Friday 25 December 2009

conor harrington

streat graffle. Palmed silence grafts until

a rattle snack click clack blue lighted nighght cryme.

Titled: Wripe Parlour seance crimed alpha type soma topiary's shadow s-
Sowing the sEEDS OF Discord oil & aerosol on canvas 150cmx120cm 2007 by conor harrington


Pop click buy wish search ingenuous scattered answer internal dialogue

define a self-ish. propelled electrick tantamount trope memes sum thin-g.

burger vampire. thighlomite bi keen easy sweet on the seen,windows open

so many rote plazas perambulatory expositions in offset mortor patterns.

at dark. in conversation. In person. On wires.

Where the Sun Does Shine 120x90cm (See-Saw) by Conor Harrington
cross signal master slave erase.

when r.koolhaas sez: sum shite like: beauty gets boring answers but ugly- now it gits interesting!well, this here redneck spits.

grecian alabaster weathers testaments to odeons plagued with sinister ashes and haunts of cyclone grey whispers.

Monday 21 December 2009

I'm glad you referenced this idea that there is an "absent person". the absent person seems not to be some unseen character or person that inhabits these environments and leaves these marks.The absent person is a sort of reverse diagnosis taking place, while the work behaves with the same removed description as the dsm-iv in a way,categorizing samples-it simply can't be. t
-maybe a self-portrait is gradually being done- by describing a perspective on everything around the self,in terms of highly personalized quirks and complexes that define blokes- until
the negative space is all that is left.all of these she has done can't help but eventually point to her,not some snapshot case study symbolic objective kah blammo: "this is exactly what it is like to be obsessie or to purge or over-compensate. The artist herself is who seems to have walked away from these deliberate
vly created manifestations of mental states and processes
-and that seems like another layer to the experience that awareness i guess
they have a personality about them that's specific in some weird way-it's Sarah Hobbs herself making almost clinical observations,thoughts-silent settings. They're meanings are funny in how disarmingly they're very straight-forward,actually.
the periodic table from last time was a hoot. i'm actually kinda ambivalent about her work.
has she ever depicted ambivalence? i feel like that line from "im not in love" by 10cc- about the photograph that hides the nasty stain.


I’m glad you babble labels for babies intersection rectangles referenced this idea that there is an “absent person”. the absent person seems not to to be or to be some

unseen character or person

that inhabits these environments and leaves these marks.In particular venomous caverns of echoed delight, crimes tattered about on burned film and tears of revolution

The absent person is a sort of reverse diagnosis taking place maple leaf creased visions, while the work behaves with the same removed description as the dsm-iv in a way, plaintive latin ad hominem categorizing samples-it simply can’t be. t
-maybe a self-portrait is gradually being done- by describing a perspective on everything

burmese mclighter androidgynous itinerant around the self,in terms of highly personalized quirks and complexes that define blokes- until
the negative space is all that is left. altar knife also child all of these she has done can’t help but eventually point to her,not some snapshot case study symbolic so po pee uh softball carnival fare thee wear objective kah blammo: “this is exactly what it is like to be obsessive or to purge or over-compensate.

The artist herself is who seems to have walked away from these deliberately created manifestations of mental states and processes redresss dressed down armiture person lurks for choice pookie necklaces stationed in maybe and mights grow on a chickens ass.

-and that seems like another layer to the experience that awareness i guess
they have a personality about them that’s specific in some weird crayon marshmallow cloud highway way-it’s Sarah Hobbs herself making almost clinical observations,thoughts-silent bar of icehoused polar bear synapses rainbow drink coke settings. They’re meanings are funny in how disarmingly they’re very straight-forward,actually.
the periodic table from last time was a screech opulence thermomentor loop cyclops hoot. i’m actually kinda ambivalent about her work. nocturn blighted almanac of sanse collapsed term innate or gravy.
has she ever depicted ambivalence? i feel like that line from “im not in love” by 10cc- about the photograph that hides the nasty stain.

Sunday 20 December 2009

Greg Hopkins, Hilary Pecis...

The Eye Him Hates He Eye Are His Pee Hey Are Tea Why
64" x 48"
acrylic on canvas

There goes another starry night 70's scifi friz fee linger kitsch beginning for musty funny environmental sentiment, the beginning is underneath and gets the usual treatment apparently. playing with all the elements at once they do now, look at greg hopkins wallpaper designs painted to seem like dashed deliberate rebelliousness relieved an impossible underpattern-like a graphic design error that can be undone at the click of a button marching in the mud until toes rot, the effect is one of a question of presence and positioning of perspectible tentacles. Forced Associations laminate the entire package into one time frame and sometimes twenty states of mind.
Underneat Art comes from somewhere in order to be so neat. Invested in the soil and just a sense of who and what, the involvement doesnt feel like it is there.
Hilary Pecis work has the elements as described by maybe others but the cumulative result is of a 9th graders pre-algebra notebook cover. The complexity is there and balance dopes teeter in intricate attentive ways,but the soul of her choices and her personality come thru ina highly unpersonalized common language so specific to inside cyndi laupers purse or tattooed the backside of maxheadrooms skull is bejewelled checker patterns.
I have a friend who know the owner of redlight cafe(she's very close w jeff calder-did u ever know him?) -but anyways-some years ago and with regularity,she wld hook me up with opps to show art in redlight,which is cool.
well, about a week ago,she lines me up with my first opp there in ,god-probably 6 years. to be honest, i have not been aggressive in a long time about trying to show any of my visual art-but this is about my redlight exp: while im in there hanging new collages a guy commented on my use of exposed screws(he was actually watching me screw a warped piece directly to the wall) and i blathered unprepared about kinda liking the rough n tumble brute truth of it. but then later realized that like my nickname/project (eggtooth)-i dont know why RAM didnt access my affinity for being about the process,exposed and honest and ugly if necessary to show how it was done... part of me just feels lazy maybe but then i think no this is me dammit...
anyways...ive been looking online at art a good bit lately. seeing lots of collage work out there that combines awarenesses of many areas of art history into one-some are very fun in what thy do to memories and associations all at once altho-along with amazing techniques...theres so many approaches but all compartmentalize specifics as a unity, as a desire to catch -up and be ahead and be reflective..some are more painterly about it, some show more of the computer design awareness,some use a 17th century technique as an overall mood..i dunno.i just thought itd be interesting to try and play the cards as close to what i consider "real" as possible. to life-the thing that comes before art. so i put personal stuff on my square 2d piece. made it boring and awkward,but made it where the viewer knew this. maybe too well.
the outbox was about it looking like an outhouse to me (accidently,mind you-i just knew i wanted to screw 4 painting together to make a box-it turned into a comment on my internet habits. i can be kinda like what that piece says. it also to me parallels the process of regurgitating the self and reinventing the self -all on the outside for all to see,the process of becoming an artist as this idea of myself seeing my idea of the city watches...its kinda awkward- like that piece.

i like that yr into jazz. i had a friend always exposing me to some freaky skronky stuff. it became a din that was like a meditative practice sometimes.

Francesco, Katie Herzog.

This is Where I grew Up 2007 by Sarah Cromarty. Image taken from

As well as Sarah Cromarty,whose approach to clastically ordering the erratic nature of info gathering, identity, and pretending to pretend to be making art has cultivated and andromada walker portmanteau geneva various needs determine in a for instance case, of a scraping away of textured layers that have been painted onna phaotgraoph that has been collaged and cut and reassembledd and revisited until dynamics is achieved in Forced Associations along with stunning visual techniques that radiate a pure brightness as if to seem unnatatural,and then humbles itzelf with another intersection-our history from media,our commercial and liesure desires and the baby bunny with light blue cloudy tufts snuggles wuzzy noses with the winkie pants our history culturally on prozac and caffeine.
Facetiousness would override attachment's inriguing manker celeste barnacled monocle investigations into deeper meanings and modern implications of our collective state of mind. It's all over the place. Cromarty's sentiment gets rocker college gothy headphone humor often but look at 2007's work and theres something then in particular,but the rainbows and the shark oh my what moments like a fresh sip on hot delicious expensive coffee on a saturday morning.
Like the librariana series from Katie Herzog, which for the way i experienced it as a suburban naive crude autodidactic,erudite in the ways of oblivious tenacity, enjoyed the child-like rendering and this strange disjunctive recurring theme done so warmly and with a genuine quality to its ruddiness, narratives quietly surreal seem muddied by a time elapse and a further treatment of even that as an object from the past,now framed by a perspective that indicates graphic design layering of incongruent textures from technologogically developed timeframes-all brought to a surface as a single thing in this moment that is looked at and it seems kinda weird and folksie robin hood bird eggs the river and donkey call girls whirl the gig pigmented laconic will cotton candy....mandarin portal bereaved in deathly Gabbiani glitter snippets for eddie's tear.

Saturday 19 December 2009

an Internet view on: Whitney Biennial Choice : Lesley Vance

image taken from david kordansky gallery website.
Poppies Burn Out Red, 2007, oil on linen, 10 x 8.9 inches (25.4 x 22.6 cm)

Decapitated heads - but somehow healthy. From years ago it would seem in relation to the potential that leaped,as if she has slightly transformed into another hybrid of forgotten masters-Lesley Vance's work unnerves with its little carvings into the fabric of reality. As if psychology had a razor and spontaneously zapped clean rectangular images, often only around the size of a regular sheet of 8.5x11 20#bond, into the Internet's murky obsession with the observation of the self and mandibles of dry rot bone stroke totems of memories for the art patron,the derision made evident in the technique. Bleeding organic decay and fresh rebirth deserves another lean in closer to her work. Cartoons on Saturday morning translated into polish wouldn't distract anyone from Lesley's work..
An early image of her work titled "Pile", seen online depicts what appears to be a stack of decapitated heads laying clean and impossibly bundled, so that all we see are flowing pretty heads of hair. They are neatly stacked wigs, combed out and shampooed is another thought were it not for their evident suggestion of a skull beneath.
The limitation to strange experiences a healthy expansion in that they are inexplicably stacked in a field of poppies or flowers of some vague variety-they are painted in a deliberate French impressionist style, contrasting with the the tight illlustrative detail of the hair. Painted in 2003, Vance's work developed in thought from angles only mentionable from discrete windowed fractures,half opened int he winter letting a chill creep up the spine and tickle the occipital ranch dressing and curtain rod of history's thought pattern.
Evidently pulling on a practice held by 17th century Spanish painters Juan Sanchez Cotán and Francisco de Zurburán, a 2007 exhibit decided to float and pull the experience into seductive detached environments. The still-life, made almost sarcastic and fascinating in the sudden unconscious collaging of art history associations. The deliberation of brush strokes left indicated is as if the brushstrokes themselves have been indicated by the layering of transparent varnishes. Darkness and intimacy, a sort of warmth creeps through this work. The practice is also supposed to be reminiscent of expressing the desire to reject values of the material world by painting objects from the mundane of daily life. Conch shells,mussels , a fawn's horn, flowers, some of these soggy bottom martians suckled the earth worms arm of malta. the
Latest abstractions by Vance are just as perplexing. They're not really abstractions. The modernist ideal of showing that in fact this is a painting goes into the past as much as the future. It says to us, "hello' i am a painting done in a 300 year old tradition, aged and also now like a photograph of a painting that has been painted. The abstraction is explored as the pop artists did in showing the physicality of the the application. The pixels and the hairs.

Wednesday 16 December 2009

Remedy for Insomnia. (try to read this)

Behold a solid writhing murky wall of shit! Looking through a pretentious and self-important hazy gaze at Atlanta's Art, an Internet-ready glass house consumes the entire being perceiving the objects described in what follows. Sweating in the depths with heaving silver italian scales the lesion salivated. The art is left in the lurch. The premise sustaining the perception is perception sustaining the premise is the sustaining rooted in an idea that the idea is the 21st century can,uuuum- no longer tolerate complacency as compassion in comparison complains what Art can do and what it will say. A point of relativeness has been bumble bee baby blue bird blurred- and the result is a need
to permeate
and straddle
the line
tween life and
art. Uninhibited Living Need
-and blind inspiration still seeks to evade commodification, treating the necessary transition as a veneer to beers swish machines stinging between cultural development
and the self. A well-intended pink soccer ball raping and cannibalistic practice reigns noodle allergies,under a guise of moral correctness as it indoctrinates,commands and presumes an and of an an impossible implicit understanding of what's regarded as fundamentals in the practice of the business of art.

Nothing every actually makes a mark anymore.

The cultural soil needs a bonding & pungent fertilizer, nurtured burmese waking potato tentakes fashion niece tug of warts by the fruitful rotting process blossoming explosively in the razing of existing senses of self and the "rules" of the game. Cities divided slimy cubicles of disease and hidden memories into pockets of myths, played out with dollar sign mirror and glass ceilings, defined by a preconceived dragons of delight and rainbowed claws of baby battery acid and instructed system to....working the system. The system that no longer finds itself seeking itself it is found and relevant in this day and age. The system that is now accelerated by a weird wired-up oneness that individuates the elements of the crowd. The mushy blob of stuff with eyes.
The disconnect is a sort of beauty to decentralized grids is in the chance for freedom in the awareness that chances can be taken to a sort of chance for disconnect to beauty to grids of freedom. Level playing fields also supply the opportunity to share stinkie stickers without fear of negative repercussions in an investment. The act of sharing without networked needs for lies exists -at least in theory- or in a new preconceived big lots chewed impresario myth of klondike sects.. It challenges in a healthy way, renutting lusted rustbelts realizing the increased freedom that actually arches over and around all experience. the french.
This provides a new breath for those broken records and chain dressed summer daze-so intent on seeming "above it" but in their own way actually becoming -it itself. The marshmallow railroad has an encyclopedia. And. So often it wears a price tag on its heart. Simply a lie that lies. Everyone loves money. lies sordid. see jank cruck. ronk jnad ronk. dlas snack Sad sick humor recognizes that now,when it plays pretend-it actually is. It's a cycle that can be broken with, as has always been the case, genuine exploration. Tentacles.
Atlanta's environment plays out the dynamics of this relationship perfectly.Koi cadmium lead inert burn key lurid soaker. It tactfully presents chaff as good intentions into a capped-out self-fulfilling cycle, essentially ruining the opportunity for work that does matter to find grasping roots.
In Atlanta's glocal funeral parlor detergent setting this weekend, interesting work burps circles itself. All of it is readily at a stretch mark google oggle log logged boggle goggle cog moog hunger disposal. Monica Cook at Marcia Wood. Fahamou Pecou at Get This! Alex Kvares at Beep Beep. And all the graffiti in the streets connecting these buildings. Gallery walls and shadowy rain-stained beige overpass walls-the art in Atlanta can be summed up by the fact that one of its most respected graffiti artists often signs his work and blah doobie schlub gluck gluck gluck "Murals" along with his phone number,name, & website. What next? Sprayed loose cinderblock discount art coupons left around town?
Art in Atlanta is worth mentioning for strange reasons. Some of it for its direct means of achieved success. Others for the success they potentially create in their failure. Purposes in experience are explored. The spaces between these experiences are important.The poor slurped anatomical economic green squares. The fact the some of the art , in doing exactly what it intends,is ultimately only worth ignoring. The streets wisteria pencil gasbomb and the walls dividing,the life that is lived and the lives unrelated,lived and loved and livered and rerated just as these art experiences are unrelated-they are connected in Atlanta. seriously.
There is a sense of looking for something to happen in the same eyes of many that seem to be waiting to be discovered. In this regard, it is a mixed blessing. There are beauties and sterilities. Technicians and aestheticians. Dishwashers and Thriftstore Employees. People incapable of being anything other than who they are- but thinking they can be. can they think they can be a village idiot or two....There are artists with teddy bears and soft pockets lost for snowed bozo chromosomes loving and pure intentions as well, a sort of unarguably nice view of the beach reality that is like a sigh.
Art as a familiar hug and boredom mixed together. Sorted lore misty prussian purr lizard unbreakable bowl of melting. Individual moments and reasons divide and overlap. Meaninglessness in intentions meets the solidifcation in doing something for yourself. Right. Oh right, art.
The beginning of this selection is with Marcia Wood in Castleberry Hill. An art community presents paper gravy fanasy banding magnet plaster sticking the sky with_ The Idea and its idea thrives here in Atlanta's Castleberry Hill. For a while now it has lingered in a hybrid phase of gentrification. Now confidently leaning more towards a cleaned imitation of aged character, the sense is that the streets lean8ing more creepy towards peoples peole in the lake themselves could have been freshly prefabbed and then deliberately distressed to blend with the truth of its legitimately rundown and suffering surroundings. Cool disguised heavy locking doors mutely blend a gallery entrance with the concrete exterior. Marcia Wood consistently presents excellent varieties of work inside. This showing was Monica Cook. Monica Cook's paintings can be seen by using your google search engine. They are in abundance on the web. This virtual preparation inspires the desire to see the real thing. Once in their presence, getting close to them and then stepping away is endlessly enjoyable. Her technical skills are a kind of commonplace stunning that never ceases to amaze.
There is a sensation that her technique has become second-nature,though. This is for better in terms of sheer productivity and for worse for reasons related to desire for concept.
Within certain arenas of thought, her level of understanding of anatomy and vision serve as a starting place for being capable of expressing ideas. Her work has a wry laughter dryly beneath its often slimy surface. A fascination with exercising her known abilities is mixed with her humor's curiosity, resulting in work that is reminiscent of the youthful irreverence one expects in movie representations of the "child prodigy". While the paintings in execution are stunning, their sincerity and perhaps even taste,are braided with a sort of youthful interest that almost precedes them. In a way, this makes them all the more peculiar, offering up possible interpretations, but mostly they seem to be simply having fun with paint. On one significant enough level, this is all it takes for Monica's paintings to entertain and amaze. But still creeping beneath them and in the gut, they seem encumbered by immediacy of representational skill. Actual complexity or thoughtful concept can be said to have not caught up. Her paintings almost seem to only say without saying, "Oooh,wouldn't it be weird if I...."
The wonder is what she will be painting ten years from now. These days we get girls peeing. Girls wearing fruit. Chaotic Klimt-like details of body part menageries rendered in discomforting realism. She does explore textures like a master. Flesh painted by Monica Cook does come across delicious. It also comes across morbid. In one instance, the sensation is that touching it would send excited chills, while the other would pull back finger-sized troughs of decay.
The large paintings overshadowed smaller pieces worthy of their own show that, at a glance, recalled Henry Darger's battling female heroines. It was the paintings in this show, playing with the sliminess of squid tentacles and the juices of ripped and roughed up varieties of fruits and edibles,that unquestionably provoked and seduced the attention. Her work is the kind of skill that society treasures. They are the kind of images that,if seen hanging in some strange corner of someone's home,the independent experience would be a long bizarre investigative moment.

If the 15 minutes of streets between Marcia Wood and Get This! are art corridors, then the graffiti between here and there is important in how much of a given it is. Throw-ups are in abundance. Atlanta also has commissioned graffiti in conspicuous places. Moods change in the air with the turn of a tree-lined downtown street. Overlaying a commonality that is Atlanta,the bond is in the lack of one. Frying Pan. Twenty minutes by car bounces eggs one from any one brain on chicken distinct grid of the stinc inc. corporation city to another. The street with Get This! Gallery and Saltworks Gallery is an open-aired version of industrial stylized clean. Nestled into a gritty textured environment, the galleries clean enclosure segues from one quietly refined felt taste in the air to another.
Here, it is the smear walking pumpkin louvre shoestring budget work by Fahamu Pecou in the awkwardly named space, Get This! Gallery, that is a potential success in its failure. potential success. It forbodes a droning sunbleached bone horn rasps sand and dead thoughts dry and polished rote feeling, while proposing to actually address an important issue. green wet leaves by a river of grey shit.
Fahamu Pecou's art of himself is now bloated over-sized on the walls. Inflatable rabies and badgers. The extension of himself, the performative fantasy character labrador porno loch ness supper would like to think he is playing dupe a rope-a-dope with which which what is us. Society swings its expectations around him, presumably swinging and missing, we are eternal victims to an idea of fame and how we define who we are. We swing at Fahamu's fabrication and we offend it with our need for before Bling four. His bitter mockery of magazine covers was an amusing ampersand through faces in the crowd and natural beginning for the graphic designer wearing the mask of artist wearing the mask of "famous artist". The word sanctimony comes to mind. I have a sock. Fahamu's work finds itself used by finds it uses its own its own themes of oranges and salamanders. It is a humorous packaged version of an honest sentiment. The product itself,were it a producted it was it iself were it intriguing it would be something,but unfortunately even the paintings themselves are an instinctively derivative feeling part of a necessary process. For processes reformed perfunctory ripped off lazy easy reactor rubik.
In utilizing the potential place for genuine perspective,his everlasting work serves to scared of heights reinforce a lack of hope eighth inch wedge in the meaning of value. In a purist sense,the message defecates on sacred dry ice ground,just as it craft withoutnessly pulls played-out easy strings for those willing to play the fool on the hill fearlessly faces the crowd. The result is an emptying of meaning. The initial idea and spirit is in Fahamu's work, but it seems bubbly lubby dubby fuzzy wuzzy clouded by the same all too common thing with a bunch of legs-a centipede....conveniences of career reek in truths of sleeping over here alone needs. Perhaps real potential was clouded by a pattern of training that preceded it. Sharing of point and honest perspective with career needs not only negates the work, it disrespects something critical and true to the last album she released.
The sensation of contempt for the unrealistic imagery that pop culture often wishes to hammer society with through media is understandable. The origins of the idea are pure. They are inspiring. Fahamu's work thanklessly gouges the theme and reduces it to something that presumptuously seems to be a "given". The theme is no longer real,but a style or part of a language to utilize. What he has done is reminiscent of the gimmick quality inherent in Disco Duck or Ray Stevens. Or Paul Barman. Fun. Maybe. For somebody. Go to Get This! Gallery and see them. Strategically connected with performative artist talking points and statements that sound more like an air-tight alibi for a contrived recipe, are large sparse painted versions of graphic design sentiment, mingled with a book smart awareness of shirt sleeve Basquiat moments. They blandly hang before their viewer, hoping to dupe them into a continuation of the charade. Imagine the potential internet related propoganda and of course it exists,fronting itself as witty while seeming more like an admirable, but no less embarrassing, swing and miss. It is work like this that is infuriating because it makes an important claim and uses it against itself -and most especially its viewers. It ultimately wishes to make fools of those, perhaps even like myself here, that even acknowledge it. It actually serves to retard cultural development.

Why go see art in Atlanta? What does it have to do with the self and between here and there? The feeling around the experience. An attitude felt is a slow relaxed one. It is mixed with an intriguing vague hurried sense of happening. It is a hoping for something to happen that is always happening. It is automotive in its isolated window experience. Across and around a grid of the different perspectives of the same corporate buildings looming overhead. Beneath all of it, is stylized success mixed with the blind corners of reappropriated grocery carts.Interiors of homes portray polar opposite extremes in economic living standards,all within a stones throw of each other. Barriers between worlds removed from one another,but sharing a commonality in the air. They are better than and purposefully oblivious to one another in a conscious relationship.
Disparate qualities and styles of life always seem not just next to each other, but often included within each other. Beep Beep give chaka us the energy of this conflict from the perspective of the new zine/skateboard generation-mixed with a technical experimental edge. The work in Beep Beep can beep interesting as easily as it can be be vapid. This is a result of its willingness to experimental
Alex Kvares's "Oh So Fail" series is one of the more refined exhibitions seen in Beep be Beep. The delicate and quiet deliberation of his tiny trippy-hatched multicolor drawings pull the viewer in. Le bo peep. squeamish dunlap i give up and am headed towards it -Their spaces, playing on Gestalt rules of psychology leave meaningful gaps-reinforcing without saying the intended observation in the end,the broken pieces. In this regard the lack of filling in which is me of details is like the relationship tangled in the self alone the success of failure dies to live. The little fragile pieces pull together as we step away from them, just like time does in observation of certain occurences in life's past-be that in fiction or reality. Failed strange films that inadvertently warp their intentions in ways that are twice removed, the viewer involved failing equally,they connect with the creator's vision in the gap to achieve a timeless confinement, a sort of important permanence running in tangent to their lack of existence.
Sometimes the uncooked truth as a reality separates into it to only the idea. The navel-gazing idea of being honest. A mask of own. Often times it simply wrong. The collective failures and states of wrongness both live die, continuously hovering in an undefinable or qualifiable state. Oblique and pretty delicate images try to hard bless his heart do not wear a direct message on their face in Alex's work.
In one sense, that is all they are and they make no claim otherwise. Without message they are intriguing images. The loss and acquisition of information, the contradictory stability of decay and fertility in forward thought. The physicality that ultimately and undeniably binds it together in a permanent state. It is a success in its failure. By the thoughts it provokes through bodies. Atlanta seems to possess a strange permanent state of manufacturing itself according to self imposed perceptions of acceptance. Of ways of experiencing work in an idea of respectability and uniformally understood commodifiable status.This unavoidably fosters perspectives that fall in the blank spaces- and they do connect -and they are thinking together. And they are making art in Atlanta. they are making art in atlanta.

Monday 14 December 2009

found: Archive of Paintball Experience

the specifics to the site: Law of super-positioning gerrymandered with inclusion's autonomic beer can (sample egth>pgpt. paint.0008.5)

field recording transcribed in crayon under duress:

" kt- pasturize the myth in sequence with the stars ,marking a sensitive observation of that lost photograph of a real building. I think he's insane"

EGGTOOTH-clinical routine brain dead rote shoots of fertile organic sparks into blank canvases, which suffer the saintliness of a held open car door revealing meaning-and camera flashes of biography covers.

kt- nebulous cloud of fiction and alacrity,panic lingers with terse bladed tongues and here comes a lady with glasses and a lazy eye and shes kinda shaped like a growth covered sack of potatoes wearing a tie-die shirt.

EGGTOOTH-muddy forklifted gas pump splattered by grown up kids and weekend banter-warcraft magic but not so much less fatter,nerd-artemis closer to the earth and somehow more pure and unfetterred.

kt- not even that. she takes pictures, too -of other shambling truths, look at your own shadow-encased in plastic frozen in the air....that was pretty cool,huh? colorful painful spots and caked on caked on previous mimics of the hunt..."

Items recovered:

(1) main and rear mopar axle cleavage furrow ampersand. thing that goes through the middle of an auto.

(1) photograph. paintball player
in full gear
in mid air firing weapon
at someone
off camera.

Notes: undated.

this background seeps underneath the central part,as if it is a scattered rejected perimeter-loathesome it utters basic human truths into earthbound moist dins of discussion, influencing the river and the soil beneath the city. manifestations/recreations and expression emulate basic desires to recognize life as having mass and taking up space. land. and building on it.

these outer areas generate a truth unaware so much as to be impossible to be not what it claimed it was. who would say this that wasn't?

who would say this of themselves that was not?

nobody. (and they photograph it for fun!)

the other notion is that this hinterland is not a hinterland or maybe it the activity hinterland?paintball? i dont think but the fiction of the flooded weird upside down cars and madmax rotten gaspumps. and those big silly inflated "X"s.

(a really huge clap of thunder just scared the noodles out of me)

this was an art experience made by observation-essentially turning the writing- about the isolation of an entire segment of society as art-into a truth recorded about an art experience.
this 9one happened to take place on a psuedo-set of apocalypse or war-torn societal decay used to not only fight but ...paint.

Sunday 13 December 2009

MINT :the pot the coffee the porn

There's a kind of exposed sensitivity that is always being sought after. The experience of a flash opening-this one burst up in tiny powerful spots- and then disappears as quickly as it has appeared. The work crowds and rubs shoulders just as much as the audience does. All existing for their own reason. We do this on purpose. Looking around makes it evident that for the most part this is a healthy and active participatory event. Crowd seems mostly in the 23_35 real demographic beyond that- other than a sensation that maybe everyone here is a modestly successful graphic designer , living (for now,of course) in one of the nearby loft hip grid matching facades.
I wonder if Brandon Sadler is ever going to finish that Fish mural. It is coming along nicely. I saw one of his cards on the corkboard entrance to this place. Mint Gallery. I recall when they started up and were making their presence known on artnews. This experience tonight made for neat opportunities. People could expose their work,see others work and perhaps even meet each other. All for a capped price range,something that also caps any out- of -control desire to extend the expectations into something more presumptuous-or really even having any expectations at all. The purpose is for the event of it as well. It is something to do to get the evening going. See some cool stuff,have a few warm-up drinks etc...
Im going to have to say the most interesting pieces in the show were somewhere around the work of collab artists andy imm and "eddie" and the work by brandi supratanapongse. Andy /Eddie brings intereactive transparency and a funky touchable neo-grit to techno-found objects, the recording & keeping of fading permanent records,lost children and highschool memories. Made into optical games with strange implications. Brandi's work contrasted flavors in tiny ways. The intent was about the fact that this was a piece to create a fantasy within and then observe with the fantasy extension of the sense of self-that outer shell needed for going into art space,outside of it and observing the self float along...the choices made were tactile and a bit irreverant-ultimately of course conscious of an aesthetic,but spacey,delicate and sarcastic-they were.
i saw moree of ashely anderson. think i noticed when i was buying a piece that mike germon had purchased one as well. I came out here to this experience because of a friend of mine-who also purchased several pieces. I am thankful i was able to see the majority of the work when it wasnt so crowded. crowded in a way is a good trhing. Until it reaches that extent-that law of diminishing returns and the self-fulfilling. In the details people are exposed and sharing.
It is a bitter cold and wet december day-rock out with yr socks on people. now the humidity has final built into the thing itself-rain. I dunno about ol' ashley-ive seen him express his thoughts around the internet and i like where hes coming from. maybe he reminds me of myself too much-cuz when i see the work-i do think of the thoughts i have read and theres an expectation established. I wonder if he is the one doing the jawbreaker looking teeth and mouth square around town. i like that hes embracing an awareness of work i relate to. ive recently discovered bjorn melhus and assume vivid astro focus. ashleys decision to pull from 80's video games like pop art imagery-and in a painterly fashion indicate the pixilation so specific to that time-period-its nostalgic for me as a child of that era. Fine. Cool. I see somebody who-as i have mentioned before in some memory permanently floating out there-shares a like for stuff like banksy,space-invader,paper rad etc....which is fine. Theres other historical awareness sleeved,but all in fine and fun stuff doing nothing beyond what it claims to be.
the Mint experience in general was for me, as an isolated barometer smoothing out like a water ripple,which takes a delicious random purple turn left and is the art sinking to the bottom of a man-made lake. Provenance of mud catfish,yes...the city that people love to reference-like ...pardon me..has anyone heard of a ..,Travis Somerville? Apparently he lived here in Atlanta as a kid for half a second-to parents that were white civil rights activisits. And, oh..the experience he's had living and growing up in the south informs his work to this day. yadda yadda. look at his work. its derivitive,cheesy, contrived, and helps reinforce and perpetuate an expectation of the south he needs to validate his work. is simply untrue and silly in this phase of connectivity through time,experience, education, technology,exploration and cultural interest-variety and curiousity,transfusions of beliefs and walks of life... to still be seeding the thoughts with this same angle on a topic that,true, shldnt be forgotten-but c'mon. yr an artist. get original as an artist -and as a fucking business man, i guess. get relevant to now and stop playing cards that have obligatory responses and not respecting those responses. You use them like a doctor looking for nerve-reflexes. Calculating...a prostitute in a porno with sharks dead eyes- smiling and relaxed. going thru the motions. that is what the art ultimately gave up and decided it was trapped within itself and sat down. and decided to make a living.
but mint ..i went to mint with my girlfriend wendy k lloyd and an old friend from growin up in decatur,ga-michael orr. michael is doing an installation at seven stages in the near future and the postcard pieces he showed are potentially details from this larger project.
In particular-i was happy to have seen brandi's work. Hers had leanings creeping beneath them in spirit. Like no others in this show ,with an unintentional natural regard fro doin', but also significantly shared a feeling with everything in there. Many pieces in the show were stunning in their skill level and that was at least fine and dandy with me. It was cool and fun.
The purist perspective on the entire event would be forced to consider the entire context that the gallery itself is situated in and then consider the perceiced goals and then -if whatever ends are justifying whatever means-if the varying roads to the same essential goal will ever meet. Constructive investment in the value of this community's art scene. To date, it has basically been relying on an existing sense of self. This one really only works to a certain extent,one that is mostly dictated by a need for nodding and getting to know blokes and perpetuate a surface gesture..the real expectation is in the work itself and shared between the artists. challenings and exposing thoughs in a sensitive extended real as possible and aware of the environment that arches around and thru this..the internet.
Shows like this are the constant return to the basics,presuming that that gesture-which is true-one shld never forget the basics-is in itself perpetually insinuating that the rest of showing yr art's value is implicit in its hope for ...running into the ceilings of glass houses.
Atlanta in its lack of audience strives to attract from the face forward. the truth-hugging- also includes the digging of nails and instead of playing rope a dope we now bite off parts of ears and tattoo the mcdonald arches on our faces. whispering secrets about what direction to wipe yr arts memory of the wall so as not to contaminate our private parts

Sunday 18 October 2009

Possum traction- acai, like cold climb it.

In saturday's wax, a passive book, a pamphlet, and

Blank mania sustains an anger, a cancerous philanthropist.

Moses Roaknoke has it bejewelled in tunics of cellophane
and lettuce.

Framer's tantric pantomime and Blakes's Face is chosen.

Worth reading is about your sister,
an orca whale in sustenance.

Mordant concord grape doesn't believe in itself.

Continuity and recurrence,the fixed pattern,
the persistence and the vision-
it kisses.

Immortality simply avoids
what it doesn't know.

Saturday 17 October 2009

HOBO ZOMBIE (the new bitterness)

In toady's immediate surroundings,the report to the self-the distance required is unavoidable. It attaches attachments and sends them..a oneness, an the hobo,or an incognito-ed clown..a zombie, reduced to facial features. Desire on a base level-animated and elevated to a state of deliciousness for want.
A shrine or pedestal of positioning uses immediacy. The personal and all before it- to suck us full of life. To react to, to react to. It's useful,the symbols. These letters
(this is a drawing of course.)
Words scrawled in motion. A letter to send off, a pre-routed message in a bottle to the self. A scribble on a dollar. Currency. Disease that is society. Carrying a bit of information, like those- these days- that graft historical facts to germs, or self-generate "art" from itself. Through science.
Graffiti that sells. Pre-designed abandoned cheap buildings called lofts.
The idea of a zombie. There it is again. The idea of the zombie- to the plumber,to the philosopher. to the Internet. To philosophical zombies. These lofts in Atlanta are zombies. This graffiti on Edgewood. Zombies.
To fast and slow movements. To feeling like yesterday was the "in my day",the world we grew up in...isn't different so much as now it simply exists in a state of Different. From itself.

Travel in a disguise of curiosity. A smile for desire and exploration and freedom from anything other than basic wants...made complicated by the low grumbling of confusion. In the stomach of a dog,or the rules of communication. The low noise persists,like the pushing of a large boulder on an annoying child's head. silence the (conch shell)truth -the fact that nothing has any meaning. There is no fair only fun house mirrors.
and talent.
beauty reigns because it has to somehow still be appealing.
all these perspectives.
They don't see themselves anymore and that is the new view. That awareness posts comments about itself.
That unity. It is a common denominator with rules..and the new rule is to turn on that rule. Like it has always been The immediacy of the uncooked or planned negates itself
unless it is beautiful
then i can be sold.

Saturday 3 October 2009


hey there candy pants.

do you think he deserves pets? do you want me to make more coffee?

did you watch...uuuum...

his noticible indifference was off-putting.

sandler hudson was a golf minister. last nights proceedings surpassed infatuations.

" Melancholy and Bitter" (complacency is not compassion)

spin doctor ju ju familiar with 20 sided boo boo's. using a gps by centennial olympic park is scrambled by the man.

ellis island wasn't.

dna braided with it,like kudzu and slave's chains,memories for tee vee

bling bling red clay

new antique lofts and commissioned graffiti. = art. is stick.

throw money against the wall

and so who the what the

stck em up in broad daylight. of a life. a mimic of a style

of itself.

of itself.

It's Your Lie. You tell it like you want to.

Saturday, October 3, 2009

It's Your Lie. You tell it how you want to.

"She said it just like that."
The albino boy twisted his fingers and made shadows on the wall. Making them speak diseased daytime things. Sleepless when the rest sleep,for the most part,but defining his own version of feeling alone and rejected. An extra layer to the act.
His fingers on the wall with the candle flame behind them, braiding truths and telling stories. Bruises and scars layering thick white and pink topographical ranges of high fragile wrinkles told a gnarled old story on young skin. Forever as far as he was concerned.
"It's your lie. You tell it like you want to." She had said.
He acted out his play to himself at 3 in the morning.
Waiting constantly for the door to be kicked in again,his fragile skin ripped open under passive cold moonlight. waning. judged. without.
Bones breaking,phalanges,tentacles,extentions (hyperlinks)
clean cuts severed and pure. Wild excitement in the blood. Alive again through routine. What was boring made into a word. Ritual.
Playing pretend with each other and the need to pacify beliefs.
To validate or value
a creative way. of sharing.

Thursday 24 September 2009


didnt i read that there was a radcliffe bailey opening at solomon projects.

i read danielle roney's name somewhere.

pink dots imply pink beams.

Water the color of ruddy redclay nestle quik.

expectations for a dirty truth

Saturday 19 September 2009

I HATE ART i love people

i hate the word. and the human between it. the condition that i must address even now is loving and motivated by need. indeed it has been the 21st century for some time now has it not?
and still here we erradicate the teeth in art,we package kids into pockets of themselves to whirlpool and marinate in tradition and mockery of meaning.
diseased weakness disguised as pure strength and

logos and published without typos.
fuck your cleanliness and what you have to do for your immediate idea of raping hear and now for some supposed noble cause. supposed positivity. supposed respect and education.
who will ready you today
is your today-ness. your grave will go unmarked. thoughtless. and sold.

ive seen the bookshelves with their centerplanks bowed from ...wait...we wait and we die..and their pages well worn from love-stymied by a body, a flesh of preconceived senses of self-ive seen nothing and wondered at its purity,the planting of a pure idea into that nothing
ive seen a city with blocks and grids
&templates that require being filled out
-of what art in the now has to do-it has to not be seen,to be grafted to itself even with machines
especially with machines
machines and wires mimic and distract us like faxes, windshield wipers or texting while driving...seeing art while on-line, seeing art while dualities of what is real,what is stamped with approval exude a mediocre gummy oozy swinging dollar sign

important issue castrated . it's another kind of castration
one castrates by being relevant and leaving a mark for the future.
the other castrates the future by being somebody's safe acceptable idea of now.

reality closes a gap on itself with a new duty to eat itself. the goal's vehicle is to find its own tail and start levitating,chewing and vomiting...and crying and smiling.
what the heck

is what and why the lingering distraction wont settle the desire to be alone and just think or delay and saturate,collect thoughts and regurgitate.
what the heck

is spontaneous and what is meaning implicated and safety -is there a direct route to saying something or is it all about being cute & marketable
what the heck

is this too ambiguous for you or even me,trained and framed to present to you? it isnt. i know.
to reach an audience -like somethng caught in the earths gravitational friction
it explodes when it hits sometimes,but not usually. thank goodness...transformed and eroded by a safe necessity.

globular malnourished wisdom with techniques and tattooes. proper ways of being inconsistant and accepting dont exist,in order to get your message across

coalesced in the now,to the moment-the very symptom of now embedded inthe need to be,the need to do things a certain way-in response to itself and hiding its hand and being not huble because that implies a sortof self serving self awareness but actually real-no hand to hide

but exposure. reaching.
meaning anymore.
the old vehicle appears to work but only to a certainend anymore.
theres no choice and who makes that only choice
people i will never see.
just like it shld be
the delayed message like thousands of years ago travel
by the future.
by lore that reached generations later of what happened now...travelled still by the flesh
not instant wires.

Tuesday 15 September 2009

Sojourner Worthington

Kelvin Well sing eye inn gee bow queried loose keys.
In fattable lather amongst browned 70's shack drabs
with wide form
& indie ukulele spork.

Saturday mannered very fungus locust boners
and bonanza. Hearken alarms and yellow blinds.
Calculus guffawed
sparing elevatored deadhead kudzu.
Thought bubbles
in awkward blocks that dropped and sloughed.

For instance:
Succinctly sips Perceval &
wishes wet cinders of citrus.
-so slow and susceptible they subsist
Thyroid lakes
it salivates a cyst,
it's slavish lavish,
slumbers spar panty teabags.
Slender sanguine and bovine.

& sin stirs sister's sinister silo of siccatives
& sycophants. Meal swine mean wily so adorable
you sew and sew.
Solipsism's somnambulist suck succubus's Socratic
bus sized breasts.

Mow ring awning tube an odor story tropic.
Belfry larynx cabalistic toe roach and protozoa.
The pundit informed morons black fungus.

Chain dowry flour portal temple square.
Floppy eared snobbery wriggles
curled upsie daisy
pink nibble

Monday 14 September 2009




i went to see the undercover show at spelman and felt like it was a nice presentation of an archive of images. its range bared a single ,if not very generalized theme of the disguising of identity-as it relates to african-american women-and how. and why.
an interesting aspect pointed out to me by a fellow patron,was the distinction of decades. both of us being children of the 80's found ourselves drawn to recognizing works from that time period.
i must confess to feeling as though the show,and its theme,were not explored to a full extent. perhaps it would be even more accurate to say that the show did not really exactly explore a theme so much as loosely use it.they served a different purpose,and in doing so ,did itself a disservice. It revealed where it could have been very real and perhaps even angering,where it could have been touching ,saddening,but instead-mostly- it was beautiful. it was about being an idea of an art show.
while everyone in life "disguises" themselves,one could observe this takes place from minute to minute,changing ever so slightly if not in extremes,by each isolated or individual encounter we have.this certainly respects that some individuals are born with a hefty and more complex version of this same basic human necessity. it is,what could be described as -unfair.profoundly unfair,or even "evil"- to humans with ideals and dreams and even a touch of spiritual sense about them. the belief that we as humans can evolve beyond and actually eradicate certain traits. acceptance...
in this show acceptance is not being strived for-it acquiesces to an idea of presenting someone's idea of art. i am somewhat hesistant to say this because of fear. not fear in an awareness of the dangers of say, putting my hand in fire or a malnourished lion's cage,but fear that is another kind of respectful. I really want to emphasize the honesty and respect in this comes from expectations and a kind of patience that is direct.
direct to fear because i love. i must turn that fear into something else and in doing so-the respect grows. i respect this show for some fundamental human purposes. it serves the job of historical interest.
various works in the show were beautiful. some of them were images that for so long have been part of the language of fashion and advertising as to be able to do nothing much beyond trigger that association. this show seemed to be more about representing an examination of changes over specific decades. The proposed theme was there,but what seemed to come to the forefront was artistic styles and techniques. Styles of photography, diligent detailed drawings,painting,film,clothing-there were many amazing things in this show,true. it takes several long moments to soak in. many works were by widely recognized names.
this educational aspect,that itself can easily create a wonderful image.
my supreme ideal
is fascination
in the inspiration
of a future mind. accepting that this here now,within a realm of art-can reach beyond that into life.
with all this being said,this show is worth going to and taking each piece on an individual basis.

the unscratched itch has its origin in a service that art can surely provide,tho. It can incite and be relevant in a generalized sense of the word "curation". in that curation,the challenge,especially given the importance of the theme,would be to emotionally engage what would hopefully be
the entire city.and maybe even the country.
experiences(art experiences)---in order to affect social change,wouldnt they need-or by uninhibited sheer passion be incapable of not striving- to saturate and mark memories- sometimes realizations should be embraced. and those realizations recignize what must be done on its terms not others. to do the latter infact not only negates-but threatens to make mockery of the entire purpose.
this show doesnt do that. its quality on an indivdual basis rule sitself. the duty is on the viewer to find the challenge. the viewer must come to this one because nothing of it is going to come to you.

it is an historical show. it is a presentation of "art". and it will come and it will go. in atlanta.

in other news..i still havent made it to whitespaces latest sarah emerson and..some other
ive seen i mages and it looks pretty. like some large energy rippling pieces and flavorful charactered sculptures sprouting up and about..anyone have any opinions?

oh! i saw an advert for a gallery that has done nothing but reinforce certain mediocre expectations-has in fact pin-pricked a glimmer of interest. emily amy has a collage show up
i have to wonder. im not holding my breath...but by golly i might just have to dip in and have a see.

i heard steve dixey sold well at beep beep . so thats good. the pieces he does are stunning with a robert williams reminiscent/level of technique. i havent been to this particular presentation of his work yet.....i bet they look neat as heck,tho.

i wish kibbee gallery were open on days other than opening & closing..i missed the golden blizzard thing.i suppose i could have put forth the effort to go see it,i was aware of it taking place, i just decided to watch dvd's instead. i am basically familiar with this groups works. i bet they were extremely neat. now that i think on it, i think they shld openly Publicly Show a taken cue from/for/with paper twins....
speaking of pt-saw another balls out juse movement-air dangling loose spray on side of green bridge high over 2o--just before lowery coming towards 75 junction web etc...
so much graff openly happening now-but honestly most ofit is like a collective afterthought. like it fills expectations. yawn. and then some even put their phone number and contact info and -uuugh. is the internet the only place to do graff now?

im reading scorch atlas by blake butler.i just got it in the mail from featherproof press. jesus but christ did it take FOREVER to show up. but i am glad it did. butler's random flow of energy,the braiding of disparate distinct fleshed out ideas into one forward moving coalesced powerful thought is a freaky toe-tickling ride. hes serving up quick punches in this one and they are amazing,kinda grody and gritty and drag grey claws across yr gut.but great. im in inspired & in admiration at how adeptly he grafts fascinating separate skull-found sentences of such saturated specific flavor-how they dont make fucking sense in such a perfect way. he effs with expectations while having a dark sense of humor about it.

what else what else what else. sure there's lots else....somebody flesh me out. adendummy.

Saturday 12 September 2009

ATLANTA ART CRAZED INTO Apathetic Importance: or who is it for?

AS MANY STARS AS BLOGS...Congestion and the tingle deep in the passage,it goes astray and dangles there. A thought. ugly and yours. significant.
Sometimes a measure is a distinct line,ultimately unflexable,ultimately solidified in a respectful consistant resolve. allowed within that judgment is something of a built in feature, a grandfather thought-one that in itself is its own "ultimately".
It cannot deny or help but embrace and allow for acceptance and permissability.
In doing this,a door thrown open-it was finally achieved and permeated as a thought and an intent and concept. until even it itself----dissipates and blends in.accepted and leveled out.

(you cant make somebody care.
or can you?)

what does money mean and which comes first?
what are modern implications about being responsive-with or without knowledge of that which came before you?

(accessibility to information & electric conversations connected to information accesible to people to art to artists
a line becomes drawn around a perimeter, a gerrymandering morphing blob that consumes all at the thought-stretching it to a thin line like a horizon that was finally actually walked into- that is only definable by something that walks directly on it,trying to imagine itself smearing and widening that very some cases flirting with what has now clearly become
one side or the other.
under this influence and through these eyes,ever curious to be precognotive or prophetic or perhaps a mirror of these times....
these times
who belongs to these?
this perspective is frm a soldified place. itis insigniifcant in what has now become one of many. as many stars as blogs. as lonely important individuals behind them

context and value.

a traditional manner of displaying art..of declaring..this is where art is being shown. to go and see it with preconceived reasons for why you are consciously putting on this awareness. this reason
all are good reasons. complicated to some or not,but simple and taken to whatever personallimit desired.
but practicalites to maintaining this ability to experience.

beautiful work but why?

confess you feel that your show is valuable and you have your own loving reasons why you do it and who it is for. why you show. not why you create.
(that is a different fundamental.)

you are all included.
atlanta's is a particular situation
as part of the concept indirectly constructed around your experience
it is not a global or local one,truth be told.but the measure that holds up to all
reveals a condition that -when honestly held against
it asks for not just more
but a heart wrenching human salty sweaty word
taste of being pushed to a sensation impossible to bond but all feel and yearn to connect
it asks for this kind of more.

it would respectful for you say that you are aware that
what you show
is not

and in doing so confess so as to validate some scratch of your existence
to perhaps save some face
so that maybe if your importance would be actually realized
it would create an environment for you
to prosper as you innocently and obviously of well intentions
seek to survive
and mean something.

Thursday 27 August 2009


This wraps around.or hugs the tree

the tree.

Saturday 22 August 2009


i wrote a review of this show and this computer will not let me cut n paste the text for some reaon. i am presently highly annoyed.
but that is okay. the show means enough to me to write more then .
never forget:fck computers and fck blogs.
you can see the other words over at ARTLANTA BLOG anyways. they're on there somewhere.
i promise.
this show means enough to me in aways that are snowballing the more i chew on them
unlike anything else in that it isnt.. .
Is it that it Is?
What to do about that? The wrapped up bow presentation. With what inside? Shit? Life? Soil? Babies?
The necessity. The poker face. I am not an artist.
The relevance to now that I feel has to do with catching up with ourselves because we care so much about being real with ourselves. The full circle is finding a solutionm-and it has to never show its hand. Because there "is no hand" not is ...real.
On a global and local level .
These blogs - these internets- these electric wires...
They represent a phenomena, an implication that looks at a cycle of dependance
-that "art world" relys on,and ties it together with real life phenomena.
Which is sort of ironic...because real life is..well, real.
-and it is also the last hopscotch block into the painted corner.. within a corner of that corner and so on and so forth.
That is,unless you just say to hell with it and pop that zit. and walk on that paint. and just work your job,pet your dog, fret for your weight,but pick your nose.
Person -artists-gallery-critic-person-walls-outside-public-art-life-inspiration-
create-show-gallery-critic-value-context-culture-education-reaction-premonition-reflection-formation-information...pardigm..hierarchy-need-obligation-respect.develop-to share-to LOVE.
The wild west playing field of the ugly real,because it says so
because it says so.
It points at the problem (life ends with death?) while representing the problem
Relevance of Meaning
Systems collapse and make way for the new. ("oh but that has been done before")
What can art do? How can it react? But to not be art
But to be real
But to stand outside of all of that. Neutrally. Observing
But part of it.
There,s no escape. Try to become all of it now that you can-the critic as art. The critic as performance. The art as real life. The person alone/together. The person before calling themselves artist. The art as it observes other art. The art as it observes life,observes itself.
Is the answer and is the problem.
Internal dynamics based on necessary models still writhe inside,exposing a bland surface of perfectly realistically... nothing. just as it recreates itself. the process is.
...if you care about others.
like a person that wants to sacrifice and expect nothing in return...that kind of care...
go work on a soup line.

Sunday 9 August 2009

sliding glass door
and behind it down below a salty steady
roaring comforting wash
the hollow scrape of a chair
and a comforting

quiet waves
stillness waves
emptiness relaxed
yearning back
to now

Thursday 6 August 2009


The Dispersed (prequel or previous chapter to strange maidenhead,but who cares...

Grey as the day and its haze ripping through the salty air, his beard long and in the wind was the same. He dispersed sentences and demanded truths. Ramming a finger towards the cliff's edge. Towards the ocean one hundred feet below. The man he gestured to was to dive in the morning, but presently had other more pressing challenges.
Gnarled and poignant with wisdom,the sentencing finger had three gold rings molded in points on its length. It turned from the wiry muscular man,tied to a stake and directly pointed to a walrus-like beast straining against a chain in the ground. Not 3 yards out of reach, it salivated a thick black mucous,heaving and shitting and slipping in its own mess. It wanted to eat everything in sight. Oily black scales shimmered and flipped as it breathed. Odd omnidirectional eyes bulged from sockets. Crab's eyes grafted into its head in some strange lab,the mutated thing probably even hated itself.
White robed men untied the thin gnarled man from his post. He seemed as stiff and stout as the thing he was bound to,with hands calloused and tough as edges of rock. The fingers were lengthened and came to points with sharp dark nails. They stepped away from him and clambered up off the mountainous plateau to a higher one. To observe the fight that was about to take place.
The Disperser levitated, and in doing so struck down and released the slobbering awkward beast from its chain. It didn't hesitate. For its massive size and weight it was agile. Cumbersome on land,it was still dangerous. Without warning it turned, slinging a pink knobby fleshy rope from its anus, attempting to wrap the man with it. A barb on the end bloated with poison slung madly through the air. The man a lanky blur,rolled and bounced against the nearest wall and with webbed feet,he sprang claws out and was on the rubbery beasts back.
In a blink the watching men missed what had happened. He was gripping its tentacle beneath the stinger with a crushing hold, keeping it from retracting back into its foul orifice. The beast shifted its body and rolled,wanting to crush the man,but smooth movements harmonized and went with its direction. He arched his entire body a circle through the air and planted his feet on ground, jamming his black finger tips into the tough beasts hide. It howled and rolled the other way, yanking the man and catching him by surprise. Fear registered and he realized in this moment he might be killed.
The tentacle came loose from his grip and instead of striking, it retracted. They were both hurt. The beast shifted back and the two stared at each other. The man's hand dripped blood from where his tips were ripped off, buried somewhere in the thing's fatty thick skin. He knew not to wait to react to its attack and moved. Before anyone observing or the beast itself knew it, his hand was in its brain. A fist sized hole in its skull.
The beast quaked on the end of his arm,convulsing it howled and the eyes wobbled and extended in shock. It still wanted to fight and perhaps still tried to execute bodily functions ,but nothing registered. It sagged heavily and its face slid from his fist.
The wiry man heaved and looked down at his hands, one covered in his own blood and the other gripping yellow bubbly tissue.

"You've completed this." Said a voice close to him as if from nowhere.
The Displacer stood before him with an empty stare. The beast still died,shivering and making gasping sounds from parts of its body.
"Tomorrow you complete what you started for them. You fulfill your broken promise."
The man looked down at the ocean and knew he looked at his death. Boastful lies had finally gotten the best of him. Winning trust with fantastic tales of accomplishments earned a living. Now it would earn his death.
"Tomorrow we will turn you over to them to carry out their sentence. To have their game with you. As you had your game with them."
The Disperser left every one's sight,retreating into a cavern opening in a grey wisp. The man felt his body go limp from science or spells,then hands on his arms. They chained him up again.
Tomorrow he would either discover other mammals or he would die.Or both. More likely simply the latter. The rest of the Disperser's effect soaked in and he was asleep.

The next thing he knew was the three looming hunched beasts before him hissing and grinding. It was morning and the sun was up.
"I think we should remove his other fingernails." They laughed and remarked about his wounds. Hanging with arms practically wrapped twice around his body,his one hand still dripped. The Disperser was there and nodded.
"He is yours to do with as you please. We offer him to you and hope it maintains our peace."

One of the needled black shapes whipped back a pitch black cape and out came a gaseous form of a hand. It shined sharp edges that came to invisible hair-like tiny points. Thousands of thin tips for teeth gleamed in its darkness. An evil mouth,the man didn't know why mammals didn't declare war on these foul machines.
There was sudden pain and a grip as his hand was bound and a fingernail on his good hand removed. He kept dead eyes for them. No pain shown.
"He likes to tell tales of mystery....Doesn't he?" One said and hovered in his face.
"More of your kind... are there? Magical kind? Watery kind? Astral Kind? ...Gods?"
It spit on him.
"Today you find out." It said tersely. Another fingernail ripped and he almost flinched.

From above and hidden, the Disperser silently whispered and cast fingers at the man. Superstitious and hopeful. Curious. He mostly just figured, "What the hell...maybe there are some ancient evolved ancestors down there somewhere...." He gave the man some incentive. Some oxygen.
"Why not?" He thought.
Then walked away to catch up with the rest of his day.

Wednesday 5 August 2009

Barn warped bark Larvae
in the midnight sun
Axle master Space crust
on the dark side
Vamp candor moo fumes (in toner cartridges)
over there
Lumpy owned Morse thunder food coloring
in the wet cement
Amps lung notates poor summations
on top of old smokey
Purple tire tracks through play Doh
around these here parts
Moon pewter tomb tummy teddy Ruxpin
in the end.

Carbon Mollified Bat Raton's Traveling Flesh Fairwellers had maybe seven clouds tied to their tent.
Up there,where bunny rabbits bumped cauliflower uglies.
Life drove them and nurishment was plentiful.
Their theme had been
"Leathery wings and emulsified fingering reasons for bullheaded eyelidless raspy smoker's values".
Until they were sued for copyright infringement.

"You don't have to stretch the muscle." said the Lion Tamer. He was up on a ladder feeding a large malformed aquatic creature in a clear walled tank.
The Strong Man lifted a leg while curling weights and let a loud flat sound from his ass. He shot the Lion Tamer a look that said "Shut the fuck up."

Strong Man had rancid spidering vein rot networking across his body. More than a few parts needing to be removed before infection spread. His legs were showing black fungal root patterns. It looked like a mold's epicenter was the most dense and spreading from the crotch of his red spandex. The little microscopic fingers thickened as they passed under and around unbusted leg sores and pimples.
The Strong Man would laugh with his bad breath and slip off into any and every town. No matter where he was,he'd find the dirtiest bar. And the dirtiest prostitute. And more often than not, the biggest ugliest guy to fight.
As they sat in silence,attending to their tasks under the tent,the Lizard Dwarf Twins meandered in sideways, clutching a piece of paper. They were attached at the skull and at one knee.
They had high pitched voices and one of them stuttered.
"When we passed through Gibsonton last week, we got an idea for a poem. Would you guys like to hear it?"
They didn't wait for a response. The overhead lights in the tent seemed to choose moment to flicker incessantly.
"Oh donor mutate mandibles and planets. For plants and cannibals masturbate.
Baby mashed and ransom letters masticate,sand paper bananas and traffic panties...
Oh gonad plaster cannister Tralfagar pilgrimage in winter tit mouse drips.
Press the snake piss in lullaby manure tumors, tokens of appreciation.
Only Mona
eyebrows smuggle
volume in a munchy laughter gall gumption.
Take my omnipresent love letter to sarcasm's ranch
and jerk hot sauce on monastery lawns."

They didn't really wait for a response either. The twins scuttled crab-like out the door as quickly as they had come in. The Lion Tamer and the Strong Man just looked at each other and looked back to what they were doing.
The moment was too long for the Lion Tame,tho. His watery friend,waiting impatiently for more food took action that seemed correct to it.

"Jeeeezuz Christ! OOOOH..!" Was the sudden scream,but it ended quickly.

The Strong Man jumped suddenly at the man's wailing. Turning he saw a horrible sight. The sea beast was reaching from beyond the top edge of the pool. Using its one human arm, it had taken a sincere grip on the Lion Tamer's neck.

(uugh. this is stupid.

STRANGE MAIDENHEAD (chapter sumthin)

below you'll find
actual words sent to a funny blog i found. the blog's premise is an open call for writing. what you send to a provided e-mail gets put on the blog. nothing is turned down...
hmm.which makes me think...i wonder if i could write something so gross and disturbing that they make an exception. most of the other writing i noticed was from a sort of youthful violence n gore-obsessed angle-and of a sexual nature. i found an inspired moment and cranked this out and sent it.
the email to submit whatever is:
heres the blog:

i might send in another chapter or i dunno...i have had somebody offer to publish a book if i wrote it. maybe i shld quit screwin around with stuff that feels like it's esy to not care about.
my lifestyle is about to change so maybe i will. im making some "healthy" changes because i now have insurance to do it with. so yippee...i guess. maybe my brain will begin to manifest new priorities. maybe i will read that norton anthology of poetry with a dirty focused honest passion. maybe i will throw it away because i realize i dont care about poetry. maybe i will realize i am not a fucking art critic,write the two art reviews i said i would with proper sane respect and be done with it. maybe i will go back to painting for pleasure and paying attention to loving those i know and trust. maybe i will be able to go to my day job and focus on my day job when i am at my day job. maybe i will be able to be comfortable being happy. maybe i will stop getting on the internet.maybe this will be one of my last posts. because im somewhere in sunshine,in reality, sharing reality,posting comments directly from my face to anothers. i am done playing pretend.
with that said..heres part of a story im making up:

Seeing thin sheets of light from thirty feet beneath. The emaciated man was a diving mindless spear. Pointed purpose. Through clear blue watery disturbance,wonderful bright white and yellow and his browned ragged stick of a body. Solar ripples of life giving energy and the haze of its strength carved with him deeper..
The sun burned through aquamarine and refracting,bathing his path clearly. A dreamy green and transparency gleamed. On another day,it was beautiful.
A sea of angles and deeper with fingers white and wrinkled. Pulling yearning to reach the bottom. To get away. A dream cave deeper down somewhere and air,and big smiles and fuzzy hugs of mammalian warmth.
A clawing swimming desperation. Through a mental disease,brushing past rubbery minuscule masses of tentacles. Darker pulling and pressure squinting. Being checked out by tiny tendrils and watchful saucer glowing eyes. Sea fingers tickled and inspected and encumbered.
His anxious fleshy tips ripped down to the cuticle,trailing ten streams of red in the water. Scuba flippers fashioned from the toughened hide of some alien beast,strangled ankles held them in place with intestinal length,still bloated with feces. He swam naked and rib caged bare. Deeper.
The sun faded but the high-pitched screeching chants of anger pierced through everything.
From above, their self-generated cooling sleet poured over the shoulders of haystack shaped shadows. Needles for teeth,clear and dripping, they gritted and grind as they sweat. Pulling a 12 foot thick sheet of glass over the ocean,they dirged and hovered above the water's jagged tiny waves. Observing the man scramble deeper. Sonar eyes in needled shades billowed black cloaks over the ocean. Arching negative lines in the wind with odd ugly jagged points. The monstrous shapes giggled and pointed at the futility beneath them. They dropped living wriggling charges as they pulled the sheet of glass. Demonic scaled and chomping teeth with razor scales that propelled through the water.
Beneath and reaching,the expanse went black. Blindly the man pulled in a direction he hoped against Hell was in fact the correct way,the last direction that made sense. Kicking with hands raking and fanned open,still bleeding a steady beacon to anything with a hunger and a nerve ending. A 100 mile radius. They could see him and he silently hoped his rabies contaminated rail thin body offered no meat of consequence.
Ache and confusion clouding thoughts,the man damned all else and pushed harder from within,through this darkness that never seemed to end. Something sharp screamed on his calf and then another at his heel. They were everywhere the living depth charges. Their signal red eyes suddenly the only source of light. He stopped and reached with a quickness. Unnatural perfection of his claws exactly into this evil things eyes. Then another in his other hand. Crushed and extinguished,two others sentient enough to know hesitation watched as the man quickly swam again. They followed and zig zagged,knowing his skin held within it alien potions, a current through his bloodstream like an angelic lightning. Tearing his mind and amplifying his body. Glorified and confronted with a purity that was too much. His mortal body stripped down almost to bone and perfection. Sinuous muscle and desire to build and create. Interference with ocean,this bipedal hairy mind of machines. It must be destroyed. It must be eaten.

Foreign oxygen in his body,the man pulled for another eternity. He began to notice mountain-like shapes and almost smiled. They revealed themselves in moments. Almost mirages,but he certainly saw them. The visuals inspired him further and soon enough- a blessing of sorts. A light source appeared,saving him from plunging face first into a strange shape. A mast of dense cracked wood and barnacles.Broken and slimy amongst other sunken pieces.Coated with time and blowing in the deep with seaweed. A rotting maidenhead glowered at him and he planted hand and foot on her shape to stop for a second. Mouth clutched shut pulling on trained placements of pockets from within. Oxygen stored, attached by alien serums to blood cells, waiting to be called on. He pulled in the silence,preparing to dive towards the light source.
Letting go and floating he turned and prepared to pull when a sudden lessening in pressure gave him pause. A groan in the water and a massive looming shadow. Slowly with confidence it revealed itself beyond the wreckage. It blocked out the light with its shape. A yawning chasm of a mouth filled with sharp icicle stalactite teeth. They dripped an oily substance and it hissed black bubbles through the water at him. With a massive twist it swung something like a tail or fin,breaking the ancient ship from where it had rotted into oneness with the slimy ocean wall.
It came out of the sea ridge. The networked mountain ranges possessed elaborate and subtle developments. Miles long and ornate with naturally formed age. Producing the highest peaks and hiding thousands of caves. And hiding beasts of unknown wisdom and size.

Monday 3 August 2009



If you think you think you should heed the warning of your mother and sister and not risk uncertain sorcery,turn to page 25


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