SEEPAGE at Whitespace gets a formal structured shit smear.

everything comes to the surface eventually. everything always has to make some kind of acceptable sense. doesn't it? the final presentation of something that is specifically drawn attention to. I see grids on top of shit. I see the shit- unminded with a life of its own- seem suddenly that much more interesting. and then...what happens? i want to draw attention to it.
the things we present to ourselves as givens, as ways to exist and the necessities of life. The shit built on top of shit. The beauty that effortlessly rumbles to the surface in its unkempt and perfectly unfettered way. Ignored and insignificant, time shows its measure, it is a form of truth that is not anything anyone can dodge.
we requests pretty packages and punctuation- and bows and ribbons, frames and price tags. the need to make something valuable, all the procedures and processes and proper faces to say phony scary cash-cow phrases, and paperwork- ultimately rips the floor open and out come all the thick endless shadows, a never ending trail of our exact pattern. our footprints and echos. we clean the lives up and edit on the fly. while money'd man thinks because it is unseen and beyond others they control, it itself becomes cocky to that which is even bigger.
Grids command a weak veneer. see them network across a surface. seem them with their mitered edges and pretty ways.
Cute is the way into the face of the senses of our collective selves. Even in moments of honesty, in places that can only be reactions to life anyways-like art galleries- the art itself jabs crudely and filled with hypocrisy at commentary. jabs at life and then finds a need to hide it if it does create a clunky raw setting of a kind of refreshing real. that kind of investment that only time passing over not the neglected palaces in life, that presumes a sort of consciousness of activity, but in ways that truly are hiding in plane sight. the fundamentals, like a stretch of road with graffiti and palimpsest weathered scratches and stains of layers of those no longer present. rotting memories and marks. put it behind the seen because why? it's just too damn real.

So we apply structure in the form of clean lines and two by fours. and silly as it may seem and insignificant and sobering, a saturation that was once flush with tilted life-drunken intrigue. is now a cloth of happy and the pretty, covering vomit with a thin tissue that soaks thru. -i saw a corpse covered in the road after a traffic accident one time. the haunt of its truth it hid was just as powerful as the visceral reality of what caused an end. was to the biology of consideration that direct route to the sense-of the flesh, versus that fantasy or creative or imaginative rambling giant cloud that is so much bigger. try to cover up the truth. try to make it decent.
a month ago, new orleans for the first time since 1996. even in 96', a seepage from beneath was as much a truth in physical swampy bedding as it was in the phantom idea of unseen influence. of powers ancient and lush with memory, coming out in sounds and rhythms and tastes and desires, pushed through the flesh of bodies existing there. they writhe and celebrate.
a place for actual observations in this. it finds no place and is shoved out. importance pushes and contracts the bowels, it produces and then polishes and pilfers for nutrients, restructuring their own standards for so long as to be a double blind study of their own single blind game. the value of an art experience.
a maddening fractured massive presentation of the automobile perspective. mechanized and broken down, powered by the logo and the pretty color of its exterior. the fossils fueling what we call pure intentions and simply accepted as part of the day to day routine. faux smoke is actually a pattern left by the real thing. a useless endeavor into stabilizing that stank black smear. it becomes a cute thing to have.
its not any city its in the satellites and ocean floors and pipes and wires. the organic globs are colorful and charming one day and the next they are ill, seeping dank and sour death. it knows of neither and doesnt have partiality to its phases. the passage of this thru human bodies and the actions it reveals. fuck art. it's a big damn lie. the only position is in this idea that editing is not about intentions. it is in constantly reacting to now without definitions. without expectations. and without senses of investment. seeing what is healthy and pure in that desire and that moment.
reality has a darkness unleashed in a very raw physical form now. it circles a weird beacon consistently from our southeast. the art here in this particular area is so silly in its freedom, and so careful to try to turn that freedom into a thing of expectations. and those expectations try to create myths while beneath it, slippery shit soaks the souls and slithers up the leg.
walking along with itself now, sentient and attached to art, it finds a way- ultimately. certain humans' minds become burning unstoppable conduits for transferring and staying in that place. seeking constantly a generalized open feeling to- what the fuck is going on. it devours from within and warps as it churns out a perspective so needed. it makes artists who come as close as possible to pointing at a life source and observation of ourselves and now without doing so. fucking artists. they're so full of shit. and the perspective shit itself has- as it rests soft and cooling on its personally owned and stained floor space, it has an endlessly intriguing kind of perfect observation.