Ingmar Bellafaloose @ Sodium Prospects Gallery

Indignant and effective.
Nervousness of the capability of expression consumes these words.
A certain consciousness for typos labors progression.
Consciousness of awareness.
Has it read enough to write enough?
Can it be enough of itself to ever completely be?

(sidenote from a traveling salesman
of emotions in a briefcase for the
unfocused. What to do when unfocused
and empty? The times have lost their
flavor and they blur,making an artist
feel like not even creating. A person
that is even less than that. Wasted it
on what? Sadness fattens and leaves an
ever fattening stack of unread books.
Let's get honest here.Is there any real
confidence and sense of commitment when
it really comes down to it? Lonely and
not alone,the finances were supposed to
not be of any major consequence but now
the looming threat. Sleep will only bring
tomorrow around too soon. I hardly ever
take the garbage out and I leave bits of
hair from shaving in the sink. Bugs and
small rodents infest the night. The truck
driven to art openings has too many miles
on it to make up for my mood swings,lack
of genuine maturity or interest in those
things that make a person money. It wont be
long before i am pushed into my final corner)

A stubborn and proud showing of art on the walls and floors of Sodium.
One that would never change,never need to be altered for the sake of any historical perspective.
It continues to invite participation.
There is no cleaning up after this act.
It is a mess that spreads in the head and in the mind.
Photographs will always fail.
Words in their own floating way might come their closest when deliberately reduced to guttural sounds simulating sex.
The core before even cave paintings or cultural in all caps.
It would remain and represent itself for all time.
It took a boring kind of honesty and grafted it with blunt trauma force to complacency.
Then together,the two utilzed a kind of dynamics,made subtle by only artful margins,but enough-it drove home a point that layed low on certain levels, while hammering itself and the experience and those experiencing it- with an offensive kind of directness.
If it had teeth,they would be rotted into black jagged edges,held into bleeding gums with sharp rusty screws.
The putridness of some uncooked flesh dangling like a mock price tag.
The shapes of words smeared by greasy fingers.
Footsteps remain of those before you.
Some even leave parts of their wardrobe inadvertantly.
Personal items stuck in ambiguous filth that grow over and consume.
This building will be condemned and torn down for certain.
But rest assured,it will not be cleaned out.
Meaning,the show will remain and it will spread,perhaps containing all of Atlanta befor eit is over. Phsyically,electrically,emotionally, and hungrily.

Photographs.
Performance on the opening night.
POETRY.
Sculpture.
Music.
Film.
Painting.
It was all included.
It all coalesced in a cultural statement that knew of only one vehicle it could travel in.
An ugly honesty blindly drove it through the wall of the gallery and parked it sideways .
Of course elegance had its place as well,but what Sodium's patrons had to sift through to get there-it left few standing.
Literally.
This was a first of any kind.
It happened in Atlanta,Ga. one summer night in 2009.

In its atrocious assaults on all manners of the senses, Ingmar Bellafaloose unleashed a dichordant,infectious,unctuous,and even soporific multi-media installation.
Two weekends ago at Sodium Prospects Gallery the perspective was changed globally and locally.
Ingmar began his install on a Thursday.
The air around the building in this East Atlanta pocket took on a vague sickly green hue.

Not since Maxwell Sebastian's last opening had the city's art patrons found themselves so desperately wishing for larger and more muscled hands.
Resilient hands, big and strong enough to hold back the unrelenting, deeply aching visceral gut wrenching reaction to such a beastly scale of abberations to humanity. Contents of stomachs filled the sidewalk outside of Sodium.
Police sirens could be heard all night.
This level of a result at once reduced - and considering the perspective - elevated initial reviews to being written only by OSHA employees.

Reporting from her hospitable bed, Gallery owner Louise Mcackestuary,had these words to say:
"Ingmar seemed like a normal enough fellow. I did find the slides a bit unique. I had joked with my gallery assistant that they seemed like the tip of a mysterious brown iceberg- and her response had been "Yes...it looks like (explitive) in a (explitive) (explitive) rat's rotting (explitive)."

The show opened 6 months later and the rest is now going down in a history that the city of Atlanta will never forget. For better or worse. One local artist and graffiti franchise owner remarked saying, "Well,at least we're on the map for something."

Ingmar had been given a Thursday and Friday to himself in the gallery. Louise had dropped the keys to the gallery in his hands,feeling a quiet sense of trepidation. She'd never done such a thing before and didn't know why she did now. She later recalled his shirt. It was smeared with organic peanut butter and depicted a horrific altered image of Joseph Beuys simulating a sex act on a large piece of cheese. She had left Ingmar to his own devices. Two days later he emerged and locked the gallery doors and stood right there in the sun. He had waited. Time of the opening came,and, like "a bride on her wedding day" was the analogy he used to those complicit with his wishes,he revealed the show to everyone in one go.

The title of the show was, "Kraken Poptarts & Concrete Saliva". Hundreds of used lunch bags,stained and molding since his childhood had been thumbtacked to the walls. Scratch n Sniff stickers decorated most of these bags.

The show was about openings and in opening it was an offal experience for triumph had disease and the guests anticipated themselves in their outfits.
Outrigged with text and black drapes of ink,the bond between them flipped and marked its place.
Traces of kisses and fallen asleep drool from late reading,crammed stanzas and reread and reread misnomers,throw-ups and major pieces covered up by amateurs. References to commoners and people with shoes that strippers would not check out
Stuck in the blood on the floor was a strip of masking tape from the back of a canvas.
The image itself was dissolving in the toluene leeching from the soluble surface.
People could not look,they fannd ice on each other.
Waiting,they themselves melted.
They themselves ere like an old man's walker,disrupted and conjunctive with anticipation the strain of tomorrows long day in a hot warehouse.
The film rolled by was it recorded on a five minute delay.
Interpolating the previous three minutes...often making assumptions about what would happen next.
A constant dialogue pieced together an audio that mish mashed nonsense that was often oracle-like in its predictions.
The guests were performing in the gritty waste that slithered across the floor. Horse bones painted and a live rock band played.
Oblivious to the scene.

PUNK MONKEY

Lettuce spay hour fat her
who oar tin heave in gibbous
diss dada your dead bird



Punky candle possums asthmandibles
tote pony gagged coffee escapes

Gritty candle punked the possum coffee,
gagged the pinion mandibles for sadville asthma mt.

Coffee barbs n lipstick maces,
anti eventualities begin with german totes
Punchy hurted, the coffee saltworks a balloon
for chew net escapes
I'm sad in the drive-thru

Hermes perm spurns Hoboken lotion testaments
to everyone's harpy mosque watchdog

The hated pancake awakends heaven's gristle lips- furry fury on a foot like a cow,perculator.

Eat coffins lightning teething
feral paranoia sweats battery acid

Critical monster conjunction song barn
parfait's rebirth is written

Key key leak in crack apogee attractive antagonistic acupuncture barracuda abracadabra barnacle ballistic barricade
If someone suddenly held a gun to your head and said,"Tell me a joke...now!" What joke wld u tell?

Pinkie phat banter's funky werewolf cotton
pinback touching turtle headed boot
scootin' barking shriner

Puma knuckles last black hours
in mumbled larvae coloured garamond buckle crunk filets.
Regime jello develop opposed and pointy vessels of skeletal moog pewter kangaroo boobs
Bela la' loofa's exterminator pansies unfold the sexy jet pack
with an acid washed genie

Bastard mustard bass fission boom boom pub lick.
In a me clique cricket, sky on pry a puss retard.

Termite nads or robot clops
sigh bored sheepskin condom leakage stinkies for Hegel.

Supple plunk junkie.Baffle waffle offal lobster.
In the afro-city, polly see due ki change.

Knee capsized BARN nanners bonanza panties,
and mashed poor potentate toes, the towheaded conan co-bear
bee in reek port man toes.

On top of. It again

Troubled agendas masticate the sinuous and elementary combinations,
flavoring anacin's flagellanish
kool-aid baby-faced party scam.
Smiles are just like two snowflakes.

She-ra had hip surgery.
Writing sires popular sewing myscenes

I just caught a tiger by the toe! It is sooooo cute in memory of Cliff Burton.

jayglow below.



Saving grok for sour pants under cool side I can't get the word up

Goodbye one twisty chicago traffic jam three on eee 4 quiet friendly overture(something like that) gloves not 2 punch with gee incapable ...

Mow thru each this is not but it is not narry dog leash but fragrantly tangled so terrific not the squander c b g b fangtasia whipered m ...

Skill bate for ride gimme hex on herb set just the oonst not down a set of stairs not nights or rains or the others why r u doing this n ...

Blind spots centrality of fiction a rather gummy down blobs of place troot not a calculus limb dispensment willst du keep up I am wastin ...

Impoitence and apre cool Shaz tangle pology freak out for the comfy chair your add day hell em to ob tuh tea of the while the if the I y ...

SHAY SHAY EUPHRATES EUTHANASIA ESTUARY

There's a new kind of honesty afoot. Pilgrimages and wall leanings greet us with apathy in the summer heat talks. Charged with a sexuality,an agenda and an introduction. Patience smiles and manipulates or educates. Intentions stain the rug with coffee rings,lies so convincing because the liar is himself convinced.

This is the same stuff from I don't know when before. But here: let me dictate a theme for artists to work with-i am the indirect curator-the critic. Curious city situation makes smooth for butter the minor ignorant hitches to financial freedom.

A smile and a gesture,the knives erect. Patience manipulates.

Aloof river of knowledge absorbs while soothsaying nothing. Later the trail blazes a quality that strives endearingly in a non-threatening mosquito-like manner. The streets down further turn and twist,teaming with unknown pockets of the many.

Polite license and silly cinders seduce sinister soubrettes into signing up for solopsismic syllabuses. I hurt myself trying to write that,came around and tripped over the thick pretentious markings....nothing ever changes and gimmicks are just personalities.

Leaflets disease flips both sides thru the air,submitting and commanding as it turns into a television set in every home. it plods on in motion,the strange itch it has planted has raised its cost to sickening but healthy extremes.

Baby faced lies. Time steps plates up to people sometimes. Paranoia digs a hole.

Brian mothereffing Dettmer guts em' at Saltworks

Holy Mother of what is insanely sacred. Books. The body as Andreas Vesalius would have respected it. Somehow it seems cold, but strangely too ironic or even playful to not also be warm and soft. Brian Dettmer sculpts. The meticulous details and the subtle indications of his mindset are often not terribly subtle at all. But so delicate,it baffles and logically intrigues to a tight extent,while at once weaving into threaded appendages,one is reminded of how fascinating it is to learn that an album is only one groove.A technical and quiet organism is brought to a new kind of life. A consolidation of types of creative experience takes place through surgery.

I thumb through a handful of publications from a shelf in the corner of Saltworks. Thorough images and write-ups of this guy's amazing talent. His nerves and attentiveness must be ice,exact-o laughing in a lockdown mode, a zone of vision. (and then there are the bloddy cassete tapes,casette tapes,my god it has been that long since i have even thought to write that word-and what he has gone and sculpted with tapes!)
Tapes melted & becoming things.Skulls that would belong to siamese twins joined by the brain. Amazing analog distinctively 80's techno-minded aminal skulls,with horns wrapped in the brown shiny inerts,the guts of the animal, whose audio branding is still legible in remnants. The faces stamped from a past life,tattoed-smeared & speckled with formerly organized fragile decorative reappropriated offalbits. Text next to photographs in magazines. Magazines sitting next to the real thing. I wish to see one of the images in the flesh. But what he is showing here in the gallery excedes enough for now.


http://images.google.com/images?sourceid=navclient&rlz=1T4GWYE_enUS277US277&q=brian+dettmer&um=1&ie=UTF-8&ei=ONI8SuHSBYPGMoS4naQO&sa=X&oi=image_result_group&resnum=4&ct=title


In Saltworks is Dettmer with two other artists crafting paper in different ways. Katy Clove & Harrison Hayes. Both stunningly careful and perfect in the creations. Transposed strangeness undulates in perfectly misplaced mismatched layers in Hayes photographic clipoholic brain. He juxtoposes and tells vignettes,& uses negative space like a genius. Clove burns and shears the most exterme in quiet gestures and expressions,tiny quiet carvings of white silhouettes- with slightly warmed and burned edges. She also draped the room with what i read to be a reference an awareness of a oneness beneath much more than any physicality- in its age and its new versions of beauty as it maintains an invisible grid, with a will of its own. Everything within it can seem to change.

But Dettmer reigns here. My god. These morphed bodies of work. Attended to with an almost morbid love,perhaps distant and unblinking he carved.or maybe he is caring,coaxes,and is softly watchful. I can almost smell the age of the freakin books,the musty pages, that almost comforting kinda gross smell. and i see the store it was found in,as if in opening the book,yet another layer has been opened by Dettmer,revealing another layer of a way to connect it to not only itself but us.

On a wall rolls a film. The film indicates a flashing distorting bit- in flipping stop- motion,as phases appear and shift in the eviscerating (how many times has that word probably come up in relation to his work?)... 3 of the books slyly shown in their process are a whole 'nother adventure and realization to this procedure. It has been recorded. Nothing is added...only removed. Amazing layers of the encyclopedia reveal themselves. In the 3 titled chronic or ...chronicals -is the same. History almost comically becomes a labyrinth.
Exposed. A woven visual mind with streaming layers of newly presented symbols,a contrasting vibration. It demands an almost respectful inability to realize how tenacious this aesthetic sacredly operates. Seriously.
One book stands with both sides organized in an analytic angular invitation. From both sides,it visually disturbs,drawing in and it wobbles with clean ridges,enundated with clean tiny text all the way through and into.
Words are used like paint.

This is my low-fi probably choking a flowery glob of over-acted words from excitedly trying too hard -acknowledgement on a -from the hairy chest level of human respect for the work(while wearing thick black frames)
I mean well- and regards beyond my awareness go to the quality of what this man has done and does.

Saltworks is located at 664 11th street NW Georgia 30318
404-881-0411 wed-fri 12-6 sat 11-5
saturday june 20th 2 artist talk at i think two oclock


last day of show is august 1st



heres where i tried again on a psycho autodidactic ego strokin mode:( i go so much to soak on that ive seen and thought,but isn't that what it's about?


Brian Dettmer: tracing the untraceable

It strikes numbers of entry points wide open. From the inside out the carved books,the objects take Burrough's described virus - language- and folding it,carving it,grafting it with itself- becomes visuals,making the thoughts that coorespond with those words coalesce-bringing communication closer to a descibed goal of total consciousness,addressing that in life that becomes before words. The signified and the signifier.
In the object,it comes to the surface,the internal made external. And then made external again,confirmed to be just a thought now,manifested solid a visual,an object. Thoughts deliberately fold on themselves and retrace through a measurement that folows the spoken word,time,pushing away while also reaching inside to a more deeply seated core of connectivity as humans.The flesh is made real. Dettmer's book are treated as flesh,as he has made clear.The space they occupy becomes several things at once.

Brian Dettmer's creations propose numerous implications. Influences can be traced to Tristan Zara and his desire to construct poetry from random scraps in a hat,Kurt Schwitters and his Merzbau being a life-sized ambition on related turning-outs of thought made physical,to Brion Gysin and his wish for words to follow the same needs and understandings as abstracted strokes of paint. Tom Phillip's 1970 Humument is yet another obvious influence. The painter Philip Guston also ventured in the arena with his poem-pictures. Once this process is opened, the thoughts and possibilites blur on and on in a way that echoes the theme itself. Operating contemporary poets such as Kenny Goldsmith,founding editor Ubuweb,trained as a sculptor once recreated Abbie Hoffman's book, "Steal this Book" on such a scale- and out of metal- so that doing what it requested brought the thing as an object to the forefront. Goldsmith,like Dettmer, still sculpts words and the two both still continue to hatch at a desire that resides at a center of human connectivity. The relevance of all of this is fascinating on modern terms,as is made obvious in the explorations of the Flarf poets and their deliberate mashing of language through the use of the internet and search engines random generating ability.

Dettmer's books can be called poem-objects, entering a field of work explored by visual poet,and meeting at crossroads with many other schools of thought. His significance is stamped endelibly due to the revealing of that same will and awareness executed by those before him. It shows the struggle and will,the need to do what must be done. His is a remarkable and rare mindset,one that also happens to have a keen aesthetic sensibility. His thoughts filtered through found-objects becomes an undeniable new visual poem..

His work at Saltworks presently displays explorations in the process of recording his phases. The Chronical,Chronic,Con pieces (shown in process on film) rely on releasing imagery as much as text,while Fate Far Fast Fall Final is almost entirely a becoming of words into object. Much of the fascination slips across the surface of these pieces of art. They are objects of art and can be approached with that simple appreciation. Soft Standards, a piece that is a grafted fanned out network of book spines,is a creation that almost seems to breath. It appears to want to get up and move across the room. It is a beautiful thing to simply look at,as well as consider in all of its implications.


aaagh! i dont know why i wrote this, guys..i just had to. it's too much damn fun. the implications of this kind of thing have always fascinated me. I really feel its coming to a weird breaking point,the need for the acceptance of bridges non-lexical ways of striking out,of communicating...stripping us peeps down to barebones and realities of realities..our internal images at one blammo moment in all of our collective connected faces..breeeeathe...uuuuuh.

heck i dunno. go see this show! you tell me.

SPACE CAUSEMENAUCTION $.25

TRANSISTOR PHA/LANX:SET PHASNAUT CONGLOMOON
TELEPROPER CHIN-RISH STIPULATION XEROX CANSTRIATION.
ZORK
ZAPPATOS
XAXXON
the challenger blast his oppponent into (3) pieces
VIOLECTRIC MOSSDIUM HYDROTEGANIC FUSSFORUS

(in tubal striations emancipated
phalanx phasnautrition waning gibbous
and talkative.)

APOGELOGY ELECTRICAL STORM
FRANCISTOR ANCIENTICAL DIOMORPHIC

Since his sister left the black hole,
his dream tentacles hung black- from
his forehead,as if oblivious to the
lack of gravity.His mouth hung open
victim to the same lack of force,it
spilled nonsense in too truthful of
a manner.

FRAGTAILANCE SILOEHTTHICALLE BRAILLE
This time he would construct an entire
sentence. Magnetic teeth installed ages
ago had rusted his eyesite and skin's tone.
Meteor showers of puberty mirrored
in his sister's movements thru space.

NEONSONITE VECHILALIEN SERUMITE POTENTIAL

Posturing did no good in terms of light

years of no proposal slept frozen and
weighted.

Poseidon's trial antagonizes trenches
speckled heaven's deep retreat.

ZIGHLOPHORTON CHAMCHAMIC LYCEUMALIC SERIOUS
HALOHLOUSHUSH GOOBOGNONBLOOMPORG OOGGOGOGLOOG
GOOGONNUH PUMUFFYOULUSS TROWWAFFLEPOLLUS TRUM

hE PLAYED q-BERT oNLY tO hERE tHE THUD.
and sears & roebucks effed us with their pac-man.

We got a running debate going between Math labs vs Meth labs

Todd is going to jab this Great White in a pair of little panties. His Goatee Set To Write A Nuanced Analytical Narrative.
I question the dubious practice of ghost-writing in the testicles. Humor fights the tumor. The Book of Mormon makes me horny.

emo bing blong pee pee

Shore ewe dew poopy!
Sew zoned in anthropomorphism's candy pants.
Take a tranny candle and suck the wolf!
Sharpie barf and callouses on bowling bald doorstop muffins!
Twice!

Answer pandactyl thyroidish.
Like the systemic dendrites polydental blue pen.
Aunt's in my pants, baby fingerprints in never ranch dressing fattens
handsom and regrettable. Vault canoe of pink.

Stupid pus lunchbox possum a cross stitch
and ewe lip oh shore dew poopy.

Saw turning aaagh!! Wag Bono's panties at Bugle Boy jovial custodians.
Ticket stubs bump mustard,then.

Shooby doobie in the screwed up grown-up volcano flesh turd.
Answer me jammit,the red button dumpster dandy daddy ash master.
Salivate angst's tarbaby on spiggot goo logs.

i-mash in nations

Your war cum.

Pier 1 Imports. It is soccer. It is soccer.
I have a sweet tooth
Marbelized walrus army on Laugh-In coffin knows a rainy tumor joggers delight,with wight grueling muses pooting farmboys

Lumber gagging bunny rapture's answering machine-like interstate endoscopy-or a cliffnote grinder maggot nipple

Grover's trope,a meme mote so bloated purple and funny, co-lost on me- genius hair tire's acerbic vomitorium
Bottlebee Marmutt raked grey hambuns in ragged glass-like convolescent urges, per fermented stinty clean yeast infected wasp lost marble...
Soubrette us soup rise, Per Hawiian voodoo state route Sandal would, ballast robot water . On.top. Of . Stone.mountain...now to walk back down
Ohmn

My bosses grandaddy wuz a forklift annie dipped,too.

Bolton Rd graf: for every jesus there must be a judas.Shurug

Chraughick Tryelle:smiles to-get-her ,Assumes someone: a niece's subtle seance sends nonchalant nuances- in Therift Stores

failure is the goal of conceptual writing about an hour ago
recolombine- 4ent PENTAGRAM supple mustard between flowers for cannons
Ben I'm conceptual at whitney so kiss my unicorn dick


Bugeye freon tea!!! Ownly buy yourcelf

S t a r b o a r d w o m e n f I n g e r s

Ours is a prolonged pinnacle,a sum of All,registering nothing, totally waiting to become the past,important chaos lacking contrast, root .

Afrozen Scittori

Dunot De'Liver Delicut Stough

Trancemission airies ministriseries


Questeon


Partnear

Tandy man you fact chore poor chemtrailed bacchus the bigfoot

Chew bach the cross tops a poppy coffin

Sonar parthenon tomboy source or sour soar,the sonorous add annoyed smells.
Partition ripples/b'tween deep.Feel the Crackin'.
Languid language. I'll listen malign,allies incognito.
The sponge wishes, the church staples, drain wet tape.
Change gold eyes.
Dutiful spoon fed,blue sky i think, topiary rote the snooze button,on pink clouds.

buttercup flouride quotidian punisher resists. Passable phalanx can it stir blow up buttercup?

Sanguine arsenals float four words, laughable chamber, chatterful manimal, ripped of his arm through the cage.
Linky stink the pooble answered candid paulif for christ's sake. Chew the noose

Possibly aqueous oxymorons toggle wallets and goggles. In warehouse hotbox cardboard rotten thoughts,that is.


Selective and personable,adjunct totalities tremble in a rather galiant resemblance to metnarrative-like epitaphs.

The cyclic chambered alphabet, enslaved to the numeric agency,has unencumbered a testimony of roman numerals as poetry.

Drunkin anarchic bugs bunny bullshit delight. To go,please.
Will Cotton's paintings are pretty darn...yummy.

Charitable & Pucker,and Tantamount At-At at the Bananas. Wall-eyed and Panzer Fastidious Lips,Carmelized the Panama Canal Zone. Wah she choo.

realizing Christian Bok might be my hero
Shirts are a commitment

I've been closing the gap, life,making art, disguised as an idiot- as a performance - now I can't recall when I started.


Du mogelst

After 500 yards,stay on the left lane.Turn right. Turn right.

Got a washing my sheen

There are suspicious people following me.

I drive market values down
Fine. I quit.
Massive acts by trembling men have historical tentacles.

Tear uh Tear duck Firma pay per Icon do it do we I Flew over and thru. Know you can from web. Medicated Heavysun.wrap without eyelids:dreA.M
Moon soaked cellophane drips documenta ellipses in the poppy rotten birth

Tony Hawk has never had an orgasm.



The subterfuge of antiquity bathes the rage of a lost portal's ambivalence

I think the sky is blue today

Dryer wives than Isis reclined in pantomimes,portmanteaus,viruses and red meat.


Poetry is never to be discovered recordings of silent film stars normal speaking voices

Sipping minutes on par's succinct laps of coffee paced thoughts.Lined up.
I done seen a dead armadillo on 78 where it goes an turns into memorial drive. it's true. Running sunny sink water and fingernails thru the day's purpose. Thru the hairy mediocre love that thins in Atlanta.

My new idea of a traditional poem

Come towards the sinister color of space,
wrapped in a teenage dark candled blanket.
Reflexitivity wrinkles the springs of a summer day
What you knew then.

Music and impetuous clever brain wrecks.
The energy of the day amplified by night.
Edible dreams burned off with laughter
and it felt to cry,too.

Understanding what to not agree upon.

Soda Pop Washing Machine on Chlorophyll Peninsula

THIS IS A POEM.

I was looking for something to drape words on
Knowing that Attention Deficit can create similar effects.

To say something like this so removed. This is good.
Old fans may be more amenable to searching for a new late-night habit during the transition period.


To talk about or on the internet,I say this:
Why do I care about art? Or maybe it is a willful ignorance
(to what is real)
He jokes about all politicians but it's becoming clearer where his sympathies lie.

Reading over on or through this window
over here anyways. Maybe you're an elephant?

I don't know where you came from.

Zombie Robots from the Future

(a man in a suit benignly watches us & his watch tick tock)

Steve's dream interpolated: Zombie Robots: From the Future.
(a) hTe future folk art exhibit shifted on the walls of the animated building.Swim Suits strangled the performers into a sort of unconsciousness. Having a dream, a rubble base filled with unanimated humans,the concert was going to begin in about 30 days prior to the present one. "Take a pancake", said the facelift. It shaved hair into his milk.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=vcdgLclFWOU&feature=related
And so it was sickly,the sun rolled up over and behind the Eyedrum building and the musicians sat down. A row of chanting phases and conversations looped back on themselves. An awful smell bubbled in anticipation of the improvisational notes. "Did you bring anything to party with?" Electrical wires swung in the air,touching in random bunches,still transfering signals. Their sparkling shadows lit up most of the night sky. Pink skin in the grit. Most of them were young,like ticks.
-Kiki Blood rocked the house naked and shimmied within her skin,dead as a philosophy book to the world,she repeated the sound that included all sounds.Punk rock cowboy hats and a hose filled with engineers. A yellow and blue barber shop hung zebras on the walls. Far way and to the back of the Eyedrum gallery: Oblivious and happy the walls of the gallery moved again,shifting the muddy ground and moving the performance into the space that would not occupy Wonder Root in 178 years.
(1) A finger was lead out of the earth,fingering itself it became as if sentient, and felt for an anticipation of experience. A skill saw or a guitar string,it cried a sound. Muddy in the yard,women climbed telephone poles and street signs and spoke Finnish or Spanish. Don't write or talk about me,nerd. I despise you.
On they marched some getting further,most closer."What is topography?",thought the crowd of gears rusting and clicking heels. The zombie robots spewed fire and flowers,telling stories from their naked bodies as they travelled,giving birth to wriggling infants as they circled the earth. The sky was blue with big billowing white clouds now. Answering machines and beepers reigned the land like cherry blossoms.it was their season,shared with radar detectors.
"Do you know what time it is?" A zombie robot asked a ghost reading a book.it ignored him.
Outside all of this looking in with careful crawling legs,a tick climbed across time and settled on the shell of an egg covered in text. It sat outside of the shell giggling and expanding from zombie blood. Her naked body did vaguely please the Zombie Robots philosophy of television and capitalism.
"Do butterflies fart? They do eat dead things,you know?" asked the lead singer to the crowd in reverb. The paintings muddy and gooey ran colrs into one another,creating a theme of all things and no-thing. It meant a great bog something.
"We dont have to touch that now" said a voice.
Baby children in swim suits charged the gallery,thinking it was City Hall. The police turned back from inside, outting themselves in some snoopy dress-up doll way. An old photograph gained color and ,as if in reverse, flew backwards into the hand of a robot that had dropped it. The robot liked the paintings.
A grey scale of din,plastic bathing suits with lawyers and yellow and blue Ikea hoses, listed on the side of the air,floating across a name of a band and ectastic were the fan bases. They stood at a comfortable distance,the paintings shifted again and one of them let out a last sigh and fell from the wall. Steve still had his dream about the police,but they became bigger. Giant police having to arrest their own intestines dove within themselves and disappeared.
The rock music carried on at Eyedrum. Etiolated Williams smothered the paintings and gathered its death burning rubble up in her arms,whispering creative things into it as they became one,transparent and walked away through the nearest wall of the gallery.
The distance of the sound shifted again and as you read this, the text is now written in an understandable manner. The link posted goes to a blog about the art festival,the machine that brings this to you, and Etiolated Williams, has applied a tourniquet to truth.
"That's an outright LIE!" screamed the painting as it became one with Etiolated. They hid in the wall between the mainstream and the avant-guard. An older woman looking for the substance to her fast food order, barked questions at people close to her,as if mechanized and stuck on repeat.
The truth lies in a place beyond where this story came from. The art on the walls told the story better and the music from the band seemed.
"It was endless and it was al a lie." Etiolated screamed this from within the walls. Ghosts of robots she had designed for her great grandfather shambled by. They were members of the band. They played a Christmas song that Jeff Dahlgren whistled in his twenties.
From the ground where the sun had gone down, they rose again. Zombie Robots called in a phalanx strand of saliva unit,it strafed the sea,hesitating levitating on a recipe and carrying remote controls.Swimsuits jumped on people and began beating them.
"This is all a LIE" said Etiolated Williams,hearing nothing she knew that meant the Zombie Robots were not. far. Stockholm Syndrome Zombies marched past City hall,singing songs from the concert and waving naked pictures of Kiki Blood,covered in mud.It had a flavor but nobody would ever know.
Far above a glass ceiling and then further beyond that ,it stared from within its own eyes- at a generality of the happenings. The music was not specific and the destruction it had created was beautiful. Cash symbols burned in its glowing side,the animated Zombies stomped to the beat of its breathing. They handed out pamphlets on the movement called "Itism",attempting to recruit new Itists. Sleepy calibrations caused feedback,making it where the crowd couldnt hear themselves-only the music.They thought they screamed about the lies.

(#)The band, Female Blood Blowout, took the stage and started throwing copies of their album "In a short skirt" at the Zombie's ghosts before they showed up. The paintings rolled over each other chanting a nice thing. Gears grinding and leaflets flying, peace,systematickle a chandelier the size sampler peach fancy
the wrangler asian fantasied reliefs on wall sized doberman intergers.
Television screams told the truth under the truth of the fact that this is inspired by Artnews listserves sitting in their underwater waiting for a baby to grow up.

Etiolated Williams locked the door to Eyedrum and walked over to her car.She put a cigarette out under her foot and then couldnt bring herself to leave it onthe ground. She threw it inthe trash to her left. Tthe last to leave that night,Etiolated knew the place was a wreck.A silent promise ot herself to come in tomorrow inthe morning. Maybe somebody(or somebodie) were sleeping on a couch in there somewhere,but she doubted it.The crunch of gravel under her feet tothe car echoed,as if some quick memorty of the vibrations from all night were back. But the night was clear and quiet. Everything was closed. Did the entire city now sleep? I t wa so still.
Then in the distance,a sound of a siren.Somebody's night was hurried and possibly in danger she thought,almost able to see the ambulance driver's face and the people in the back. As she rolled up to the gate it opened. She rolled out and down to the exit and saw Steve Seaberg standing there naked.

Gather Atlanta

Held on June 7th 2009. The first annual Gather Atlanta event.
Organized by local organizations Mint, Burnaway.org, Wonder Root,& Thoughtmarker.



"In trying to give, you see that you have nothing....."



-The goal of this event was to bring organizations and individuals who consider themselves part of Atlanta's art community together,so that they may realize that they are in fact together. So that they may generate dialogue.
-The reason this seemed to be in need was because,although we will all agree that the word "community" does in fact exist,creating an environment where organizations and individuals can meet under a context that seeks to consciously see the word community,and by the very act of considering what one is,define it.
-A driving reason that seemed to emerge for this being needed was a sense that the "art community" is failing to reach an audience. A significant aspect of this event was a panelled discussion- primarily about the use electronic media in an age and locale where print media is losing its presence. --The discussion revolved around the use of internet platforms to help the "art community" becoming more tuned to itself and its audience. Cinque Hicks posed great questions to start the discussion. The questions asked audience members about how long they had been in atlanta,if they considered themselves primarily an artist,if they felt part of a community....great questions to soak on. While the questions seemed benign and simple,their fundamental nature is something very worthy of allowing to sink it,be considered in terms of why they were asked...i feel ultimately the entire discussion found itself covering predictable fundamental observations. This is not to say it didnt serve a great purpose,i simply feel for that purpose to be made worthy,the types of meetings need to happen more than once a year. That way of appraoching it would eventually comfort real conversation. LOTS of conversations about conversations need to take place in order to get partial conversations taking,moments of worth to occur-within the loving gesture of it.

-Even as I write these words,I realize the loop that this self-aware act is involved in.
-These words are going to find those that are interested.
Those that are interested,for the operative part,have already become aware of each other. They may behave as if independant of each other,side by side in a manner of speaking,but they still continue to focus primarily on their own interests,which in turn directs that energy back into the feeling that they are attempting to reach people who are unaware. Many feel they are attempting to generate an audience,to reach "them".

-------------------------Those that are interested will find the art.

There are those interested in art.
-Then there are those interested in art-in Atlanta.
-After this layer,many have naturally developed relationships or opinions of the various arts organizations that they relate to or do not. Each has their own process and can always discover more,true,but their actions are in process. Their process orginates from within them and that is what we work with. It is all you can work with. This process highly individuates into genres,intents of the manifestations that the word art means to others.

-Which by the way,makes me beam a little for Eyedrum, in that it was the obvious choice,the obvious available common ground to host such an event-thank you again Eyedrum! I don't recall any acknowledgment of the use of the space,it was somewhat a given that this was the place for this to happen. This could be interpreted as "taking it for granted"-but anyways...Since i feel Eyedrum has always been about "others",about the "community"-im sure it is okay with simply helping the community. Kind of like a soup line that gives to those in need and patiently waits for them to realize they are there to help them help themselves. Maybe I take that and run with it,pardon me-i know everyone there appreciates Eyedrum. Right?

Where were "we"? Pardon me internet art people. I mean pardon me Internet art people that not only like art,but like art in Atlanta,and then within that,care for what I,writing here as Eggtooth,am saying. I support your right to not be interested.

Here is an idea. I think it is a capital one. I support the right of Gather Atlanta to host quarterly events. But I dont think even that's often enough. Atlanta's art group therapy sessions need to start off hitting meetings weekly. This is not an exaggeration. This will carve it down to a core group. Those honestly concerned for an idea of "others",the others that form us will be there.

-The goal is to faciltate dialogue amongst ourselves,to accept that that is where the focus of the conversation should go.That it is a path,not a goal-if you will. It is very easy and always will be very easy to focus on discussing what you do and what you have done to try and reach "them",when in reality-you are often already saying these words to "them". The sooner this truth is accepted and constructively approached-the sooner a newer bigger expanding perception of "them" will emerge. Dance like nobody is watching..right? Well,for us this should be easy!

-Look at the event that took place yesterday. The crowded room of tables,some of them displaying their products,many of them (us?)simply interested in getting the word out there that they ..we?exist. Focused on... themselves? I am not slighting people for perceiving themselves as part of a community to try and participate in and operating from that principle forward. It is natural and means well. I know we all truly do mean well and try hard.


-----This is why ultimately my interest cycles back to the writers and critics of art. I find myself excited by the level playing field that is the internet. I love that it was called as in its "wild west" days yesterday. I think this analogy implies that the future will reveal constructs that define it with rules,but i dont want to go there. The truth is,none of us wants that. Not really.

-Critics also have to attempt to establish a perceived position of,...respect.

-The process reveals itself if it directs the thoughts towards a truer sense of self. (aka: in search of shrodinger's phoenix)

-Critics and arts writers and anyone inclined to type,be that typo on top of typo, expressing themselves about art- Their DUTY in this whole picture is to give feedback to....who? Ourselves. And who is ourselves?? Well,we've no choice but to realize that for the most part,we have met each other. Or at the very least,have met enough of each other that it is a place to start. A place to start considering what the other does and if there are commonalities there. If there are,foster them by joining forces and curating shows together. Even if there are not commonalities,it is a place to openly debate.
I
ndividual artists should embrace anothers work they like. Perhaps this means to not attempt to idolize them or make yourself seem positioned as something or somebody removed or inaccessible because of various conceived earned 'statures" or needs for being careful with networking your art.

yes-Discretion takes place tactfully(or not!!! )around the tastes and focuses of what you choose to include and what not to include. Inother words,if you find someones opinion so unagreeable-say something. put yourself in relevance to them just long enough . Much of what is taking place has ot do with if we are telling people what to want or giving them what they want,and involve din that is everyones responsibility to try to be open to things we would not normally be open to-even tho i support peoples rights to not care...its a funny cycle.

All of this is a local concern. Specific to the needs of Atlanta. The goal should be to react to one another's art.

By means of verbally critqueing in order to learn or teach,or to simply foster ideas.
-The highest form of reaction in my mind is not the purchase. In ways the purchase is the most selfish.

The creation of your own work- that carries forward the work and influence of another-is the highest and most constructive ackowledgment.
-On ideas: The best to me would be ideas being generated that are about Atlanta and NOW IN aTLANTA.

-The art critics stand in a fascinating position to all of this.
First,I don't feel this city really has any "art critics". It has people who report on what they see,assuming the rest of the context has already been constructed for the art to be valued within. It is about applying perspective not only to the art,but to the context it is shown in. They are creating this by the voice they establish. The art writers cannot try to be impartial reporters. It is not some generalized duty of benevolent informers, they are not some impartial mirror or a cold eye of the camera.

-Yes,the doing it for the love of it aspect is appreciated, I do not down-play this. But. They report about art and have an obligation to fully throwing their perspective into what they do. The artists they are reporting on,in theory, do as well. Give them that respect,and if you feel they have not given it to you,tell them.

-As it stands now,it truly seems there is a mirroring taking place of expectations. The fully thrown in sense of self bubbles to a perceived surface and ultimately finds everything falling flat. Its an evident cycle that always wants to assume that the advertising and maketing is to blame.

-Great art becomes mixed in with the complacent gestural reviews that take place. Nobody wants to stand up and say that somebody's hard work,in their educated and indiviuduated opinion- failed.Especially if that person is perceived to be part of some big chain of pre-existing relations. Chances are,if they are,they need to have their playing field leveled. ( i ultimately feel there is not choice but to blame the art itself-on critical terms.)

The whole process and observing it. It says more about one's perception of themselves in ways. I realize this as I type this. It is somewhat self-fulfilling. The simplified place to begin the change is in realizing that criticism is constructive. To observe the entire context the art exists in,to create "a lie that tells the truth" about this would even be okay! That lie being-a truth-(ahem)that....Things are changing!


-It becomes difficult because many artists would rather say what they have to say with their art. Not many artists are comfortable discussing why they create what they create in "real time". Or online for that matter. This is why I find the role of the critic crucial. They do this for us when we cannot,and if the critic does a disagreable job-as long as it is passionate!-,it at least stages a beginning. The old axiom about any PR is good PR is true. Especially if the opinions expressed are emotionally driven and provoke emotion.
Regardless of agreed perspectives. Often ,it is vehemently disagreeable opinions that provoke dialogue-not the routine gestures of clippable print praises that go on your Aunt Bobby's refrigerator! Those are nice and fun,but....we all know where we are. Together. Alone. With each other. And that's plenty to start with!

-It's okay to take the idea of community truly to a level that is only about community.The conceptual or valued varieties of context still reside within.
-Community- also considers an idea of getting together and,symbolically speaking,helping plant trees and clean up trash for an afternoon. Not being concerned with any perceived earnings or commandings of respect or even 'safety" for your idea of yourself and the supposed image you have created. How many would be willing to take chances of being honest, tho? Are you willing to make that investment,to possibly sacrifice the gesture on top of gesture that has perhaps "earned" some of you something? (of course, in some cases those earnings manifest as ...money. Grants,etc..). So that you can sit at panelled discussion tables and show by your own words how truly unaware you actually are?
To show- How you have been dedicated to a complacent expectation of yourself and a perceived goal that is a selfish illusion that you perpetuate to what is ultimately your own end.Our repeated end, So that you may reap some vampiric gestural benefit right now.

The wall to throw art against needs to be built by rippin down the fake existing one and fertilizing the rubble with honesty.good old fashioned titlliating scary puttin' yrself out there- honesty. It starts with critical discussion of the art itself.


Burroughs wrote about the concept of a naked lunch. Seeing what is on the end of your fork for what it really is. I find this illusion of a community to be a caring one. It truly cares and is trying. I simply find that it is often in denial or confusing complacency with compassion.


(individuals i was photographing above were Evan Levy, Robert Cheatham & -in the middle distance- Jon Ciliberto. To me, these are three important members of our "community". Maybe some of the other individuals caught in the frame mean something to you. Who are important local art figures to you?)

CONGLOMERATE of not wanting to call this poetry

THIS IS A POEM bored doorway for the mourning curry sitting in my room,not my house today in stone mountain
salivates. Challey saxxon tander sam-ples a wall-eyed beep beep,for choos-ed the lion calibrated family pants -izzard's Lay lay penny cans to staple fabricated barstard sturgeon germinal
wheel. A cokey lopse sided aftermath cannon berry parson simple marinates bubbles in summer cum bunny perculiarly. Weary from push-ups and climbing stone mountain,im tired of baked chicken
Is in Calhoun in an attic,is in a cubicle in a Blue Building.



barmaid window the kitsch laughter asp-i found two roaches in the dark of my kitchen
but,the lovely spitter spat tonal alex-water by the gallon,i distrust the tap but drink it
and her challenge for wigwams answering my sore throat in the mornings,before delivering sign supplies to athens,ga
eliminate apathy the alligator amber ax-tucker tacoma truck my buddy,ryan is moving to austin-THIS WILL BE A NIGHT TO REMEBER...said a dyslexic
misting mono foe tropes balloons to doo-comfy shoes with too white socks for nerd's comfort
dufus marry oh sister sister hopper blue
wraps around my pumping dreaming reason


gallant gar rockard dot path the stupid
south pouts a panhandle flourish ju ju zoe
sour zombie pachinko xerox caustic adhesive
relevant ignorance yearns through the internet-kernel of corn not eaten i dont eat fried food much anymore