all things were questions but the terminus plummeted, wavering, unmarked.
26.4.09
23.4.09
Locus Solus, Shunt Vaults
I will be working as an associate video artist here 29th April - 1st May 2009
21.4.09
17.4.09
16.4.09
pan 2
To punch a disc in the space, create ghost-sculptures which examine the impossibility of repetition and return. If the edges of a pan are joined seamlessly, there is still a virtual spiralling in perception. We cannot return to point a) but we can replay it, and watch it accumulate.
an embalming of space
If a film can be a strange embalming of an image of space, and the manufacturing of time in a fetish-state.
This was an insect until the amber rushed up to the brink and formed a barrier against decay. It ceased to function, and if a 'dead' thing is still almost the thing for us until the matter is absorbed back into the fray of particles, this is the image of an insect but also simply a small museum of spatial and material relationships.
If we treat the amber as film-space, where an object is flattened against a screen, stored and retrieved as a museum of matterless image, bar the vague materiality of light as translation of the skirting of a surface with deflected wavelengths.
To look is to receive only an image, flipped over, and to recognise small museums of spatial and material relationships.
It ceases to have any conception of the now, and simply relies on new nows conceived by the brain, referring only to itself in suspension, as an object, timeless, all objects turned towards the round lens that is replaced by the rectangular frame of transmission.
14.4.09
On Onomatopoeia
I was discussing the arbitrary nature of language, and it occurred to me that the words that approximate the most embeddedness in their objects of representation are onomatopoeic ones. The sound of the words are already sounds, which are annexed into the flows of language as speech, but retain a thin membrane as vocal approximations of the origin. We learn them early. I was remembering so young repeating what cows and sheep and ducks 'say'.
13.4.09
Minute Pavilions
An object that tells of the loss, destruction, disappearance of objects. Does not speak of itself. Tells of others. Will it include them? Deluge.
--Joseph Kosuth, "Jasper Johns (Art as Idea as Idea)", 1968, Photocopy on Wood, collection of the AGO, Toronto.
12.4.09
30.3.09
29.3.09
Montreal
We like to drift through tunnels burrowed by multinationals and their offshoots through the gauze of petrol clinging to cities where flavours are equivalent and fingers feel for light switches in the same places on walls. I am face half down into a white pillowcase while lights blink on beyond in the megaliths of downtown.
In bilingual texts sat adjacent to each other English, terse, places an idea squarely and face up, French trickles over the edges of the space hovering beyond comprehension. I feel for words and miss the journey.
28.3.09
Three Weeks
Toronto is soft grey light and eyes out across the surface of Lake Ontario dissolved, horizonless. There are a billion echoed small lakes reflecting skies from between the sticks and grasses of ice-parched land the colour of old paper.
I read Chronology.
23.3.09
corridor
An experiment in doubling disrupting the subjective camera movement 'into' a space with a slide towards the gutter of the image as lateral movement.
17.3.09
12.3.09
11.3.09
8.3.09
GRUEN TRANSFER
From Architecture Must Burn
>>> review (This work presents a combative fusion of ideas and graphic design, mixing contemporary theories on spatiality, technology, literature and art. It contains 28 discussions revolving around the notion that architecture is an example of technology acting as a form of poetry.)
In 1953, the architect Victor Gruen gave his name the the Gruen Transfer, the point at which a mall visitor, who has only come to buy one thing in one store, becomes so overwhelmed by the wondrous labyrinth of the place that she or he starts wandering aimlessly, consuming all along the way. This is the goal of the mall: to turn us from directed human beings into consuming wanderers.
Bartlett
2.3.09
On appropriation
In the afternoon I turned Michael Craig Martin's hubristic Oak Tree back into a glass of water by staring at an image of it on the internet.
1.3.09
On Language.
Me: Do you mind if I pull the door over?
She: What?
Me: Do you mind if I pull the door over?
She: Do you mean close the door?
Me: Yes.
23.2.09
Paintings
(After Anselm Kiefer)
As if a language of pigments is designated at manufacture to snap into the soft phrases of landscapes.
The mud is a series of half-truths that chokes up train tracks bound for vanishing points settled in the haze of the distance that used to represent the beyond, blue, but now coagulates with a grey smog of chimney stacks.
The mud mixed into the pigment is half true as it is no longer itself, but forced into its own representation.
20.2.09
17.2.09
C-Lab
15.2.09
14.2.09
Zizek Documentary
http://documentarycampaign.org/
Part 1
Part2
hahahaha:
Zizek:"like, I don't know, take an ironic example:
If somebody like Judith Butler were to be asked "what is this?" she would never have said 'this is a bottle of tea'. She would have said something like: "If we accept the metaphysical notion of language identifying clearly objects, and taking all this into account, then may we not (she likes to put it in this rhetorical*something*) risk the hypothesis that, in the conditions of our language game, this can be said to be a bottle of tea, and so on and so on - so always this need to distantiate..."
Part 3
Lacan:"I always tell the truth. Not the whole truth, because one can't. To say everything is impossible. There aren't enough words. It's this impossibility which brings truth close to the "real"." Zizek: "I find this ridiculous. He emphasizes 'one cannot say all the truth, it's impossible... this ridiculous emphasis (hand gesture). I think it is pure fake - an empty gesture, as if he makes a deep point there - He does not. I read Lacan in a very classical way - what interests me are his propositions, the underlying logic - not his style. His style is a total fake."
Youtube comment: "he's applying hegelian dialectic to contemporary culture, yet refrains somewhat as seeing these events as a form of arguement. postmodernism denies the arguement, claiming they are simply events and our logocentricism commits a violence by asserting the events into an order. zizek also understands this violence, yet introduces the arguement with a tacit self-consciousness."
Part 4
Zizek: "How do we account for this paradox that the absence of law universalizes Prohibition? There is only one possible explanation: enjoyment itself, which we experience as "transgression", is in its innermost status something imposed, ordered - when we enjoy, we never do it spontaneously, we always follow a certain injunction."
Part 5
Part 6
Part 7
7.2.09
5.2.09
4.2.09
An archive of ghost waters.
You have to be so careful when removing the image from something. The first step is to scrape away at the physical matter, biting down deep into the folds until all the traces are weightless.
Step two is more difficult, requires much greater levels of craftsmanship: to begin to remove the image of the thing. You may have been convinced that by discarding the physical matter that took care of that. Listen: an image clings so staunchly. You may have thought it had departed, only to have it snap back together on a tangent, a vivid colourful thing. To separate it completely you must first learn to wean it away from itself, by confusing it with the images of other things, weaken the bonds. This is how we can really begin.
...
Almost the first sound he could remember was the snare hits of tropical rain on the porch roof. Eyes closed, and feet stretched gently out against a yielding dent worn into the storm screen, he would try and separate each individual patter by pitch, length, velocity. He began the archive using memory alone. Filtering through the nuances, he would order the most tonally rich, the markers of the most diverse, and re-play them in shifting notations, tapping his tongue on the back of his front teeth to feel each one strike.
Here, now, he held a catalogue of raindrops, stored in a thousand hard drives, cassettes, data disks. As he moved up the formats, he would tenderly clean the sound, removing the background hiss of big bangs, the rhythmic winding of a tape spool. Each sound silvered as the polishing became more intricate, cutting away traces of an outside of etymologies and mythologies of origins. They were held in silent suspension until the playhead released them. When mute you could hardly say that any of them were there at all.
Let’s imagine that a glassy bead of sweat would form on a soft brow hovering above a wide lipped bowl full of the folds of fabric soaking. Let’s imagine that the bowl was bought in a pile of three or so, as many as could be comfortably carried by a woman’s arms. It was his first commission. Each day a microphone was held, poised, wavering against the tidal smash of vibrating air above the large belly of the thin metal skin. A number of small seas formed and evapourated.
There is an explosive drum beat blasting against the bottom of a vacant bowl, as the drop bursts out of a itself and regroups silently in the aftermath. As the depths accumulate there is a rich plop of the sphere plunging through the surface tension, being instantly destroyed, but casting out shockwaves against the curved sides. If you didn’t believe that each small drop formed a globe on the descent you could hover above and watch this concentric testimonial. But these physical facts were completely unnecessary…
an a morphogenesis
(The watchers are always the watched, and so what is the actual shape of the human perceptual field?)
I think it's not necessary for it to be a film, but I was thinking we could lettraset a tiny objet petit 'a' on the white wall of the Department of Neuroaesthetics and do a pencil line round the periphery of the visual field. A vertex will be marked on the floor to tread up against. It's a record of a duration that would be employing audio-visual methods to produce it (re. conversation and absolute dependence on the other person for execution). We can just use yes no as a basic binarism for invisibility/visibility. I'm concerned about elements of it becoming dressage, but maybe that's because I have a secret modernist dependency on form following function.
I was thinking literally an 'a' and yes, the only other thing visible will be the line that marks the periphery and the mark on the floor, all the physical construction lines, and the temporal transaction is the one we are left with as a trace. I have black lettraset but not white. I don't mind it being black as that is how we process ordinary text. It will still be discreet. A letter/the printed word has no depth, but we are extruding three dimensionality into a cone of perception and then flattening it back into a simple trace.
I think it marks the space around looking at an object-as-text as the place where the dialogue and the fresh territory occurs.
27.1.09
Diller + Scofidio
Here
The dark side of domestic life is a recurring subject. The project Bad Press:
Dissident Ironing (1993 - 98) uses men's shirts to rethink the everyday task of ironing, coming up with unexpected alternatives for folding, buttoning and pressing a man's shirt, and examining expectations of domestic perfection.
AND http://www.ted.com/index.php/talks/liz_diller_plays_with_architecture.html
26.1.09
wikipedia wonders wanders
(Navigating Deleuze's "The Fold" and colliding with terminologies)
Inflection points.
Scansion.
Notes on Prosody.
Ogive.
Secant Line.
17.1.09
Bingone
here.
Two days ago I had a phone conversation with a member of the managerial team on the site of a well known Bingo company in Catford. All my dreams of filming the bristle-lipped elderly engaged in a furious foam-ink wallop obliterating small squares in a raucous lewd carpeted palace of odd poetry and shifting signifiers crushed: It's serious gambling now, and it's all computerised. So here's to all ye of the working man's clubs and the piss-stink litter drift underneath the grey skies of the seaside town:
1: Kelly's Eye or On it's Own
5: Man Alive
7: Lucky for Some
8: The Garden Gate or One Fat Lady
9: Doctor's Orders or Revolution Number
10: PM's Den
11: Legs, Chicken Legs or Legs Eleven
13: Lucky for Some or Unlucky for Some
16: Sweet Sixteen
21: Key of the Door
22: Two Little Ducks
23: Thee and Me
24: Two Dozen
30: Dirty Gertie or Dirty Bertie
37: More Than Eleven
44: Droopy Drawers or also All the Fours
45: Halfway There
50: Bulls Eye or Blind 50
51: Tweak of the Thumb
55: Snakes Alive or All the Fives
57: Heinz Varieties or Heinz 57
59: Brighton Line (particular to the U.K.)
64: Red Raw
66: Clickety-Click
69: Naughty
71: Bang on the Drum
76: Trombones or (in the U.K) --Was she worth it?
79: One More Time
81: Stop and Run
86: Between the Sticks
88: Two Fat Ladies
90: Top of the Shop
13.1.09
11.1.09
8.1.09
Iterations
Here.
i
I feel therefore I think.
EGO sentio proinde EGO reputo.
I feel consequently I to reckon.
EGO sentio proinde EGO ut duco.
I feel consequently I when to lead on the march.
EGO sentio proinde EGO ut duco.
I feel consequently I when to lead on the march.
ii
I watch you and I listen to you.
EGO vigilo vos quod EGO audio vos.
I to be awake you and I I am heard you.
EGO vigilo vos quod EGO Audio vos.
I to be awake you and I I am heard you.
iii
A soft small fold in time and language.
A mollis vegrandis fold in vicis quod lingua.
A soft diminutive fold upon time and language.
A mollis vegrandis fold super vicis quod lingua.
A soft diminutive fold over, upon time and language.
A mollis vegrandis fold super , super vicis quod lingua.
A soft diminutive fold over, upon , over, upon time and language.
A mollis vegrandis fold super , super , super , super vicis quod lingua.
A soft diminutive fold over, upon , over, upon , over, upon , over, upon time and language.
A mollis vegrandis fold super , super , super , super , super , super , super , super vicis quod lingua.
A soft diminutive fold over, upon , over, upon , over, upon , over, upon , over, upon , over, upon , over, upon , over, upon time and language.
A mollis vegrandis fold super , super , super , super , super , super , super , super , super , super , super , super , super , super , super , super vicis quod lingua.
A soft diminutive fold over, upon , over, upon , over, upon , over, upon , over, upon , over, upon , over, upon , over, upon , over, upon , over, upon , over, upon , over, upon , over, upon , over, upon , over, upon , over, upon time and language.
6.1.09
1.1.09
Subtopia
Subtopia Blog
And more specifically:
The Spatial Instrumentality of Torture: An Interview with Tom Hilde
15.12.08
13.12.08
small solid wishes.
A place to remind myself of things to watch, and preferably own.
Marfa Mystery Lights.
In fact all of these...
10.12.08
e x e r c i s e s
A process of (un)raveling and (dis)integrating, wrapped around an assembled fetish that is a nexus of things, and language, and language as shimmering things, that are symbiotic.
This becomes a palimpsest.
Which must itself be erased.
Then the act of erasure erased.
Then the act of the erasure of the erasure erased.
But in these acts there is a snap back into language as inescapable trace.
So trace something.
Trace round a picture of Erasure.
and
then
tear it into tiny pieces.
Light a match.
and
burn the scraps.
Hide the match.
Then.
Walk backwards through this occurrence
from the discovery of a match in the ground,
from a wisping trail of a promethean embered spark
inherited from the gods of language
summon into being an image of something from fragments.
Suck the image back into a pencil.
Pull the sheet away.
Rest.
9.12.08
Flipping off the Johari Window in space
St. Pancras:
(Quadrant 2, unknown to them)
He had no idea why they put so much fucking mayonnaise on the sandwiches.
(Quadrant 4, total unknowns)
What will initiate the death of this booming whaleboned glass?
A slide downwards into ruin.
Crystal Palace became a train stop.
This will become nothing perhaps.
Reverse.
Written directly on the walls, on signs hanging next to all the corridors, were notes about mortality.
You felt embarrassed by the display.
It spluttered its time of death from the first cracks appearing, shunning by the community, less treads, facts about the falling of every pane, and grave robbers.
Warnings about mayonnaise came second.
Mayonnaise came in small pots every time you ordered a book, or latte. 25ml for a single shot, or a short work of fiction, 50ml for literature proper.
6.12.08
M i l a n
Threshold|94 will be screened in an exhibition at Studio28, Milan, from 12th February, till the 3rd of March and then it'll be moved to Informagiovani, a public space in Duomo square, from the 5th of March till the 19th of March.
http://www.teknemedia.net/pagine-gialle/artisti/cressida_kocienski/dettaglio-mostra/35669.html
3.12.08
p r o n o u n s
(dialogical enforcement with a 750ml bottle of Vittel and Blanchot)
Someone wondered whether we should play and run; and play was placed before the flight in question. But the surface of what he claimed was penetrable, if it did distort the contents.
It seemed to be a typical analysis. He unfurled numbers as a barely, rarely skimmed list.
My eyes hit a line on the surface, then a dry residue: a full stop happened.
2.12.08
29.11.08
27.11.08
w o r d s h o p s
am. Writing from only a linguistic nature.
I remain silent. The singeing cindered trace of these accusations of what I think and how I am to act burns into the centre of words that draw in from a blank hum.
pm.
1) they were bundled neatly into knots.
2) they are fragile and snag if left loose.
3)
25.11.08
23.11.08
18.11.08
Too many gatherings, too much tongue.
1)
The tongue would collect grit.
It would taste like the moment you break through pink ice
and tenderly cradle a creaking stick with the muscle.
The erasure of soft splinters, and warm bulbs.
It should smell of the metallic bite of ozone
from the dropped pressure of gathering drips.
2)
As if the soft wet tendril could unfurl in space
sliding up banisters
rummaging for the gathering of textures
in small punched holes.
The fine molecules of powder frighten,
the retraction of the tapped snail’s eye
treads it back into the home,
spreads it between the bones, into carpet fibres,
and forms a paste that tastes of the jagged teeth of saw blades
and tracked mud gathered round a door frame.
3)
The last slam rattled.
The exhale of staff from wooden lungs
let the emptied creaks begin between drips.
Upstairs white skies had faded.
The night seeped out of a line of tiny wells
that had spent the day preserving shadows.
I stay downstairs
at the back
in the warren of light stripped uprights.
This immortal thing flickers on and on.
I match thought pace
to bubble drift,
a trapezium glare through crossed beams
reflected in the wet sheen
between eyelids.
13.11.08
Rivane Neuenschwander: Suspension Point
South London Gallery, 3 October - 30 November 2008
On the way into the large exhibition space at the South London Gallery is a wall-mounted analogue flip-clock calendar, where the black plates containing white numbers rotate mechanically in a smooth white plastic case. Here the day and the month, the words, are accurate, but the numbers are all set to zero – inside, then, the passage of time will be read differently, fluidly. It will be marked in the babbling language of odd chronometers.
Rivane Neuenschwander, a Brazilian artist based in Belo Horizonte, creates aesthetically delicate works that draw on the practices of sculpture, installation,sound, photography and film, with a lightness of touch and sensory appeal that she has termed “ethereal materialism”.
Neuenschwander has cleaved the tall space of the gallery in two, by inserting a huge pale wooden platform that meets the walls and acts as a first floor, accessible by a single staircase. It is buttressed from beneath by thick wooden beams that divide the dim space below into narrow corridors. This feels like the unofficial space behind a proscenium, but two films are projected against the walls in the half-light, claiming the space. 
In her black and white film Inventario das pequenas mortes (sopro) (Inventory of small deaths [blow]), 2000, a collaboration with Cao Guimarães, the protean membrane of a large soap bubble drifts in high contrast against the Brazilian landscape, reflecting and distorting distant palm trees, buildings, and wide spaces in its surface. The deaths that are written are never seen – the existence of each bubble is held in suspension by the cutting to a new frame, and so through each generation it becomes a single melancholic and ghostly object that cannot die. 
Soap is a frequent material in her oeuvre – in 1999 she worked with collaboratively with a group of children and teenagers from Modaxé, Brazil, using the coconut soap traditionally used by Afro-Brazilian women, to hand wash sheets as a performance, and lay them out in a grid on the shore to dry and whiten in the sun – an ancestral practice in Brazil called quarar. Her desire is to dignify the traditionally female domestic duties through redesignating them as elements of artistic practice, and to transform them using a state of play.
As I walked towards the projector containing the 16mm film-work Arabian Nights
it juddered into life, for the duration of my contemplation. The uncanny phenomenon of “things watch us” was demystified when I caught the gallery attendant with a slim white remote control. It is intended that it is running continuously, but the fragility of the medium means that it must be muted when it is not observed, in an act of preservation. The work borrows from the language of materialist film, with a simple punching out of 1001 holes from the celluloid strip, that projects an ephemeral flickering moon on the gallery wall. The number of holes refers to the task of Scheherezade, who invented a new tale each night to fight off her beheading by the King. Like the Inventory of small deaths each frame a separate gouge becomes a single flickering object through the lamp and motor whirr of the projector.
The space is filled up with the clanging sounds of drops of liquid breaking against metal surfaces, that swell and fade, mimicking the noise of heavy rainfall. A single naked bulb marks and draws attention to a point of contact with the world above the boards. It lights a microphone fixed to gather sounds from the belly of an anodized bowl that protrudes through the ceiling.
You emerge from the mouth of the stairwell into the brightly lit space beneath the glass roof of the gallery, to a much simpler and more open landscape. The artist has bored a continuous line of small holes into the gallery walls, just below eye height, whose dark circles at regular intervals echo and reverse the filmstrip in the space beneath, as an unfurled tempo in space. The dust from the drillings is gathered into a tiny fine-grained mountain range that looks like desert sands emerging out of the light wood of the floor, viewed from miles above. The domestic washing bowl that gathers a single timed drip from a translucent tube set in the frame of the glass ceiling punctuates the space with a slow rhythm, and is triggering the recordings downstairs. Muffled and distant, as they get more frenetic they begin to sound like drum beats or simple church bells, and the tempos bleed between the spaces.
There is a refined subtlety to Neuenschwander’s work, drawing on a heavily narrative iteration of minimalist presentation, containing a poetic repetition of motifs that become echoes of each other, and function like the components of a machine space, of things and cyclic time registers held in suspension.
11.11.08
On Time and Gary Hill
Gary Hill Inasmuch As It Is Always Already Taking Place. 1990
(10 screens, 10 channels of sound: fragments of barely audible narrated text, sounds of running water.)
American Analytic philosopher Donald Herbert Davidson proposed a theory of events that had two major conditions: a causal criterion and a spatiotemporal criterion. [Something] happens [somewhere for a measurable duration].
And, drifting out of more scientific realms surely the edges must bleed and blur – the inception or approach of something-to-happen as happening already, conditions of observation. I was certain that an event (even if it was to be a proverbial non-event) must have occurred if it had been filmed and screened: a mechanical record of an object or of objects (image object, sound object) moving forward in chronological time.
I wondered what occurred at the point of the breakdown in linear narrative in multi-screen video works that can be read as simultaneous fracturings of an event, rupturings of the illusions of wholes, and whether a negation of the event, as a feedback loop cleaved out of chronology and eddying, could become an event. Especially inasmuch as it re-enters the time-line ‘proper’ in the state of transmission with each iteration.
I wondered whether in no longer reconstructing the representation of an event, whether the work itself could be considered to be an event, or whether it could skirt closer to Badiou’s conceptions of the event.
If the point of entry is to be the title it arrives as a summative statement of unknown plottings, placing itself somewhere in a fluid temporality where it takes place as a kind of immanent state. (Taking place suggests a colonisation.) … BADIOU: Let us say that it is vain to imagine that one could invent anything at all (and every truth is an invention) were nothing to happen, were “nothing to have taken place but the place” [Handbook 11] …
Here the human body, the body of the artist, presented as a ‘multiple’* of sites at chest height, faking telepresence. Cinematically splayed and co-existent – a reading and writing of a body as a collision of texts and discrete systems, and colonies of cells, reduced to the monochromatic stretches of skin, but still held together in a single pictorial space and as a single quasi-functioning organism. I couldn’t escape the constraints of the formal hermeticism of the work which perhaps couldn’t enact a departure into the being of an event as a nexus of Badiou’s 5 criteria.
I wondered whether the work could be connected to a Deleuze-and-Guattarian event as becoming as it stages a perverted mimesis of the human form legible as the de-stratification process of the Body Without Organs. The body-image as a process of becoming, metaphorically resident in the Aeon, DELEUZE AND GUATTARI: the floating time that knows only speeds and continually divides that which transpires into an already-there that is at the same time not-yet-here, a simultaneous too-late and too-early, [Somewhere in A Thousand Plateaus, owner of book asleep] ‘inasmuch as it is always already taking place’. The plane of consistency is the skin, held inside the monitors, through which the de-stratification takes place. A diagram that constructs a performative real that is yet-to-come…
*(and here a very literal transmission of Badiou’s concept of the ‘multiple’ which constitutes a ‘situation’ but perhaps not the rogue incalculables and supplements that engender his thoughts about the nature of the ‘true’ event). (and here I also wonder what pure chance actually means and whether it is possible for it to exist. There’s always physics.)
3.11.08
Sturtevant, excellent.
Tate paper on replication here.
I filmed a Tate Webcast event today, and was pretty enthralled, especially by a Frieze interview mock-up. Will post a link when it's archived, for my own entertainment.
29.10.08
re blue.
(Blue Ink, Black Tires)
i) Straight away, the dissolution of biblical ceilings, elemental weatherings, and chromatographic drips.
Irridescence is held in suspension, freed by more liquidity that forces the blood shine out to dry on the surface.
My fat fingered father and the stench of chem labs, sniffing vials of building blocks.
ii) The soft warm black, crisping round the edges, rolling around beneath small fingers. The erotic potentials of coits, malleable, lingering in cages in the wooden games shed. A forbidden zone: sunwarmed and bovine, giving up the stench of fraying rubber when the door slammed shut, and minutes spent alone...
The dim unlits clawing their primary colours back from the darkness in a wide-eyed concentration.
iii) I am a wavelength thrum, smashing into your rods and cones.
Look up.
All lies.
That which reaches your eyes is a scattering of waves and particles against thick skies.
Imagine me trapped as Lapis, ground to dust and daubed on cloaks. I am supposed to be your mother. The most expensive, fetched up from the brown earth and ground powdered.
27.10.08
Heidegger, The Origin of the Work of Art
pp. 145-6 There is something stony in a work of architecture, wooden in a carving, coloured in a painting, spoken in a linguistic work, sonorous in a musical composition. The thingly element is so irremovably present in the artwork that we are compelled rather to say conversely that the architectural work is in stone, the carving is in wood, the painting is in colour, the linguistic work in speech, the musical composition in sound. "Obviously," it will be replied. No doubt. But what is this self-evident thingly element in the work of art?
...The work makes public something other than itself; it manifests something other; it is an allegory. In the work of art something other is brought together with the thing that is made. To bring together is, in Greek, SYMBALLEIN. The work is a symbol
Yes, yes, baby steps, but actually pretty useful to re-begin with Kant, Hegel and Heidegger, and decode origins of my thoughts about what constitutes an artwork, and investments in 'truth' etc. etc.
16.10.08
From Seth Price's Dispersion
Text available here.
It is useful to continually question the avant-garde’s traditional romantic opposition to bourgeois society and values. The genius of the bourgeoisie manifests itself in the circuits of power and money that regulate the flow of culture. National bourgeois culture, of which art is one element, is based around commercial media, which, together with technology, design, and fashion, generate some of the important differences of our day. These are the arenas in which to conceive of a work positioned within the material and discursive technologies of distributed media.
Distributed media can be defined as social information circulating in theoretically unlimited quantities in the common market, stored or accessed via portable devices such as books and magazines, records and compact discs, videotapes and DVDs, personal computers and data diskettes. Duchamp’s question has new life in this space, which has greatly expanded during the last few decades of global corporate sprawl. It’s space into which the work of art must project itself lest it be outdistanced entirely by these corporate interests. New strategies are needed to keep up with commercial
distribution, decentralization, and dispersion. You must fight something in order to understand it.
Mark Klienberg, writing in 1975 in the second issue of The Fox, poses the question:
“Could there be someone capable of writing a science-fiction thriller based on the intention of presenting an alternative interpretation of modernist art that is readable by a non-specialist audience? Would they care?” He says no more about it, and the question stands as an intriguing historical fragment, an evolutionary dead end, and a line of inquiry to pursue in this essay: the intimation of a categorically ambiguous art, one in which the synthesis of multiple circuits of reading carries an emancipatory potential.
14.10.08
E K P H R A S I S.
(A script.)
ALAS.
I begin with the Rorschach splatters of coffee that were among those that doused my Macbook, rendering all its phrases untouchable.
Here I attempt to summarise, expand, exclaim that which is written. It is easier perhaps to write like Diderot than it is to speak like him......
Notes on the public.
Diderot was of his age – a denizen of the imperfect tense. He was summoning an audience for paintings, and sketching out their modes of thought.
He was embedded in the politics, embroiled in the duckings and fuckings of the artists, and wrote them all in, in hypersubjective prose.
I did not have time to visit the Wallace collection, as instructed, and so logged on, as one does, in search of vistas to elucidate, eye-snags to write…
Paintings seeking to summon attention, the enraptured haltings in front of an image, now submit to the Google-inflicted hierarchies of the keyword search.
This is a democratization of sorts – a lottery of associations that may constitute an accidental audience (perhaps seeking pink punctae of somebody’s wife’s yellowed breasts), or one who seeks deliberately.
Museums and galleries represent their collections as an online entity, seeking to fling open the doorlessnesss, expand audiences, to have an absent presence.
At the Wallace I stumbled around the badly laid out rooms searching for the right work – a bucolic scene to enter and emote.
The works within are industry standard 72ppi scans, a mere thumbnail – such an etiolated crescent, a discardable fragment that does not bite into the integrity of the whole, and one deliberately limited in its power to affect.
(Here we enter a discussion of intellectual property, and the fenced-off commons of commerce – you can look but you can’t see…)
Institutions generate revenue by supplying Hi-res scans and licensing photographic copyright to parties that wish to use them. Last year I licensed academic usage of images for Tate. A debate rages about this particular band of charging – V&A have abolished fees for academics, but the others cling to the income it provides.
They deliberately limit the quality of online images, sending a shitty version out into the world to represent the image of the image, but it itself is unviewable as anything other than a patch of tonal shifts and figures sketched roughly. Where is the hand of the artist, the traces of the brush, crests of poisonwhite rising up tenderly beneath pale washes of Northern European skin…?
This is not really public property, but it masquerades as such. If you purchase a Hi-res it is let loose from the corral, shackled by paperwork. It will toss its mane through your machine, but cannot legally produce fertile offspring.
Notes on entry, notes on close observation.
I was struck by Diderot’s use of emergent scientific terminologies – ways in which to order thoughts across all territories in the new mappings and constructions of taxonomies, In particular the molecules of dust drift heavy.
I take a deep breath and press my face into the liquid crystal to enter the image, and attempt a closer analysis.
Once in, a sharp shard dislodges from the forms and slides up inside my eyelid. It can only be a pixel – an irreducible unit of digital pictorial space. Seeking round for the source of my discomfort, a tiny black square appears beneath me, weeping softly “Oh, Oh, Oh”.*
Anyway, desiring the ability to scrutinize the work, but being limited by JPEG compression algorithms, the landscapes fragmented whichever way I turned, their corners pulling at my hair and clothes, and they loomed creaking into flat planes of perfect colour. I wandered off thinking about the epistemic shifts in the aesthetics of human desire to transcend visual limits and to see the unseeable – from the conjectured space of the droplet of Thames water (molecules as metaphors), through the chilling lunar landscapes of electron microscopy, and now an endless expanse of monochrome.
*0, 0, 0, is the hexadecimal co-ordinates for black – it is not an absence as they are all on the same plane
6.10.08
Pots and Pans
pan-pan |panpan|
noun
an international radio distress signal, of less urgency than a mayday signal.
ORIGIN 1920s: pan from French panne ‘breakdown.’
17.9.08
14.9.08
Anne Karpf - great book
Anne Karpf The Human Voice
To see how thin our thinking about the voice really is, meet the speakers of the Tzeltal language in Tenejapa, Mexico. Not only do they talk a great deal, but they also spend a large part of their time judging, commenting on, or mocking the way the other speaks. The word k'op is a central feature of their metalinguistic lexicon: combined with other words, it's used to describe more than 400 separate speech situations and characteristics. Tzeltal has words that refer to the personality of the speaker, their physical, mental, emotional, and postural condition, their location, social identity, and volubitlity. It has others for 'talking with a nice, mellow, singing voice', 'talking very slowly, as if sad', and 'talking with a high voice, not quite falsetto, but almost singing'. Tzeltal can identify 'high, scratchy, cracking voice -- characteristics of adolescents', 'speech that is poor and indistinct in which the speaker's head is turned away from the listener', 'pouted whining talk from someone with a wounded ego ', and 'speech that is excessively self-assertive, that is loud and forceful coming out with great confidence (negatively valued)'.
Tzeltal-speakers are plain speakers. They have different words to describe 'speech cut off midstream during a conversation so that the speaker can go outside to urinate or defecate', 'speech that trails off into nothing as the speaker falls asleep (especially apt for describing drunk persons)', and 'a kidding-around voice, when someone says, "I'm going now," and doesn't mean it'. The idea that the Innuit have dozens of words for snow, it's now clear, is apocryphal -- nothing more than an urban legend. Perhaps it should be replaced in the popular imagination by the number of Tzeltal words for talk.
8.9.08
Margaret Tait
Lux Online
Hugh MacDiarmid - A Portrait
Margaret Tait, 1964, 9 mins b/w 16mm
Tait's affectionate portrait of Scotland's great poet
'An original kind of tribute' is what George Mackay Brown called Tait's 1964 documentary about one of Scotland's greatest poets; Hugh MacDiarmid.
"A study of the poet, who was seventy-one at the time. There is straightforward material, of him in his own home, and, in addition to speaking his own poems, the poet gracefully enacts the filmmaker's interpretation of them. The poems heard are 'You know who I am', 'Somersault', 'Krang' and some lines out of 'The Kind of Poetry I want'. The music is Francis George Scott's setting of MacDiarmid's 'The Eemis Stane', sung by Duncan Robertson accompanied on the piano by Olive Ogston." - Margaret Tait
4.9.08
3.9.08
Me Vs. The Atlantic:
Grappling with the mechanics of tectonics and continental drift.
See also: Joe Vs. the Volcano, The People Vs. Larry Flint
Firstly there are at least 5 longitudinal segments, imagined, goaded into a grid by Mercator, hovering invisible.
There: dawn breaks later.
I count backwards as finger twitches, still.
There are points on maps, and words for points that morph across languages. Points are connected by the arcs of flight paths, or the slim grey scars of road building that halt at coasts and offer out their throats out to horizon lines.
Volumetrically there are billions of metric litres, and imperial gallons, more tamed taxonomic mathemappings by which to judge a wet barrier, brimming with organisms, a skin gripped by ships. Its zoning is fluid - the water molecules whip between territories and off to different seas and skies. The lips nibble at land masses.
Geologies are cinematic. Architectures are cinematic. They find you, lapping against screens, until you know them like your own memories. Mini malls grapple with weatherboards and storm windows.
As a toddler I'd sit swallowed by seats with ash trays beside you, colouring in, screaming descents as pressure changes tore at my ear drums. We'd land in Bermuda to refuel, sweating in a hot tin shed on an airstrip. We'd switch to propeller planes, tacking across land, and bicker gently. Ailerons lift to drift down.
I love flying
because it’s flying:
a mixture of physics
and desire
There was a thick brown brick curve around a tree shaded lawn, with trips to the Bronx Zoo and mint choc chip - later a squat pastel palace with artificial breezes and lizards and driveway fissures in baked concrete.
Families deposited like sediments by European tides hacked out places to live and filled them with gadgets, of course, and those small clowns and other things that I understood less. Radios and blackened Lotto stubs. They seemed normal enough, but we didn't exactly speak the same language, so banana skins would dance, lights would flicker on and off, and plastic strips of red liquorice would appear in the large damp refrigerator amongst peanut butter, half and half, peccorino and root beer. She would rise early from the couch in that shiny purple nightdress and make waffles, smelling softly of Vaseline, until the fanfare from a garage sale clock carried her off, smashed against dirty tiles.
There were obligatory visits to meandering strands of DNA and prosaic catchups. One would sit like a toad in the corner of a room, one guppy-faced, another with hollow eyes and china-fine sockets pressed up under temples, two more collaterals swallowed by obesity. New York drawls and scattered seed towards the deep dark south. There was always striped candy in thick cut crystal carafes, rolls of quarters and folded forest green notes pressed into small hands: toy money.
What a life you lived, and live, born in those times of James Dean and JFK, monochrome to Technicolor, and civil rights movements. I struggle to understand any of this, but I remember a cine flicker of you as a small girl with banana curls being forced to dance on a pavement by the same man who made us all dance until he was bored. Once, slimmed and frailed by tumours blossoming in his lungs, he put his hand on my back, and that was when I knew I loved him anyway.
The northern territories of the Americas. It was far enough away then, it lived a life to be caught up on when tunneled through the gateways of airports, but now too far for me. There is a slim thread spun out across the expanse, 5 days old, snagged against retractions round the calves of another.
31.8.08
7.8.08
c i r c u m l o c u t i o n
Every so often the laptop that gathers all these outpourings makes that gentle clunk, like a coin dropping onto a table.
Back in a waiting room I listen for the mispronunciation of my name - imagine the pause, inward groan, launch.
To the right a woman with thick nails like yellowed bakelite, rasps them across her face and flicks her hair.
4.8.08
24.7.08
1.6.08
Did you archive his hand in a black wooden jar?*
6 days or so back in Berlin.
It was happy.
I was happy.
We got on.
I tickled it playfully with my footsteps hopping on and off trams.
It offered me several fine Frühstücks.
I'm thinking about cheating on London.
Sidling off for weekends.
*and treepollensneeze
16.5.08
MR GREFS
There's an organism called slime mould. Its taxonomy is still in flux.
Welsh Wonder D.B., biology teacher to the godawful dopesmoking chrysalids, told of this thing that started amoebically, monocellularly, but formed into a slithering community that mobilized in search of lightwaves and nutrients, behaving like an animal. When it arrived it could self-organize into a plant-like entity or disband, muttering...
I went to a lecture at the B.D.C., which is the most drab ziggurat UPVC conservatories could ever dream of. Like the call of epic tuggings from all the adjacent gardens that uprooted, and slithered their way into Angel, trying to achieve this:
But achieving this:
The two speakers were from Reuters and Getty. The speaker from Reuters spoke about the changing nature of news photography, 12 minute turnaround times from shutter release to international distribution. She talked about using photographers within communities documenting their own lives, and a feature they did called Funeral Days shot in Gaza. She talked about a move towards abstraction in Western European news photography that led to features being represented by a pair of shoes, clasped hands, the back of a head, layout-conscious. They have to be seductive, because they have to be sold. Here more distancing then, and a fear of litigation after the violation of privacy.
The speaker from Getty noticed a move in the opposite direction with stock photography sales becoming more personalised - fiction fills in when fact strips away and withdraws. She talked about the green-wash palette now after the blue-wash leading up to the millenium, that calmed everybody through the terror of apocalypse, by suggesting they buy things.
20.4.08
26.3.08
S e m a n a S a n t a
Seville helped me really confront the immorality of holding a camera up to watch human movements, choreographed or otherwise. Disengaging empathy, replacing it with a machine and zoom reflex. You harden.
Flights are booked for Berlin...
14.3.08
9.3.08
markers
Chris Marker Texts
Including Sans Soleil and Letter from Siberia
I just watched Sans Soleil again, as it narrates place and slippages between places so utterly brilliantly.
War and the image - this time a withdrawal to a solarized digital abstraction.
The invasion of the camera into the activity of the observed, the anthropological watcher, is shocking, uncomfortable.
Interesting, though, is that it is softened by the removal of the letter read by a woman's voice.
Also, the intimacy of the letter read: a constant "He wrote me:"
So, he wrote me.
The she that reads and the other that listens and watches.
8.3.08
B r e v i t y / L e v i t y
The Introduction of the exhibition booklet for Double Agent at the ICA Curated by Claire Bishop and Mark Sladen (14 February to 6 April) states the following:
Double Agent is an exhibition of art works and collaborative projects in which he artist uses other people as a medium. All of the works raise questions of performance and authorship, and in particular the issues of ethics and representation that ensue when the artist is no longer the central agent in his or her own work, but operates through a range of individuals, communities, and surrogates.
One of the starting points for he exhibition is recent and conspicuous rise of interest in performance and performative gestures among contemporary artists. But today's generation, unlike their precursors in the 1960s and 70s, do not necessarily privilege the live moment or their own body. Instead, they engage in strategies of mediation, delegation and collaboration.
Such strategies can work to undermine the idea of the authentic or authoritative artist, who is substituted instead by a variety of figures. Such strategies can also promote unpredictability and risk, as the artist's agents may prove to be partial or unreliable. In some instances the use of third parties can also raise ethical issues and questions of exploitation.
6.3.08
Notes to self... (unfound(ed) list)
Current orders/methodologies/amendments:
(Points are an abstraction, a construct, so are theories)
The voice and film.
A kind of performance, but also a negation of performance.
(An absent presence and a present absence.)
Narration as uncertainty.
With architecture as a locus - to explore spaces, and sites, sights, cites...
Movement as a loss of language
Using the voice to perform space.
Language designed for speech, and the contsruction of an audience.
Bachelard - emptiness. Again, performing the space with language.
A lack of act - a space of thought, and memory.
Editing and a paring down.
The ethics of wielding a camera.
1.3.08
notes from Walid Raad
I saw Walid Raad talk yesterday at the Architecture Association. He gave a brilliant presentation on My Neck is Thinner than a Hair - a 20 year archive of information about over 3,000 car bombs that were detonated in Lebanon. On a purely formal level I was really engaged by the graphic style of his presentation - his live narration of the project, which he read from a script, merged seamlessly with the visuals - they had a genuine and paced relationship which rarely occurs... Also, his work was very design-conscious - it looked like a Rem Koolhaas research document, all vectors and photographic collage. This was interesting, because my confession is that I love typography and grid systems and vector graphics on screens and in magazines, but somehow it doesn't usually fit in with what I would generally consider to be an artist's approach to video. I feel like the video-aesthetic has to be muddied, or it looks like graphic design or a more artisanal approach to creativity that seems somehow secondary to the more revered and crappy-but-inherently-honest artist's film.
These are here because I love them, all Rem Koolhaas:
And this brilliant iconoclastic film by Johnny Hardstaff:
The notes that I scrawled down were concerned with his movement away from the Atlas Group works, because of its contribution to what could be seen as a very strong tendency in contemporary practice to use the availability of all knowledge in the form of data, and submit it to increasingly idiosyncratic recombination. This is, in the end, a reductive and trivialising process, an emptying of real impact which is based on whimsy and arbitrariness of connection.
He also talked about the ruin as a labyrinth of fractures in space and time, and his current video/photography works where buildings blur out of focus as an act of withdrawal - images 'at the speed of war' where art and culture have withdrawn and are no longer available as a result of trauma.
we can make rain but no one came to ask.
I loved this staccato title. As a visual statement it is punchy in a language often overburdened with polysyllabic verse. He seems to understand, with such virtuosity, so much of the political, visual, and textual methods he uses, but I feel like he himself is now in a process of withdrawal - he understands that he cannot win, cannot find a neutral position from which to comment or affect change, but only to perpetuate, and so he is retreating to an idealised crispness, where less is directly iterated.
27.2.08
Buildings
Frederic Chaubin
and therein:
"Stroom in The Hague is preparing an exhibition with Romanian-Dutch artist Calin Dan. He is concerned with, as he calls it, ‘emotional architecture’. He has a strong focus on the non-materialist aspects of a building, it socio-political history, its mental status, etc. And the synopsis of one of his videoworks “Trip” reads: “‘Trip’ has its starting point in the main oeuvre of Estonian architect Raine Karp – the concert hall he designed for the city of Tallinn between 1975-1980. Considered by the locals to be the most important building realized in the country, Linnahall is the embodiment of the historical period of its realisation, a time capsule preserving the utopian ideas of centralized power and of egalitarian modernism. Next to that, Linna Hall is an extreme example of how architecture can stir public emotions in the present time of corporate predominance.”
Posted by: Arno van Roosmalen on September 15th, 2006 at 1:12 am
Calin Dan
24.2.08
public napping
My lips today were Russian Red, and I wouldn't lick them, and I didn't drink, so they dried out like paper.
The surface curled into armoured plates.
I want to look as much like a doll as possible, slide backwards inside the case.
My gut was still full of Andrei Rublev, thick snow and bell-casting. All the monastery scenes have oozed their way into the memories I have of visiting St. Sergius's on the outskirts of Moscow. There were God's fools and those that couldn't walk sat inside the thick walls, even then, as spring broke... I saw priests and family members struggling with a wheelchair up steps and into the thick wooden doors of a church, and I lifted my camera up to film it because it was perfect. I was out of sync with finger taps on the record button, and ended up with nothing - serves me right. The other great loss was the time lapse on the night train between Moscow and St. Petersburg when my camera, lovingly ductaped to the window powered down long before dawn broke.
I had another conversation about Russia this week over awkward ramen. It's a spectre.
I went filming in Columbia Road as a preparation for Seville, and it was an ordeal - it made me address practicalities and my own choreography. I love the manual focus ring, but it's really difficult getting crowd shots from within surging crowds. There are just a barrage of knockings and understandable hostility. The camera is not an amorphous god-eye on a Lynch glide, it is a black invasive cylinder with a fragile trajectory.
I banged into someone who used to eat lunch with Derek Jarman, and always looks bored when he is talking to girls...
Afterwards we slid through Hackney City Farm to London Fields, and it was nice to smell warm hay and shit in the dusk of animal sheds.
Then back to Serpentine to fall asleep inside the central room with looping screens. Public napping is glorious. On safe black cushions and lying between the bleeding sounds of Jarmans.
19.2.08
9.2.08
p a r a b o l a
Letter to Zohra Drif by Helene Cixous
and, Taking a Stand for Algeria by Jacques Derrida.
De gauche à droite: Samia Lakhdari, Drif Zohra, Djamila Bouhired, Hassiba Bentbouali.
30.1.08
From 'London Orbital' by Iain Sinclair
pg 36
"The work Mark Atkins does is complementary. He observes the observers; he keeps his own record of journeys that are not of his choosing. The narrative he assembles is fragmentary. It doesn't have to be read in any particular order. Its intention is to freeze time; a deadpan gaze at some view, a building, a stretch of river."
------
I am slowly gathering all the topographic studies narrated by a collision of testimony, history, fiction and observation, especially of London. Every week I go somewhere different, plot points on maps guided by dialogues with art in cities, films, talks, and this endlessness makes me seek solace in propositions for journeys already completed and transferred. The mining of archives. The narrators are not the certain creatures that lie outside time. The soundtrack to journeys that Janet Cardiff injects - more temporal and spatial flux rendered entirely in sound during walks. The closeness is shocking. It jolts and seduces.
I am reminding myself of the idea I had about acting as, or using the body as, a stylus in response to spaces, environments, objects - links to writing (the palimpsest) and a method of reproducing sound from the navigation of shallow physical spaces pressed into heated vinyl - the storage of information for reconstruction...
Hotels project.
g l o w
This flat plane of plywood glows around the scab of land a pub used to occupy, now guarded from eyes and tamperers. They used to cut eye holes in the high walls that surrounded city centre construction sights, so, craning, you could see dug mud and static machinery.
28.1.08
23.1.08
e n t r o p y
Camden Arts Centre: A really simple and great programming of films about decay and entropy in buildings - forced, assisted, fabricated. From Serra to Charles Simonds building tiny little ruins into the landscape of derelict lower east-side tenements, and they were really really amazing poignant little echoes - fragile lost civilizations teetering inside quoins with bricks dislodged by poverty and decay.
Gordon Matta-Clark.
Splayed and splintered and cross sectional.
We all love him now - the beautiful destroyer.
On Friday on the the way out of ICA, symbols on symbols, the placing of these small sweet sad offerings, Flanders fields factory-manufactured in crenellated red paper and held on by that black round shiny shallow cylinder, transplanted, and soon all dead - no difference between the ones that survived and the ones that fell in trenches, but that their own bodies got them. The war memorials are linked together symbolically, as those in other countries are ours - interpenetration in pockets. Sometimes it is so difficult to remember that countries do not exist any more than money does.
o i l t a n k
This morning at 9 am - a visit to the oil tanks underneath Tate Modern. They will be incorporated into Tate Modern 2 as specialised performance and display spaces underneath the crystalline structure that will rise up ten floors...
I had a quick look over the proposals put in by architects for TM1 - some of the big names, and Herzog and de Meuron were the only ones that preserved the sanctity of the Turbine Hall as the giant space it is, instead of building into it. Keeping the void at the centre, and squashing everything else into the peripheries... The new building will be an interesting mix of converted industrial architecture in the bowels (at this stage designated as a performance space) and built elements on top entirely constructed, and bounded only by the value and scale of real estate beneath.
20.1.08
19.1.08
12.1.08
Walid Raad/Atlas Group
I saw "Document title: Let's be honest, the weather helped." in Guggenheim NY in the Summer, and am still haunted by it. All the bullets fired at pock-marked buildings [of course, one does not really fire at buildings] had coloured tips. In the beginning the colours were noted for their aesthetic value, mapped onto black and white photographs of buildings in clusters of colour-coded dots, where they lay or were wedged. It was later discovered that this provided an index of which side or faction had fired, as the colours denoted sides. An inert scattered mapping of bullets that had not fulfilled their function, and traces of transient occupation and shifting boundaries of front-line as urban space...
Eyal Weizman keynote lecture at Frieze
8.1.08
s h e l t e r
A bus shelter on Millbank. The advertisement had pinged up inside, and I thought how beautiful it was, and how refreshing not to be sold anything for a change.
4.1.08
a p e r t u r e
*1.an intervening space. 2.a small or narrow space or interval between things or parts, esp. when one of a series of alternating uniform spaces and parts: the interstices between the slats of a fence. 3.Roman Catholic Church. the interval of time that must elapse, as required by canon law, before promotion to a higher degree of orders. 4.an interval of time. [Origin: 1595–1605; < L interstitium, equiv. to interstit-, var. s. of intersistere to stand or put between + -ium]
3.1.08
S k e l e t o n
Hopkins Architects
AJ Article
We move quickly underground. These shallow stacked concrete catacombs rise up to the surface of my favourite building in London. Their empty fascist brutality, swathed in thin nets and tenderly lit, leads back to the rough boundary wall that sweeps upwards to take breath underneath that ugly clock... I want to populate one of them with a film. The the hot-breath whir and clank of a slide projector slotting echos of buildings into the buttressed shelves.
Skeleton: Investigating a Site, John Newling, p. 6:
L+: "Would you attach current art labels to the work, and call it a 'site-specific' work? Do you think that these labels have any meaning?
JBN: It is true that Skeleton was built for that site. Indeed Skeleton would never have been formed without that response to the site. In this sense it is site-specific. However, I sometimes feel the label 'site-specific' is a bit of nonsense. At any one moment, any object in any site is site-specific. In other words, the relationship of object to site at the moment of cognition is linked. This is why I think the label 'site-specific' is, at times, used as a catch-all.
----------
p. 10
L+: If Skeleton is therefore not necessarily moral, would you call it political? Does it adopt a stance wherein the artist holds up a mirror to society?
JBN: For me it is political, yes. The notion of holding up a mirror to society, however, lacks investigation.It suggests that artists are immune, removed from, and looking down on society.
One of the problems in the idea of mirroring is that there is a tendency to demonstrate the outcome of that reflection rather than investigating aspects that form the reflection. To keep demonstrating has a danger of ossifying the so called truths held within that demonstration. When art becomes overtly political or moral, then the work has a tendency to become illustrative of an idea rather than investigative.
29.12.07
s l o w
When I remember moving image footage it always appears as a single frame, with a vague flicker of motion, suspense or sorrow attached. The only sequence I can play in 'real time' is the 'unreal time' of the gust of wind sweeping through trees and knocking over still-life objects on the misplaced table in Tarkovsky's Mirror.
[My favourite cinematic jolt of all time is the nonchalant drink from the well, with the camera tilt to reveal the barn violently ablaze in the distance.]
I write this as a provocation to myself to consider the simple act of reducing the speed of moving footage which imbues it with monumentality: an elevation of the prosaic. It is a cinematic construct, which does not exist independently of photographic practices, and yet it is a 'readable' action that produces an affect. It can be too easy, but its pull is difficult to resist.
There is a similarity here with desaturation, which functions as a graphic removal. It is impossible for the brain to re-saturate, so the film remains removed from cinema-as-simulacra in a hallowed ashen antechamber.
-----
Yesterday getting on the jubilee line there was a middle aged woman with a plaited hairband made from acrylic hair that was a different shade to her own hair. It could only ever produce disgust.
I am ingesting and egesting pathogens that mutate and re-infect, re-inscribe themselves, and colonise. They are more efficient than I am - they are me. Rorschach patterns promulgate, spew from heres and theres and are gathered by rasping two-ply.
14.12.07
Found Lists I
A
Abscess
A localized collection of pus.
Absorption
Process of taking in; a color object absorbs certain rays of light which illuminates it while other rays are reflected.
Abut
Bluntly adjoin another structure.
Acetone
Dimethylketone; a colorless liquid which is used to remove scabs, a solvent for wax, or as a stain remover.
Achromatic Color
A color not found in the visible spectrum; a neutral color such as white, black, gray, and silver and gold (for decorative purposes).
Acquired Facial Markings
Those developed throughout your lifetime, as a result of repetitious use of certain muscles.
Additive Method
Process of mixing colored lights on a surface whereby the wave lengths of each are combined; adding of two or more lights together to create another light.
Adhesive
Sticking or adhering closely; a substance which may be applied in order to sustain contact of two surfaces.
After-Image
Psychological; visual impression remaining after the stimulus has been removed.
Airbrush
A kind of pressured atomizer for spraying liquid paint or cosmetic upon a surface.
Alveolar Process
The ridge projecting from the inferior surface of the maxilla (and the superior surface of the mandible) which contains the sockets of the teeth.
Alveolar Prognathism
Sockets of the teeth protrude.
Amputate
Cut off a limb; dismember.
Analogous
In color, two or more hues which have the same hue in common.
Anatomical Guides
Descriptive references for locating anatomical structures by means of the anatomical structures which are known.
Anatomical Position
The position of the body standing erect, arms to the side of the body, and the palms of the hands turned outward (forward).
Anchor
A material or technique employed to secure tissues or restorative materials in a fixed position.
Angle
Angulus; a sharp turn formed by the meeting of two borders or surfaces.
Angle of Projection
The degree from the vertical at which the surface(s) of a prominent feature projects.
Angle of the Mandible
Angle formed by junction of the posterior edge of the ramus of the mandible and the inferior surfaces of the body of the mandible.
Angulus Oris Eminence
The small, convex prominence, lateral to the end of the line of lip closure of the mouth.
Angulus Oris Sulcus
The groove at each end of the line of closure of the mouth.
Antemortem
Before death.
Anterior
Before or in front of; refers to the ventral or abdominal side of the body.
Anterior Nares
External nostril openings.
Antihelix
Inner rim of the ear.
Antitragus
Small eminence obliquely opposite the tragus, located on the superior border of the lobe of the ear.
Aperture
An opening.
Aqueous
Watery, prepared with water as a solvent.
Aqueous Humor
The clear, thin alkaline fluid which fills the anterior chamber of the eyeball.
Aquiline
Curved, as the beak of an eagle; a nose which has a "hook" as seen from a profile view.
Arch
Any structure of a curved or bow-like outline.
Areolar
Containing minute interspaces in a tissue.
Armature
Framework; a material, generally of pliable metal or wood, employed to create a frame of support for a wax restoration.
Aspiration
Draw out liquids or gases by means of suction.
Asymmetry
Lack of symmetry or proportion; similarity without identity.
Found Here. A poetic post-mortem. Angulus Oris Sulcus is beautiful, I'll press my tongue there now, feel my own, newly named. The body, chimed in latin, is beautiful. Even the defective, the tired, splayed out in angles, tissue peeled back to reveal poetry, mapped, reconstructed.
The preservation of the body after death, the halt of decay so the living can cling, ignore the meat. The painting on of pallor. Gold worked in as a monument. The dead are precious.
I have aspirations.
double b l i n d
The field of vision crept in with a sparkle. At first it is impossible to tell - merely surmised that things which should be there are not, small pockets of space pulled backwards and knotted out of sight, but there is no noticable marker for the absence.
I was reminded of a lecture by Joshua Sofaer years ago, when he talked about losing sight, and Derek Jarman's Blue, and Borges explaining blindness not being the blackness expected, but noise - a blue-green static flicker.
Another wet wretch of a day and this year slid towards winter again.
In amidst a strange drift I met the mist of Gormley, and actually thought it didn't suck.
The tenderness of white-out seemed so different to the wide-eyed attempt to focus into black - a relaxing purgatory, a space longed for across airplane wings.
The 24 other people allowed in the installation loomed randomly at reverant pace and then receded, carrying their voices off into the unseen.
The 'Matrices and Expansions' were really beautiful, chemical fields and carbon-structured explosions around human voids.
The toast was shit.
A few years ago they* invented the darkest pigment it is possible to produce by creating a microfine surface furrowed so deeply that it absorbs nearly all light that hits it. The eye, confronted with such infinity, panics.
*who are they? Usually scientists.
7.12.07
S u b l i m a t i o n
Just scoffed at the Sublime in the Hobgoblin, discussed colons, parentheses, snappy titles. (and parenthetically scoffing and scoffing)
Can there possibly be anything left to say? Apparently it's back in vogue, being funded. (Donate to the sublime! DO IT! Your pound could keep the sublime ticking over in academia for forty-five minutes!)
What was there to be said about it anyway, rather than experienced, alone? Neurochemistry. It is an inbuilt mechanism-emotion-response in the brain - to what end? Find the right section of the lobe, and prod it. Drop it with its visual cortex firing on a clifftop amidst swelling mists and steep drops.
I talked about Miroslaw Balka's concrete breath reducing me to quasi-religious hot wet tears in Venice. I suppose also being thumped in the stomach acoustically by Beethoven, at the exact moment when the entire orchestra kicks in and nothing but sound exists.
My strange grapple with patriotism feels like that brinking hysteria. I'm permanently lost, one of those unsettled beings that wanders the zeitgeist, but the small vestigial gland in my gut pumps out lust and sorrow when I hear poetry about Flanders fields, Rule Britannia and the Star Spangled banner. It's the voice then, in part. And the surrender to every emotion simultaneously.
I feel like I turned up at the party late. Fractal theorisations spiral off from the branches set down by the Titans. Now we weave, reduce, pick through the remains. Everything feels remembered. The spiral tightens. Bounded by lamp-lit corridors with two cupboards in which one can defecate, or sleep standing up...
3.12.07
1.12.07
Star Spangled...
Flash text from -Star Spangled to Death Ken Jacobs, Jack Smith, Jerry Sims 1956-60/2003-4. Disc 3 01:59:56
from WAIT FOR ME AT THE BOTTOM OF THE POOL
The Writings of Jack Smith
Edited by J. Hoberman and Ed Lettingwell
Capitalism of Lotusland
Could art be useful? Ever since the desert glitter drifted over the Burnt-out ruins of Plaster Lagoon thousands of artists have pondered and dreamed of such a thing, yet, art must not be used anymore as another elaborate means of fleeing from thinking because of the multiplying amount of information each person needs to process in order to come to any kind of decision about what kind of planet one wants to live on before business, religion, and government succeed in blowing it out of the solar system.
Let art continue to be entertaining, escapist, stunning, glamorous and NATURALISTIC - but let it be loaded with information worked into the vapid plots of, for instance, movies. Each one would be a more or less complete exposition of one subject or another. Thus you would have Tony Curtis and Janet Leigh busily making Yoghurt; Humphrey Bogart struggling to introduce a basic civil law course into public schools; infants being given to the old in homes for the aged by Ginger Rogers; donut-shaped dwellings with sunlight pouring into central patios for all, designed by Gary Cooper; soft, clear plastic bubble cars with hooks that attach to monorails built by Charlton Heston that pass over the Free Paradise of abandoned objects in the center of the city near where the community movie sets would also be; and where Maria Montez and Johnny Weismuller would labour to dissolve all national boundaries and release the prisoners of Uranus. But the stairway to socialism is blocked by the Yvonne de Carlo Tabernacle Choir waving bloody palm branches and waiting to sing the "Hymn to the Sun" by Irving Berlin. This is the rented moment of EXOTIC LANDLORDISM OF PREHISTORIC CAPITALISM OF TABU.
- Jack Smith, 1978
27.11.07
Shiritori
Shiritori By Hikaru Toda Goldsmiths Centre for Visual Anthropology. I like this. (Liking things is more of a warm wordless wash than disliking things), a warm film. The grandmother has a fantastic face. A personal testimony, not really sure where it is going.
26.11.07
Francis Alÿs
I love this film. It reminds me of a similarly fantastic film I saw by a Canadian in a film night a few years ago in Liverpool (name sadly unremembered) who had squeezed, jumped or dangled his way into every ignored or forbidden space on the boundaries of public and private space, in a series of static camera shots that built up a great visual rhythm. Teasing the boundaries. Really, for the most part public space is an illusion - tightly policed by design. Usage is predetermined. The wide vista felt on a street is actually a narrow canal through vast swathes of unknowable rooms.
And then these accidental slippages...
Painting Present: Francis Alÿs Tate Online, took place 10.04.03
25.11.07
Cragg.
John Tusa interview with Tony Cragg. BBC Radio 3 website.
Tony Cragg made a very interesting point about the materials of artistic creation being industrial materials.
24.11.07
w a n d e r s .
(From July 7th) I clung to a battered map, and wandered about in the East for a change, with a notebook and a bottle of water... 
I saw for the first time that strange stripped pagoda of stairs behind fire station on Old Street. A building constructed entirely of escape routes.
*"We Stopped in the Colonade" 58 Old Bethnal Green Road - nice space, boring art. Well, a nice enough hare and some poppers jars cast and copper coated (I finally in writing this began to think about implications. I picked one up, although this is so obviously forbidden. There are so few symbols that circulate, but the cool weight of this diminutive object was intensely satisfying)... A film piece demanded at least a temporal attention. It seems too much fuss for a small gallery - its own little ritual of the slow rewind. It was probably challenging something cinematic, in a way that I couldn't be bothered to register as I flicked through the press releases, but still I had been transfixed by the whirr and the glowing slightly diffuse rectangle with soft penumbra.
More towers met on Columbia Road - fantastic modernist foothills undulate and bleed into small neat bourgeois terraces. In one of the windows was blue-tacked a rallying cry out against a the proposed construction of a tower - a twice civil opposition to a leviathan.
Cranes in the skyline signal hope.
Re-inscription
And finely balanced pivots.
*Peter Lewis, T1+2 Gallery, Hereford Street didn't interest me (blueish paintings on newspaper), but there was a book from the 6th Sharjah International Biennial** which was superlative and is grotesquely out of print. Fuck.
and through a curtain to...
*Kirk Palmer, Hiroshima, Paradise Row, Hereford Street. A simple, cleanly executed filmic (super 16 - HD display) study of the city. Images and sounds fade into eachother and the archaic noise of crickets in summer swells and lulls. I missed Japan. Palmer is an RCA graduate and I respected the crispness and subtlety of this work. The vistas were compositionally aware, and hung long enough to drift in and out of their time, and mine. 
..
(Enola Gay is one of the weirdest pieces of music ever written, innocuous and grave, I find it hypnotic. The first atomic bomb tested at Bikini Atoll was named Gilda, and had a picture of Rita Hayworth on it. Back in another city I told this to a friend, who countered with 'One day they will make bombs with pictures of YOU on them' - which stands as the most wonderful terrible thing anyone has ever said to me.)
*Marcus Coates at the strange temporary little Whitechapel - a good show, but I had been told in advance enthusiastically, elegantly, about the content. I agreed on most points. Dawn Chorus is so sad and perfect it is heart-breaking. The small space struggled to display it progressively on a monitor. It was shown as a multi-screen installation at Baltic.
* Global Cities. A display. A giant leaflet. An intersection. A beautiful beautiful thing. Francis Alys "Railings" and Hala Elkoussy "Peripheral Stories" were low-fi genius in those blackened little crawl spaces that mark the bounds of my territory.
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Peter Saville. Good punchy graphic design. The Swiss Flag tilted. Half a swastika.
Il Tempo del Postino in Manchester and back to/from Liverpool....
June Tabor singing Love Will Tear Us Apart slowly, unaccompanied, into an ink black auditorium was one of the most beautiful things I have ever heard. A voice.
Pierre Huyghe gives me a visceral YES every time. 
Matthew Vaseline Vaseline Plastic-bit Barney just annoyed me - it was an unimaginative transplantation of his onanistic film/installation universe without particularly bothering to use the space and time specific to this event. K.I.S.S. "Let there be a giant ramp and a forty tonne live bull that we shall attempt to encourage to no avail to mount an automobile", quoth he, and the stage is rebuilt. He had a dog on his head. A lady did a wee on the floor. His universe is epic, beautifully constructed, but I feel alienated by its hermeticism.
Virtuoso dogmatism.
I feel the same way about Libeskind. His Jewish Museum in Berlin has a predetermined narrative underpinning every angle in a way that keeps it alienated from a genuine cathartic purpose. It's a sculpture, not a museum, in a city that has a surplus of sombre monuments to the holocaust.
** From http://www.sharjahbiennial.org/en/
Sharjah is the third largest of the 7 constituent emirates of the United Arab Emirates (UAE). It rates as the cultural centre of the Federation. In 1998, Sharjah was UNESCO Cultural Capital of the Arab World. The settlement of Sharjah dates back some 6,000 years when it is believed to have been called Sarcoa. The population was small and people relied on trade and sea faring in addition to, farming, hunting, fishing and pearling. Many of the early settlements were based around the 'falaj',
a man made underground water course.
The official religion of the UAE is Islam and people adhere closely to the tenets of Islam in all aspects of their lives. The Sharia' Court*** enforces the law of the land which constitutes a mixture of written and verbal laws passed down from generation to generation. The laws of the government are passed by His Highness Dr. Sheikh Sultan bin Mohammed Al Qasimi, through the Emiri Diwan, to the various ministries and to the Municipality (Baladia) for implementation.
Family ties are very strong. National dress for men is the Kandora (Dishdasha), the long white robe and headdress. Women wear the traditional abbaya or black cloak. The cultural traditions go back to the days of the desert tribes and the influence brought upon them by migration.
Whilst the UAE is now a modern thriving entity, 50 years ago the towns were small with few facilities - electricity was powered by generator and water supplied by well. The leap into the developed world has taken place over a very short span of time. An enormous amount of adjustment and flexibility by the national people, have been key factors sustaining this change.
The Sharjah Biennial was initiated in 1993 and is produced by the Department of Culture and Information of the Emirate of Sharjah. It occupies a key regional position in the production and presentation of art and in fostering experimentation.
The Biennial strives to encourage collaboration between artists, art institutions and organisations locally, regionally and internationally, and to promote cross cultural exchange. This year, the Biennial will once again, offer the entire city of Sharjah to artists for the creation of new site-specific work.
*** which according to my farmed although not unrealistic preconceptions is the death knell for women, or anyone interested in dialogue rather than submission. I would hope that where contemporary art can exist there will be some hope, at least for dialogue. I wonder which would be corrupted first, although the 'art world' is a capitalist venture primarily - and capitalism thrives on amorality, but following it's own internal logic it is an international language of exchange. Information flows. Dubai - the most sinister high-tech Barrat magnolia showhome, raised glittering out of the desert, all referrent, has its own Biennale. It wanted one, because real cities have one. Perhaps it is even the most truthful manifestation of a language of footfall and economic exchange.
Perhaps, even, Matthew Barney is a bit like Dubai. He selected his Beuysian totem-materials, chose a logo, absorbed commercial tactics of his (per)for(m)efathers (the object-documentation, the dvd for sale), chucked money at it. It's a methodical line-up of elements of other successful practices. Grounded encyclopedically in Mythologies, metanarratives, biology - it couldn't possibly fail. Hang on a minture - it's boooooooooooring.
20.11.07
The mysteries of predictive text.
The word ennui is in predictive text.
And erratum.
See also the word raped (which I found when tapping in screened).
I'm not sure whether the first two words are therein because it was convenient, in terms of how language is hierarchised in finger taps on keys, or whether they were erected like magnificent gilded follies in volleys of urs and m8s, waiting to be discovered.
I'm trying to imagine a context where the need for raped would pop up.
Hexagon isn't there.
It must be an interesting task to design a finite language pool that is sufficient for all human communication as it drops vowels, substitutes letters for numbers, and waxes monosyllabic. Eventually phones will preempt all manner of conversations and decision-makings and communicate amongst themselves with pips and squeaks like pippistrelles. After, like good parents, you have taught them to swear.
Swearing and the Brain Limbic, apparently.
Arbitrary phonemes that gather language's need for unspeakable loathing and offense, meanings that drift and differ from neigbouring synonyms.
Biloxi Potter George E. Ohr made clay tokens stamped wth txt spk in the 19th C, and had a good Moustache. I'll come back to this...
19.11.07
Hand over your alpha waves.
In 2003 I signed up for submission to psychological tests at a northern university department, nestled between the upsweep of a flyover, carparks and grim office façades. After purchasing a snack from a machine I was guided through a dank strip-lit labyrinth to a room with grey metal office storage and squat brown textile-seated chairs.
My assessor glued four small sensors into my hair and against my scalp to measure brainwaves. I seem to remember her wearing a white coat.
The object of the game was to keep a green crosshair in the centre of a target while maintaining the equilibrium of two other readings - a crude flight simulator played out in the green-on-black flicker of the eighties, with a creaking joystick. It reminded me of an old Apple Mac game where an 8 bit trumpet fanfare sounded, and the player dropped into a textureless black world with brutal polygonal wireframe tanks and obstacles rendered in white and red.
We would pause the task at measured lengths of time, in order to take saliva samples using those long dense cylinders of cotton wool encountered in dentistry. She was measuring for the presence of the hormone Cortisol, produced in the adrenal cortex in response to stress. My body's homeostatic response to the stress induced by the hand-eye homeostatic task. These would be compared to the brainwave readings and performance indicators.
I asked her what the purpose of the experiment was, and she ventured that the only people who really had the budget for this type of experiment was the military. She unofficially surmised, straight out of Wiener, that they were testing the viability of intelligent autopilots that would detect levels of boredom and distraction in the pilot's brains by reading brainwaves, and compensate accordingly, easing in and out symbiotically with the pilot's mental environment.
I remember at the time thinking the whole thing was a little bit underwhelming, considering its implications - but it also occurred to me that that is how it should be. The anti-climactic reality of much of the work that results in inventions or discoveries that nudge civilisation, and the battle to assert hegemony must often occur in these lousy and unassuming spaces.
---------------------------------------------------------
The second time my brainwaves were plugged in to a feedback system, this time an actuality, was in the Flight of the Navigator style spaceship by Mariko Mori, in the Arsenale show of Venice Biennale 2005.
Much cleaner, despite its location in a warehouse space, this time the attendants were definitely well drilled and all dressed in white. With feet inside neat white socks with rubber grips we were divided into threes and clambered into the ship. We plugged in our apple usb ports into the headrest, and reclined into smooth plastic dips, waiting for the door to slide shut and the show to begin.
Three sensors on the forehead read brainwaves and interpreted them into an animated visualisation of pulsating coloured orbs and oscillating lines*. Watching your brain shift state shifted the thought processes back to its own dialogue, and the animation cycled on on a dome above our heads that filled the visual field.
The art world triumphed in terms of style, but it left me wondering whether the developmental feedback from these experiments would be synonymic.
*Beta waves are found in the normal waking state of consciousness, and also anxiety or tension. They were represented by the colour red.
Alpha waves occur in the occipital region of the brain (the visual cortex), usually when the eyes are closed, during a state of relaxed wakefulness such as daydreaming or meditation. They were coloured blue.
Theta waves are found in near unconscious states as we drift in or out of sleep, in a rhythm connected to states of reverie and hypnogogic states that produce dreamlike imagery. This state was represented by the colour yellow.
18.11.07
w a t c h i n g / r e a d i n g
Watching "Star Spangled to Death" by Ken Jacobs. 
Reading "Species of Spaces and Other Pieces" by Georges Perec, trans. John Sturrock.
Footnote - Interactive platform demonstration at the ICA:
Dutch man! Your voice made me consider how much I love the voices of you plural, the Danish, the Swedish, all you sing-song northern Europeans. Remeber Jan de Vries off This Morning with Richard and Judy? Nicola would scream from another part of the house and I would gallop in half-clad and watch him dispense homeopathy with unbridalled fucking joy! I couldn't dislike you. You were not attractive, but neither were you not not attractive because of that noise that vibrated from your pink wet entirely human mouth, your tongue flickering off bony protruberances and delivering such eminent shit.
Your interactive software stinks.
What on earth makes you and these sold idiots think that because one CAN make things interactive, one automatically should?
They took their reasonable or unreasonable films and chopped them into segments that can be queued up automatically and switcharooed with three buttons. WHO CARES? Nothing was gained. Nothing.
I don't WANT to make all the decisions decisions from here on in, switch my view every time I get bored, lapse, waver. I trust these great minds who make 2, 3, 6 hour films - drag me through boredom, despair, finely paced agony, moments of amazement that drift in or over. Let them have control of the screen, and learn something.
You and chums are contributing to the denigration of the attention span, and not even in a way that is interesting.
Eventually there will be nobody left.
And I didn't stand up against you and spit venom because I never do. My heart beats too quickly, the words shake and scatter, and I never substantiate.
But just so you know - I win every argument, eventually, after you have gone.
----
addenda: Narrative structures are inevitable permutations of systems of human function and interaction. The internet/digital arts promise a synaesthetic everything, but rarely deliver anything like a tangible sense of satisfaction/resolution.
The deferred ending is the main constituent of a film.
30.10.07
i n s i d e r s v i l l e
It seems that if a creative practitioner is part of what constitutes a subjugated/subaltern group, their message as relating to that condition automatically gains a weight of validity, whether the work is any good or not... I have been struggling with ideas of Political Authenticity since I was an undergraduate, and the difficulty with attempting to discuss socio-political repression of any party that one has no immediate or even diluted link to.
A tutor during my first year of university produced pseuo-Boltanskis attempting to cry out against genocide by demonstrating the materiality of numbers murdered, encouraging familial association. It is very sensitive territory, and although I'm sure his intentions were worthy enough, his work seemed touristic - a greatest hits of atrocity, but ultimately superficial. He goes on holiday, looks at some mass graves, makes a work to show how awful this is, we agree, he moves on to a distinct location. But neither should these issues NOT be examined within the wider or less directly situated context of contemporary creative practice. Stumper. The production of monuments to atrocities is big business, not least because of the cathartic value for those who have survived. The need to acknowledge the human suffering, and remember. But there are different taxonomic branches of remembering - degrees of remove.
There is difficulty here, then. Without an 'insider' status, the work must navigate a no-man's land between worthiness and exploitation. There is perhaps a similar line walked in Curatorial Practice...
The Central Asian Project- a show that was on display in [ space ] 17th February - 14th April 2007 was indebted to Victor Misiano's Central Asian Pavilion at Venice, 2005. The Pavilion artists had reinvigorated performance for me, as I feel after the first ten years of artists taking their clothes off and bleeding to challenge the hegemony it lost some of the edge… There was an element of cynicism regarding the colonisation of the ‘new’ by the western art market, but still – art felt useful again, and was held aloft in the beautiful mixture of faces and arid landscapes and shamanism. Although, to a certain extent, the works had conformed very much to a carefully curated aesthetic, as above. As far as I remember, some of the works had been specifically commissioned for the show, and some of the artists had never worked in video before. This event, then, had already affected or steered the progress of artistic practice in the area.
The Central Asian Project of one and a half years later, obviously a much lower profile endeavour, had struggled to make up the film count, and some of the connections seemed tenuous. Interestingly, the variety of works were much greater, and many of them had much more of a quirky or sarcastic sense of humour. Natalya Dyu's film about being obsessed with Naomi Campbell was particularly funny.
The show contained works from Central Asia, the UK, and Kazakhstan. Shona Illingworth, a UK artist, showed a large sombre projection with interviews translated with English subtitles about local experiences surrounding the Soviet Gulags. Whilst they were slick and professional, they did reinforce the stereotype of the opressed much more than the works originating in the regions. The UK artist's works were projected in such a way that they dominated the space, while the 'Central Asians' were squashed onto monitors. Come on people...
13.10.07
Christiania, you have my heart
"The full-length classic 1991 film about the history and life of the Freetown Christiania in the heart of Copenhagen during it's first 20 years.
What happens if you let a thousand people manifest their dreams about society right in the middle of a modern metropolis?
You get CHRISTIANIA, the western world's longest existing free society, outside normal law and order.
Directed by: NILS VEST Camera: DIRK BRÜEL FREDDY TORNBERG Sound: HANS PACKERT a.o. Music: CARL MICHAEL BAYER FUZZY Film editor: GRETHE MØLDRUP Poster: ANNI HEDVARD English translation: PETER ENGBERG HENRIK GOTTLIEB Production: FREDDY TORNBERG NILS VEST Original title: "Christiania, du har mit hjerte"
Christiania, you have my Heart won the special prize of the jury at the Pärnu International Visual Antropology Festival 1992."
a e r i a l / e l l i p t i c a l
I just learned that this (...) is called an ellipsis. I use it often, as a trailing off into silence - a conversational pause in written language - but didn't register it's name. Come to think of it I think I already knew of it but couldn't remember because an ellipsis sounds too cool and smooth - too mathematical. Perhaps it shouldn't have a name, but be represented only by itself...
I take issue to the word sanguine more than any other, because it sounds too lethargic and melancholy to represent the richness of blood and a cheerful disposition. Sanguine sounds like marshland, watery graves and thin soup. There isn't really a complaints procedure.
30.9.07
m o s c o w / m e t a m o r p h o s i s
(Screened at Tate Shorts, Starr Auditorium, 7th November 2007)
I disappeared for an hour and woke up staring at the night sky.
The day feels lost, but I realised I probably need to think more about Vito Acconci. 
Order Lepidoptera is eating my clothes. Pale, as if they have been carved from balsa wood, they fly low and crush easily into walls and carpets - their limbs and wings splinter. Pupae metamorphose underneath the mattress, leaving transparent sheaths. Satiating themselves in the larval stage, the adults do not feed, but breed and breed these new mouth parts.
Small neat holes continue to appear like cigarette burns.
18.9.07
m o v e m e n t
Outside the trees are blossoming, there is patio furniture and there is a mobile phone mast disguised unconvincingly as a fir tree…
Inside the constructed space will explode an expressive narrative performance - guided, bounded, held in place, forced by a designed network of lines and curves – intersecting planes of coercive geometry. It will oscillate between the mechanical and the sensual, as a subverted map of a machine of influence in which human subjects are physically and psychologically reduced to functioning components that play out the theatre of their environment.
The Modernists who dreamed up a tabula rasa modern angled space, and the discarding of pathological behaviour created nostalgia for the dark spaces, cellars, the clutter of the oneiric house. Within the domestic rituals choreographed by the geometry begin to appear glitches, lulls and feedback loops.
The way we use rooms is often pre-decided by the architect, his hand guided by convention, and yet the whole vocabulary of human emotive interrelation is mapped into the space. It is my intent to subvert the process, divide the players back into dissociated fragments of desire and demand.
The tension between correctly observed domestic ritual and its subversion: gestural movements - will be 'sampled' and reduced to loops, divided, and scattered using projections.
A silent theatre of movement – no dialogue – it will be an expressive cinema of angled physicality. The performers will collide, and divide, moving through the space into different rooms – fragments visible to one another.
The audience will be interpenetrated.
c a l y p s o
As a small child I nursed, in a Ballardian sense, an intense proto-erotic fascination with having my lower limbs rendered immobile through some heroic tragedy. No doubt such coquettish dabblings with rudimentary splints were inspired by magnanimous envy of my brother's congenital need for weekly physio and special boots. The poor kid couldn't walk, but liked to stare at lightbulbs. My mother would buy me a single Penguin biscuit from the hospital canteen, and then I would watch the mystery unfold on vinyl crashmats and yellow foam wedges. How I longed for the cool embrace of a caliper.
17.9.07
16.9.07
St Petersburg, May 2007
AMERICA:
Crushed and carved into gaps between town planning, trapped behind diamond-link fences, these small patches of wilderness are contained, half-tamed, but seem desperate to escape. There are polite tubed trees by the side of the English motorway – the copse, or carved escarpment fringed by an ambling nature. Here it howls, grabs through the gaps of its enclosures.
Two lots down from my grandparents’ house lay a plot of dense and knotted vegetation crawling with fauna, and the stabbing rasp of insects. Walk barely off the road and the vultures would begin their circle barely above the canopy, the vines snarled with an urgent twist, and up in branches a swaying silver choke of Spanish moss.
Blades of grass thick sharp ribbons, and ants crawling up into baking heat to strip flesh out of conch shells and carry everything away.
The whitening of eyes.
The diffuse cataract formed on the surface of European Irises from tarmac gleams and reflected equatorial light.
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Upon the completion of St.Basils Ivan the terrible asked the architects “can you ever build anything more beautiful?”
To which they replied “yes of course”.
He replied by blinding them.
a e s t h e t i c s
Today I dragged my frame the wrong way along the snaking black lines that dissect and connect the metropolis, towards a hospital in another part of town. A decaying wooden florist squats beside metal gates and and an incinerator chimney. Through the open door it was Vermeer dark inside, and a solid matron gathered stems into buckets while outside the skies spat drizzle.
I malfunction slightly, or seem to, and so I submitted first to the process of interrgation, and then referral, eyes darting sideways through the awkward passages. *my eyes scanned the hotel rooms with lateral passages, past the prodsodic doors, in a film noir camera glide two weeks before, by an icy sea* Navigating the clacking stairwells and heavy lifts designed for the reclined I presented little white slips and was offered an armfull of new appointments.
On the way out I stopped into a curtained booth while a nurse applied a tourniquet with smiling child's lions on a pink background, and then plunged a wide-mouthed gathering needle into my vein. The foaming syrupy blood filled container after container in a process so divorced from me I could just stare.
Hospitals do not really bother me, but there is the sadness of noticing who among you in waiting rooms is marked for death.
m e a n d e r t h a l
Forty hours of somniferous choke bookended by these lapses.
We live in the future, hurtle on underground trains, and overground on four-and-a-half-foot-gague sleepers and iron rails sparking in the wet.
We guard the direction of our eyes, breathe softly.
Two gentlemen. Two brothers? I wanted to ask them "Are you brothers?", but it seemed unneccesary and even then I feared they would cease. Cease... Bent towards eachother with dark straggly hair and rough peasant faces, clutching instruments. I named them in Russian, my lips shifting over the aliterative patronymic. Grigory enunciated in soft tones "the crux of the matter is" and "essentially" and "allow me to elucidate" and then fragments. Two tramps are they? Theatrical. Buskers at least, with long yellow nails. They continued to have reasoned soft-spoken exchanges about their condition.
My bookmark hovered over page 368 and I listened intently, considering that to describe the world is to deactivate it. And that as I thought most often in words, that they should be laid out somewhere, lest they shrink back to being singles stored mutely in a hemisphere.
A meander in fragments...
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