Kahlo, Bush, and Bowles
Untitled for Capture, Improv with FaceTime
Inside: Video installation with cedar wall, game chip, and time piece
and Text wall
Alarm clock, clamps, mirror
(Quality significantly diminished, email for higher res)
Sodium chloride crystals on dum-dums, fluff, paraffin, paint and twine
Text wall (25ft: There is no shame between us)
Vinyl on wall
a cult of one
Festival to Planned Obsolescence
(2012 - present)
Driftwood, Dum-Dums, Fluff, El Wires, Lack (Table legs) Mirror, Paint, Paraffin, Plaster, Tape, Tubing
FRAGMENTS OF A CONVERSATION_2
Statements on Performing the Exhausted Performative, as well as other txts.
I like games, always have.
Some people like to talk about end-games.
I don't know about end-games...
How about never-end-games?
Isn't that what this is all about, really? Thinking about the pa performing of self in everyday life: The post-traumatic-subject-on-display.
You see, the text is jammed in the basement, a space burrowed out but inaccessible from the ground. I am digging it out; it's a shitty process. So far, haven't broken surface - took awhile to find the access point. That's right - you have to get there through the tunnels. Ya know, tubes underground.
I move along the ground; the orientation of trauma is flux.
Down on the floor.
Against the wall.
Down on the floor.
Lower, get lower.
I am the slump. Yes, the thumpin' lump - in all black
a body ball, non-site
a spot on the screen
My fists, my tits.
My fits, my tics
My fit, My tic
# (hashtag) MYSFT/MYSTC
Not just a name, also an event.
"Are you a ghost in the machine? "
"A lump in the road?"
I might be a cog blocker - tiny pebble lodged between wheels.
"Do you see it?
It's in the room with you.
Don't take your eyes off it.
Put your head on the floor."
"Maybe if you become a centipede, you could get out through the pipes."
"You should try."
"It could work; you should try."
"They have so many legs don't they?"
There is something cruel and this cruelty is necessary. However, if there is a knife - I am not a free man passing a hidden shank to a prisoner. We sit together. And perhaps while sitting we watch like children while I prick my finger. Maybe then you would prick your finger, but maybe not. Maybe we would rub our fingers together, but maybe we would not.
The paradox of the carnival — which in the most general sense is the paradox of emotion, but in the most specific sense is the paradox of sacrifice — ought to be considered with the most critical attention. [NOTE 1, Bataille, Georges]
I am in the site and it is a ruin.
I touch everything.
Everything gets touched.
I touch like I've been touched: all at once. Hands can't do it. Touch without hands is a knowing touch. A clumsy rolling over.
The river presses and is pressed. The touch of sides, side to side, shore-hugging flow.
Clumping, clotting through ritual. In the ritual I am a Witch Doctor, a Snake Oil Salesman, a Clown.
I touch things I don't understand. Things I don't remember. Things I hate. And love. I touch sharp edges of disparate ideas. Methods that refuse to cohere.
Broken parts. Too many parts.
And there is no shame between us.
Yes, the studio is the space of temporary suspension: fall apart. Pick a part. Lick apart. And sticking parts. Here one thing can become another and there's no getting back. Due to the inability to return, I propose alchemy. This is like making new, through making do.
I am the 'tween, dancing on the threshold. It's the never one thing, and never quite another. I play the ground, pound out the synta ta ta tax. I'm a text generator. Right now, the text is broken - comprised of stammering speech acts and misfires. The failed utterance is an unhappy event. Daily, holding micro funerals.
"Without a loss of language, I would think, there is no mourning. What I mean by this is that for our mourning to reach a level of intensity and value that goes beyond the merely reactionary, our words should be as broken as we are, instead of being things that distance us from our brokenness"
[Note 2, Atchely, J. Heath]
"When language begins to stutter, when it "trembles from head to toe," it becomes material, quasi-physical, and thereby approaches within itself its own negation. In other words, a stuttering language paradoxically creates silence….When a language is so strained that it starts to stutter, or to murmur or stammer . . . then language in its entirety reaches the limit that marks its outside and makes it confront silence. When language is strained in this way, language in its entirety is submitted to a pressure that makes it fall."
INSERT [Melodrama and the "Text of Muteness." and Arendt on silence/violence]
Is this a cruel theater?
Performance's only life is in the present. The present is now and it is at hand. Presentness is essential and above all else defines the perimeter by which engagement(an agreement to be at a particular place at a particular time) is made possible. Or in this case, many places at the same time. We have agreed, here in the affect economy it's perpetually I N G. So much I N G, ING, ING, ING, IMG___, img, img, img, o m g. OMG Clinging to the moment. We bat seconds, minutes across the globe creating loops while feedback and forth-ing.
http://www.wikihow.com/Use-Chatroulette (instruction slightly augmented)
1. Get your equipment in order. Make sure you have a working webcam, that the latest version of Flash is installed on your computer and that your speakers are working. If you'd like to talk, make sure your microphone is working, as well. (Flash is a platform that brings direct connection using Real Time Media Flow Protocol, [RTMFP] which allows data flow directly between end-user clients. This is peer-to-peer interaction, in other versions, known as FaceTime. It's icon is a screen with a large eye in the center.)
2. Get Set … Make sure that your current setting looks interesting, or that the light in your space is making your face as visible as you'd like it to be. Plan on wearing a mask or doing a funky jig to keep from getting skipped? Get your act together.
Get your act together, then clean up your act.
So you see,
I make sets.
These sets contain sets.
I occupy the set.
And I never next.
Like Fucking Language
(Continued thoughts on Taste, Death and Relative Neutralities)
Live performance with decor and props
Walls in striped Beige Spectrum; Backdrop: Oil on canvas; Icon Painting: Oil, Glitter and Jimmies on Panel; Golem: Blow Pops, Box, Brick, Dum-Dums, Fluff, Paraffin, Scented Candles (Evergreen forest and Cinnamon,) Spray paint, Twine, Wood
Photo Courtesy: Pam Bannos