Saturday, October 4, 2008
SUNDAY: workless process
oil pastels,hippy skronk dungeons and crime novelist bosses. oil paints and craft store canvas budget packs
residential real estate curators in mishmash price tagged art spaces. meeting other artists.
commerical real estate curators in mishmash price tagged art spaces. brushing shoulders with business artists and their spouses
10'x10' e-z up chilidog babystroller quick grab art. i brought myself here, and theni row in another direction,relative to god know what,bound for god knows where.
faux angels and sell-taught animals and primary colors.
cute little trinket shops + art.
meeting successful ones,the patience of those validated.
coffee shops and restaurants. night cafes full of shit.
a local web of pen-pals for thought
is it community. am i an artist? am i who i think you are collectively?
and then,none of that matters. the artist alone. what do we(I) want?
a gesture to a place outside of me, defines me-because i let it.
i distract me further. helping nothing. a joke i played on myself.
a critical eye sees i cant hold a thought (or a job). or a relationship.
how to say what it is i want to say when im still to busy saying what i dont .
when will it eat itself, collapse in the reality of its spent energy ,for others or
for what? to feel a sense of belong,or to make a living. or to make a point
i dont think im going to change my ability to focus
i hate structure.
but i hate not being able to measure even more.
quantity and then sifting after the fact sux.
with paint? with words? with performance? poe-eh treee?
i see structure and active pursuance. but wait. what.
what is it?
i go to other places where arts take place and see strange faces in their own places and re-realize. talent and love and stuff.
and i feel like my mind is totally too far gone to ever return to some place where i did have some sense of a grip. i know i know good and i know it takes work work work. ..with a knowing of what is wanted.evenif the focus is just in one sessionof creative doins,, i think sometimes im so filled with hurt and self hatred that i have tried to turn my lack of ability to develop any area of talent into earned developed talent.and i use an imaginary world to rationalize that. but then i see commerical empty shit and i know it's empty shit and i am reassured again.but then i see amazing stuff, and it often is amazing stuff and i feel ..jealousy. i realize a same path was taken by stuff i subjectively stamp as either shit or great. and i dont do it.
im a barnacle, a joke, a stupid name and and then...i see "friends" do shit, and i say it's great,but im full of shit. especially when i dont even know what good is myself anyways. i know some technique/ structures that produce something that could technically be considered "great",but i resist that. out of what? laziness? i dont think so. fear? maybe i dont really know techniques...blah blah. goddamn blah. im empty, i burned my substance away years ago.
and then oh yeah..food shelter family. and family makes me want to live,but everything else makes me want to die.36. i am what i am at this point. and its less thn anything. if it was evil,it would be something,but it isnt.it's dork. i dont trust myself and i dont trust artist friends. i dont think people that are what i consider friends trust me cuz they are close enough to me to know im fucked in the head. it aint art. im a person before im an artist,and i myself am def. not a moving performance. and i myself am def. worthless.
i dont actually care about anything. and i care about that very much. so i guess i should just leave the world alone. im not gonna rationalize anybody's bullshit for them anymore. theres no such thing as being supportive of another. its either using or being used and im neither so fuckit all.
Posted by eggtooth at 9:27 AM
Thursday, September 11, 2008
the ray sapped the sackrasm it wasnt much. sacriment.
the turntable was.
armed with only a tragic muscle spasm
and a holy tractor. set to sarcasm.
coffee chips and slivers in the mix
i flop sum running wonderment.
silly. black spray paint immortal sucking.
Posted by eggtooth at 6:20 PM
big shone a tingle and the room went wobble
a stunt grofe a tonenail shaped like a powerful
typographer's car. a nation of happenstance.
i just dont know how big the room is that is full
of it. HE SAID WITH a voice.
the shaking and rigged it shrivels in ,,the color that
is the new black.
hunchy hair. by the harvest moon light.
by eff jeverything.
Posted by eggtooth at 5:10 PM
Thursday, August 7, 2008
Suppose a cellar. in yr need.
shameless, oueuesence. palindromes and
Salamander's metronome, a return,
courting. fantagiblient. racecar delights
equal quests, street avians.
Posted by eggtooth at 1:17 AM
Saturday, December 22, 2007
for let her word. from the word go.
heat. capsulated in the mist.
and long unpronounceable words, i have feet touching
slippery thoughtful grass. ever shifting synapses white on the outside.
nodules bump lucid track marks. and pain.
belong is a smile i understand. being there.
a shape in its thought,across space of...just being a person.
one that a week from now will be different.
Posted by eggtooth at 5:48 PM
Thursday, November 12, 1987
This entire story is only a single chapter,based on an Idea,in the actual sense of the word. It is a fictional place,but it is not. It is your first person narrative,done through another art's eyes. It is as real as your own perception of your place in a community.In this case,an art community,something that easily lends itself to interesting possibilities for representations of personas. The environment is called Atlantis.
Atlantis being a sort of recurring element or sound, that is an inconsequential environmental context,representative of the internet,and the washing away of civilizations in ways that don't seem entirely solid.
This is a middle chapter.
I will also freely admit,as its author,that this Idea,is of course mine. It is a manner of art that i feel bridges the critic and the author, or the artist,in a time when the context in which art is reviewed need be addressed at once with the art. I find this version of a tradition of writing to be the most effective for my goal.
In tandem with this, I am pursuing a way of creating this visually.
UNBUILT ATLANTIS: the sugar and the spoonfool (<----redrafted from this original version for additional flavor)
Towering lean shadow of a man at his makeshift imaginary pulpit, a crowd of patrons blurred around. The head of a jackyl on Jack Yl's shoulders sprouted two yellow cartoon arms,his hairy torso heaved with conviction. Hooves ripped through the ends of mining boots. He raised thin lengths,gangling at the elbow joints. His arms,draping black from armpit to wrists. It was something like the moltings of moose antlers.
"I am Dynamically Harmonized with all of you." He declared. A mishapen partially transparent black box hovered in the air before him. He seemed to look into it.
The ambivalent crowd murmured in itself and hugged one another. sand stirred and made the crowd vaue. Little dollar signs and smiley faced editorials bubbled in the murmuring froth. The ten o'clock wave horn sounded and water quickly filled at everyone's feet,rising with a strange abruptness. Fish flapping began soon enough,against unshaved exposed calves little nibbles of curiousity.
The feet moved through a perception they had created of themselves and their purpose for gathering amongst other creatives. Fins and webs melded in some of the feet ,like dreams, fingers,extended and purple with suckers searched the scene.Paper tigers with ink cartridges attached to their html hinds grew fins and circled the perimeter before entering the gallery.
The Apathy Engine sputtered in the air before Jack Yl. It rose, making a painful sad and weird noise. It had cancer of the gears from stopping and starting like this. The holograms it projected were transparent in spaces, the crowd wavered and some stopped and stared at the machine levitating above his hairy deep socketed skull. He could tell some feared it was some sort of aggressive device and he became uncomfortable.
"It's just for making art." He hissed and dropped his arms.
An older lady with lamb-like eyes in the crowd gave him a vague look,her empty gaze said, "I'll be watching you. Her chest exposed from acid crocodile tears of art passions, an obsession with Perseus and her mother's pyrite Atlantian statue. In her memory palace,hovered the mummified white dressed corpse of her mother. A jail house burned emblem on her chest declared artistic and cultural value for he idea of atlantian waters. Everyone knew she knew nothing. Her name was Dyin Gallop,the angler fish's ass.
The Apathy Engine clanked hard on the ground and bounced off of one of Jack's Australian mining boots. The shadowy gruff man dropped his head and dropped a knee,upper torso the tumbling of a topped off tree swinging,he gathered up parts .
With deeply caring fingers he gathered a few stray pieces of the Apathy Engine, when a small pair of feet suddenly stood still before him.
"So I see you're still not painting, Egbert" Her voice said over him. He felt the rest of the eyes around floating away and the air grew more open. Dyin was gone.
The female voice was suddenly closer and in his ear. He tried to tell her he was Jack right now,but her tastes paid no mind.
"It'll be okay,Egbert. Just gather your stuff up and go home."
She was leaning next to him in a comforting way. Elisa Rechts always maintained a maternal mentor's arms length with him. She was 2 years younger , a teacher, and published as a novelist and poet. Egbert pressed the jammed button on the Apathy Engine and it released, ending the weird grinding sound.The jackyl face smeared slowly away,then Elisha's image wavered in the air and disappeared.
He turned a knob on it to a more calm setting and a light bathed out of the entrance to the art gallery. The crowd let soft laughter ripple through them and someone seemed to wave at Egbert. The waving person became more solid in the form of Jules Winningfield. He marched over with a huge smile and a handshake."Heeeeey. Egbert! Waadya say!"
He shook his hand with furiously friendly eyes and walked away to another name, presenting an interest and animation equal to the quickness with which he had approached. Jules was already shaking somebody elses hand and gesturing towards the art gallery, no doubt spewing some convenient speech about the art inside.
Egbert turned in the mirth,noticing Dyin's trail slip into the entrance, the gallery actually seemed to have an honest swath of light coming from its doorway tonight. It beckoned a sort of trance inducing high end department store ambiance. His mind reeled for a moment until noticed them. A couple of shaved eyebrow goth guys muttered low cool staring matches with a couple of black framed dreadlocks.
They laughed together and smoked, either apathetic or proud of the incongruance their presence suggested in such a rich and cultured part of town. The words were thought bubblesin the green transparency of the water all around them. Their pink tongues ,water snake like were virginal with truth. It was a minor beacon in the darkness. His own created perception of the value of this art opening.
Egbert didn't like this part of town, even though he lived in it. He hid the fact that he was filthy rich, despising it as best he could. The gallery hummed with the sounds accompanying the video installation. Machine workers manufactured butcher knives and placed them in repitition on cream colored placemats for photographs to be taken. An image of a naked man blindfolded and swinging a knife stomped around the room.
Egbert laughed and hid the Apathy Engine behind his back. Overhead a massive reznor industrial air conditioner sized Apathy Engine silently rethreaded the reality of the walls and the gallery space.
Wix Sampson had designed the machine. Egbert's own Engine was built from almost 75 percent parts that Wix had given him 6 years ago. Wix was an attorney and former assistant to the mayor of Atlantis. They had been childhood friends,Wix and Egbert,both parents attending the same society gatherings. Until both children lost their parents in the same plane crash.
Wix was in the corner adjusting a setting when he noticed Egbert. He stood up quickly and smiled.
"Oh my." He said. "I almost programmed you into this one just as you appear, Egbert. My God! How long has it been? How's the painting going?"
Egbert stared around in fascination at the machine workers and the shining knives. The flashing of the photography made him wince in a rhythmic pattern. The scene shifted as he watched and the knives became small hairy things covered in some sort of dark oily substance. Fibrous patterns of black and white refracted all of the light in the room, momentarily producing all frequencies of light.
"Fuck!" Screamed Wix and hit a button. The lights reduced to primary colors and began to mix slowly again. He chuckled. "Well, you get more when getting your teeth x-rayed,but i still feel bad. Sorry bout that."
In his hands behind his back,Egbert's Apathy Engine shivered to life.
"Hey Wix....remember that idea I had for an Engine?"
"Yep" He responded distracted,or apathetically and turned to fidget with some wires.
"Well....I did it." Egbert weighed his paranoias in the looks of several fish in the immediate area. Their eyes in metallic unison,thousands of high pitched refracting signals,rang a clear note of decision in his mind. It registered Apathy. Not passionate artistic distraction.
Wix turned and looked at him to see how serious he thought he was. Egbert looked back at him with conviction. And fear.
"It's sentient, Wix. I swear to God."
Wix walked over with worry and wiped a wet wash cloth once over his prominent forehead.
"Lemme see it" He gestured impatiently at Egbert to pull his hands from behind his back.
The Engine shivered in his hands and seemed to turn a dull low red color.
"What mode do you have it in right now?"
"Stream of Consciousness and Fantasy" This made Wix laugh.
"Egbert, you're never going to change." He reached to take the rusting thing from his hands.
Egbert later felt he had deliberately said the words too late. He had always wondered about Wix's will,and felt this was the one way to be right with him once and for all. Egbert watched as the man's fingers became letters of various typefaces and scattered into the air. His tongue gaped,becoming a giant Boldfaced Optima "Q. His hair lengthened into S's and L's and slithered down across his shoulders, acidicly carving his shoulders at strange angles through his torso. Body copy jumbled into swoops, greeking indications of words and ideas, his legs seemed to collapse and scatter across the floor like scrabble pieces. They evaporated and Wix was gone.
Egbert stuck the Apathy Engine in his coat pocket and it shrank and huddled in his dark smelly armpit. He could feel it licking the flakes of deodorant form his long hairs.
He made his way out the backdoor of the galleryand into the woods behind it. He decided he would go home and build another Engine. He would go to Wix's studio first.
In the gallery,an image of Wix was stuck in a loop, he fidgeted with wires and appeared to converse with Egbert. Egbert panted his way through the trees. What would be the next Engine? Love? or Hate? He decided that he did not care.
Dyin was in the planetarium at Wix's waiting for Egbert to come in.
Posted by eggtooth at 5:08 AM
Monday, November 12, 1984
YOU are the art scene.
i musta been on drugs to think i could meet you. and i did. The name so up on high,as it turns out, i should not have been allowed to meet you. You are up there and i do address it directly. I put myself on a level,from a vantage that returns with head tilting yearning pulls,striving to see the fantastical way again. the idea, the association. I will try to avoid the words : feeling. context.value.
I will remember that just because I have met or even become acquainted with a couple or twenty strangers that have called themselves artists, doesn't mean I am part of a scene. Especially, i will not fool myself into thinking that i am an artist.
I will also remember that no artist has an obligation to considering this at all.
Art is only as good as it's audience.
I will remember that this is about gaining international attention,in that is not about that. It is about doing something that matters.
It is about art on a conceptual level. (Art is only as good as its audience).
Amazing artists and admirable galleries. The names in the newspaper (barely),but never on the 5 o'clock news. Too bad there's really no such thing as "all over the internet".
Do we work relative to our audience? Who is our audience and are they not as imaginary as the group of artists you feel you belong to? Is it not sometimes an audience of ourselves? Which is a good thing,only problem is,evidently we are lying to each other.
Audiences of themselves with or without money can make a continuous cycle that exists within themselves. They can appear to themselves in many forms. In the pages of The Atlantan magazine or in a giant thread on the artnews listserve. (When was the last time a local artist's show caused a giant thread of discussion on artnews?)
I think the concept of Eggtooth is a perfect example of the problem with Atlanta's art scene. It's concept is that it is nothing,and yet it is art. It exists as a concept. Defined by its surroundings. Is there any obligation to any notion?
What kind of show would I curate? I suppose it would be about the atlanta art scene. it would be a conceptual performance about identity and sense of self,played out by those in attendance on opening night. Sculpture would be the static structures,statues of individuals like Camille Love and Bill Lowe. The space would be partitioned into various display units. We would all be supplied with disposable cameras at the door,urged to take as many pictures of ourselves as possible. Blank canvas would be displayed on the gallery walls.
extra hidden track:
"sog bogiddity boggin sloggin" by bo Buckuhrose
well sog bogiddy bogiddity bloggin
i seen em' round the church a hoggin
bog bloggity bloggin bloggins
Liiiiiike their shirt tails floppin'
Bog-iddity boggin sloggin
sog sog bo boggity log in
and yr mom is callin
she'll go blog soggity schloggin boggin
wiiiiith yr typos floppin
un-til its moon is poppin'
pink pears and toenail poutins'
shoe strings go boggity floppin
she show so bee bop bloggin
and so it goes bo bloggin bum boo sew
see so south went
downtown to see show sumthin
be beau two tea totalin mountains
with sog bogiddity boggin sloggin
WHAT WILL YOU DO?
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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