EGGTOOTH & Gang

2011-06-05T11:05:00.000-07:00

Tracking My Movements

2011-06-05T08:05:00.000-07:00

Went to Eco Lab & Big Medium last night. 1st art openings of Austin since arrival in town. I had been counting the days since arrival, using a sketch I dated as occasional reference when I forget.

But I've let somebody borrow the sketchbook to collaborate with me. So I'm guessing I'm on day 42. Fun facts. That could be false.

Neighborhood drives. Neighborhood art experience. Texas unstained picket fences around big picnic yards. A barn. With the white walled space inside. I'm suddenly reminded of Houston & Rothko Chapel. The Menil. Set in a neighborhood environment. Eco Lab is, too. Playing new Cold Cave on the way there and not really liking it. Put on long black pants for some reason. Eco Lab is a hot box. I decided I wouldn't write about any of the work in this place.

But I knew I wanted to.

Heard about Big Medium around the corner.

Jamie Panzer

At the end of a long dark driveway, past docks and roll-up garage doors. Entrances to curtained off studio spaces. Another wood fence, half open, comes into a back concrete patio area. Big warm light coming out of a big ol' garage entrance. White walls. Sculptures and wriggling colorful things. Photography. Tiny things on the walls. Various corners to examine. Is a burst of color. Purity and primary in an almost carnivalesque way. Fun things to go and experience.

At my feet are giant replications of what appear to be Jacks, made from bowling balls mounted to vase turned column posts w heavy chrome gold veneer. Sturdy funny things. There are a few of these about. Strange and fun and impossible to play with.

To the left in a corner are more things. Find myself wanting to attach associations with others with regards to meaning and intent and end up floating on a child-like surface.
Sitting on a squat bench plinth-ized thing is another thing. "Mother Hen". A blatantly fake uniform grey tree branch, in the shape of a shambling alien bug. A headless stripped bare rib cage of a creature, almost creepy but too funny to be so. It's various angled branch tips end with grey human fingertips. Perfectly ending. And beginning where it starts to feel. Organic blends with organic, the human kind suggesting supposed controlled logic and expectation, tho. This set of branches appears to coddle and protect little plastic rings beneath it, stacks of colorful toy parts that remind me of avoiding the noid from domino's pizza in the 80's. Silliness that can't be because of some unspecified heavy undertone, but ultimately disarms with it.

Mounted on the wall near Mother Hen is a little device operating a slow turning roll of camera film . Loaded to a mechanism that almost imperceptibly scrolls the negatives of clouds past a little light bulb. The entire gadget, titled "Invention", is awkward stained wooden parts, mounted and held together with nails and thumbtacks. Examination of nature and the clunkiness (uncontrolled/randomness) built into our bodies. Our intentions. With a sense of self being the most important thing in experience and discovery.

Photography, a series behind glass and pixilated grey scale wheat paste. Beautiful images of clouds becoming cubes inna man vs. nature/ logic vs. emotion timeless tumble.Water and fire get the same treatment. In another area, paper prints of atomic mushroom clouds stacked on themselves to heaven, glued to the wall. I am become death and I am become death becomes it's turtles all the way down. or up . to death. without a God. But funny about it.

Panzer enjoys interacting with his audience. A box with paper and pencil asks for donations and suggestions. A fresh tomato sits on the box's corner, maybe an allusion to throwing tomatoes at bad theater performances. Two slots for either type submission lead to the same place - of course. Panzer stalks the opening with a bullhorn, at random blurting thoughts to those hanging around.
I was invited to "use the horn". The piece, titled "Horn" - for what reason I'm not sure, was a horn from some unfortunate animal with a handle added. it sits on a tiny shelf. The artist photographs you interpreting yr consideration of and way of "using it" with a friendly almost hidden smirk.

Meaninglessness is a loaded thing. Reminding one of simple pleasures seemed to be what came from this experience. Odd colored objects twisted from human anatomy mounted high and low. Little tiny ledges jut from the walls in places. On examination, these tiny ledges suggest craggy mountainous plains, aerial jetties like weeds in a gallery. They have little people meandering about on them. Tiny people that require leaning in real close to almost make out. They're just people. I wanted them to be toy soldiers from a distance. But no. They were just people. Looking around.

Erlenmeyer flasks full of what can't be Kool-Aid but sure looks like Kool-Aid. Or maybe the yum juices from freezer pops. Or water with food coloring. But it isn't. It's important studies. Processes are taking place in these flasks, to be certain. Classic fun with contradictions, served up light. We've walked into a scientist's lab. And if he came around the corner he would probably resemble a living cartoon.

There's more things hiding about in Jamie Panzer's show, "you see...thing is..." Even though I spent time, wandering in and out and around and back in, doing the re-approach, I bet I still missed some things.

..open, ended.

2011-06-02T19:52:00.000-07:00

suck you chasm. cold and wet. I went for a walk the other day. beside a book i didn't end up giving. writhing- but not too much - branches. mostly happy. can't be anything other here. leaves that sometimes drop little bits of water for no reason. two points for the half price, in the back, unguarded and lost. hard back down a manner, reminded of spring. reminded of my uncle. space opens up, a metal canister made to house a robot, filled with soap and dead skin cells. flesh wrapped around cold gravy, wanting to sell you something. covered in mosquitoes.

nose sit able. around rockin what the fuck mall wart bar stucks sprint soar. past yr eyes sing the blues. abominable blue snowless women. tilda swinton meets ziggy stardust at tea seas with weezy on the tailgate. blew me. softened up and down with the dog. rilke nipples and pink triceps fear no new possibilities. coffee hypereality wizz by blur of elle angels pretense and laptop coffin, for the creamless conversation.

god in a web -or vile intersections designed for the generation of blind. dreaming through a sea of deaf communication. literally. makin' the big bucks. strobe weight of paper rolls and light weird dreams from about 530 to 8 o'clock. icons n recordings -that start off with good intentions. they distort their mirror or reaction or map anyways. the big cover up happens next. (commerical break)
What had happened there that they was cleaning had not even happened yet 10 minutes ago. like they were fighting. Horror bull.

Read reverse comb all yr quads and loops to ate back that way. Plankton tummy signs the sun, 3 dollars for goggles out of an opal goblet rotten in 80's dirty sock options. burn a good bloody mary. level an old standard with lebanon or illinois green salsa, engineered by some kid later in his life. a flying shark. hairless. not a mammal. never even saw milk.

Moved into the Mountains

2011-04-10T17:08:00.000-07:00

Upper plateau of another's dream, with ladders made of veins. It's his dream. Not one in which he invented white-out or scotch tape. He's walking across the classic wind-blown grassy field, but it is somehow different. He realizes the grass is fake. Long plastic blades making rustling sounds. Convenience store black plastic bags are the foliage on squat trees. Their grey branches are slimy and refract weird colors in the sun light.

Higher up now. One significant level up; he keeps climbing. The earth's surface is now made of books. They're torn fat hardback books, coating the scene at odd angles. Pages fanned open to the horizon, wrinkled and puffy from rain and powerful drying heated gusts. Sand mixes in the pages and crevices. It's now in his eyes. He itches. His bare feet crunch across the books. Paper cuts in the webbing of his toes accumulate rapidly, each cut a surprise. They begin to itch. And sting. His eyes squint and he shambles in a pulsing burning darkness. The sand feels heavier and stings. Blood pumping in the darkness of his eyelids radiates and spells letters.

Down below, just a couple levels, there was a sense of comfort and familiarity. Boredom. He wasn't really doing this. He painted pictures from places he had not been. A scene in a many- times-told story from a friend: Adolescent angels sitting on a beach, talking to everything. Hitting on the seagulls as well as the seashells. Couch-potato angels in one cove. Television wires lead out into the ocean and tangle, forming webs that catch a sample of everything. The angels cackle and some of them energetic and beautiful, decide to surf, opening their veins in the water for the fun of drawing sharks. Winging out of reach as the gaping mouths breech.
An angel, a particularly cruel and spiteful one, cocky and talented at all the convenient things, uses a burning sword on one of the sharks. Puncturing the center of its head with a thrust and quickly removing, the shark sinks into the ocean, its body on fire inside, glowing as it descends.

Time sits around. Tree house walkie-talkie style communication across mountain tops. He's up there, with...a bunch of automotive mechanics arguing in front of an overhead projector. "No." That's all they can say. Pulling on half-baked theory, one of the auto mechanics tires and tries to break the din. He tries to explain why brake pads begin to squeal. And why they stop.
Silence grinds into his rotors up here. His means and intents worn thin. Barebones. Who he really is. Who he really is loses interest in the automotive scene and turns himself 180 degrees.
A thorough intricate path lined with careful angles, sharpened and jutting dirty needles and black scary fragments. Everything is black & white. Patience and breathing, as he exhales and walks the sharp objects recede. Colors blend in, and suddenly there it all is. Relaxed and lush living things. He feels a nice silence fill everything.

pretty much done

2010-11-28T17:03:00.000-08:00

I'm doing a 30 day challenge. I have to do a class of Bikram Yoga every day for 30 days. I'm on day 8. It's the only place I leave the house for. That or work.
I think of how i used to say it was important for us locals, what with our ignant suthern ways anne all, to just be honest with each other. collaborate and feed from one another. as a way to find ourselves. Of course even that is idealistic. It would never happen for individuated reasons as much as those that happen to have a common denominator beneath that, one honestly treating it as a business. and that's fine. so now i feel the honesty factor is pointless. it doesnt make it more community and raw or down-to -earth, or kept real. this city just stinks. everything always has to have been better 10 years ago. right now, the stupid shit will be mythologized later as soooo hip then.
i think its curious how work that requires the association with the south, goes and makes trails off of the need to perpetuate that very same association. it is not making any point. and this isnt even addressing the commodification factor and how it precedes its head crowning. turtle head poking out. squishing its way through a gilded frame.
and of course theres all the latest acts and 'tudes, the banksy shite to the thoughts of hughes in the mona lisa curse, and the barnes horror story in art of the steal. for the love of whatever. it is no longer relevant. i feel the internet has leveled us with a kind of immediacy and ability to further imagine our individuation.
We seem like tape recorders, playing marco polo. it doesn't spiral out because the continuity of belief in any specific myth flavor or connotation, typifying and encapsulating. fuck, i dunno what im saying. i just dont feel like trying to share specifically with atlanta anymore.
whatever. idealism or not. something has to mean something to somebody. and i know it does. but crap, man.
im gonna go do this yoga. none of that crap i just wrote makes any sense. im just feeling curious. chapters have closed for me. i know its relative to me. my experience here. theres a limbo or lurch i dont think i wanna linger in. i wanna explore. most things seem in stasis anyways. it's like a giant down time. like the power went out and we've busted out candles and cards on the carpet. by the fire.

BIKRAM YOGA

2010-11-22T16:43:00.000-08:00

I'M DOING BIKRAM YOGA AND WRITING ABOUT IT.30 days in a row. GO LOOK:
HAVE A GOOD DAY, JERKS. BUT NOT TOO GOOD.

http://bikramyogadecatur.com/

the picture is a of a friend of mine that got me into doing this stuff. there he is at an eyedrum art and music gallery opening doing Dandayamana-JanuShirasana. that's sanskrit for standing head to knee pose, bitches.
the graffiti behind him is directly inspired by a game called Metroid. I played the heck out of that game on nintendo when i was about 15.
hes doing the pose pretty good here. freakin jerk.

zSHARE - 001_A_026_eggtooth.mp3

2010-11-19T18:16:00.000-08:00

zSHARE - 001_A_026_eggtooth.mp3

2010-11-19T18:13:00.000-08:00

sounding eggtooths

2010-11-19T18:05:00.000-08:00

continuous past presents immobilized future

2010-11-19T16:22:00.000-08:00

represents^reports
embodies^narrates
transforms^indicates
knows only a continuous present^looks back on a past.

Represent the report, the ratio represents an exchange.
It submitted a report. The ratio indicates while
the Other
knows more of return on, or has - beyond present sights
but only continuous.

Display the exchange.
Which within, of course, the report ratio is displayed.
The embankment made the report.
Ratio, besides the fact that it is between it, it shows. Or rather, shows it.
Having known many of the returns, or exceeding them- its present "vision continuation" just has it.

Used to,

2010-11-15T17:16:00.000-08:00

"wernt nv'r nor shalt there be another wont'r" sed thee Consanguineous.
from The Time Socializerz III by Jert LaLangue

The last time I ran long in the tooth, at a distance from things, as much as I am at a distance from myself now, and the awareness of actions. Let's try to be a hybrid. Somewhere between the dialogue with the self and a fast paced newer than meta-wave perception of im-mediate.

The last time I ran
long in the tooth, at
A distance from things, as much as I am at a distance from myself now.
The awareness of actions.

Let's try to be a hybrid.
Somewhere
bet/ween
the dialogue
with the self
and a fast paced
newer than meta-
wave perception of
i'm-mediate.

Health traces an outline around time and up's the rabbits pace for the dogs to
knock over the neighbors' garbage
laugh, cry and excommunicate, separate from the objective
graffiti the telephone poles
and the stars.

the criticism of being sincere
and informed enough
and informed enough
and simply not the wrong face.

grafting a thought about art in Atlanta with
a person just like Atlanta
partially regurgitated and regenerating
on fire with money and traffic, a cat's tail transparent
(self-critical evasive) just a "what-if " thrown at yr feet
expectations don't have to explain themselves.

some idea of hybridization, contradictions, the grotesque, the collage, the pace of information and sense of self. Incorporating willful misunderstanding into research. The rates at which head-on collisions of information occur and are scampered away with to colonize by some slender fingered digit, and then wires and flesh snap

The Writers Exchange

2010-10-31T09:58:00.000-07:00

Lit Guy proudly announces :

John Selvidge's
WRITERS EXCHANGE.

the art of being
in and around
situations that
involve
sharing writing
with others.

join us for relaxed pointers and inspirational techniques.
served in the form of creative writing.
this is not an actual self-help seminar.
come play with words and where the experience with them begins.

Writing about Monsters

2010-10-17T11:52:00.000-07:00

Writing about monsters is a very sensitive subject. Most writers tend to veer towards the anatomical or entirely different routes involving the sarcastic truth. Animalistic implications and analysis of the human condition are abound. Take for instance the visceral quality that chords hold in the muscle memory after a scene from a particularly riveting situation involving teeth. Landis knew this. John Portman knew this. The naive of the elitist south converge on education and culture, like a buzzard with librarian glasses. going for the corpse's ass first.

What's acceptable?

2010-10-17T07:54:00.000-07:00

"Today, we do not identify an artwork primarily as an object produced by the manual work of an individual artist in such a way that the traces of this work remain visible or, at least, identifiable in the body of the artwork itself. During the nineteenth century, painting and sculpture were seen as extensions of the artist’s body, as evoking the presence of this body even following the artist’s death. In this sense, artist’s work was not regarded as “alienated” work—in contrast to the alienated, industrial labor that does not presuppose any traceable connection between the producer’s body and the industrial product." -Boris Groys, Marx After Duchamp, or The Artist's Two Bodies. http://e-flux.com/journal/view/178

What is acceptable ? Today, I interact with Boris's text. ("Today, we do not identify an artwork primarily as an object produced by the manual work of an individual artist in such a way that the traces of this work remain visible or, at least, identifiable in the body of the artwork itself...." Yesterday, I went to see art 21's latest greatest on William Kentridge. Analysis of where an experience begins began, not today. Awareness of magic's tricks did not cease the magical sensation. In the bareness and even child-like awkwardness, it was on one, first level- endearing. The sum of the cute parts made an amazing whole. And within those manufactured parts, parts very attached to the maker, leaving the process exposed, I think of Not today, I'm sitting here right now. An extension of nothing because that itself simply is. Constantly in flux and refusing to light anywhere is the thing to present as art. So much for other conundrums. Like communicating versus expressing the self.
Attachments to individuals without definition of space needed. Distance and ambiguated connections blur an awareness of time. It is about time and history. Sentimentality has no future. It is, right now, happy with what it has. Almost to the point of there being no "has". No ownership or expectations. Or ...plans. The connection at its base source, its most primary importance is in sharing creative needs. Reaction to this life is what is alive. Public Art is important.
As a phenomenon that operates in tandem with political messages that also necessitate means of communicating. Symptoms of art's needs remain separate from the space between the work and the creator. Examination of the experience becomes the space to attempt to attach anything to . Occurrences happily sprout under the banner of art, inspired and funded and sacrificing. And they happen with a vigor that is heartfelt, as much as it is banal. Or rendered banal by the strangest blur of opportunity. Information availability and the pace of the city, be that in automobiles of internet phones. The context or the muscle punch strength of a feeling is as much a blur as any extension from anything. It's all taffy made of ions now visible, like icky little bubbles compartmentalized from each other. A reason for sharing art. Now the process exposed, like Kentridge or in these words by ol' Boris.
I went to see art this weekend. I've erased references to any specific city or gallery within it. Neither experience counted on awareness of even their own process, not as curators attempting to frame their own perspective, they simply didnt satisfy the right fucking questions in the first place. I didn't even make it to the maufactured work. The person or artist, in some disembodied way was all I sensed. All I saw were their actions in the product. A human body requesting material shit.

Speaking of material shit. How about plain language ? No need for flowery bull? Let's see if i can come out from behind the bull.

Daughter of Beach

2010-09-20T16:40:00.000-07:00

A giant dreamed about a guy who was a sleepwalker in Norway. Far north under rainbows, the giant lived in a fractured castle made of glass and ice. The aurora bourealis and polar sunset-less horizons scooped and turned upside down expressions of apathy. Daylong haze of mauve and purple gave everything a passive angst. To the edge of a cold shore, a bizarre inlet catching angles of light, one could almost make her out under the surface. Down there - to her, he dove. A statue of a women with a permanent peaceful gaze and stone rivulets of flowing hair. Every night and not on clockwork odd and stumbling this lanky graceful alien, to himself was pulled through invisible and turbulent passages of crisp coolness. Kissing skin and transferring dreams.
The giant would toss in sleep and crack all that shit beneath.

whatcha makin?

2010-09-16T19:53:00.000-07:00

Without anticipating anything, a blank slate in a larger dirtier terrain,

he squeaked his feet
through the sand.
Trudging happily to the edge of the water

and then standing there. The wall of the room shimmered
and lightning bugs spilled into the room
with all the style and frenetic turbulence of angry wasps.

The ocean scene with its distant oil rigs

on the horizon splashed up and creatures lapped coarse tongues into the air.
Capturing lightning from their glass wings.
An icicle with rainboid transparent smears coating the room.
Something to appreciate, an idea- to travel on from. Or with.

He enjoyed what he had and didn't expect anything more. And that was what made it suggest a vaster range. Mostly it just made creating that much more intense.

So much going on, and it seems like a bunch of nothing sometimes.

god! you're such a planner!

2010-09-07T20:03:00.001-07:00

JOHN OTTE TO REPLACE BRIAN DETTMER!

2010-08-26T17:08:00.000-07:00

In light of a severe oversight on the part of Brian Dettmer, The Experimental Writer's Asylum has found easy adjustment in the form of one of its artists already proudly being featured.

John Otte, long known in Atlanta for his highly informed, strange, & experimental approach to art-making and curating, is going to be shedding light on one of the many entry points into his processes. This one is specific to his handling of books. Eyedrum and especially myself (eggtooth!) are very proud to have the opportunity to work with and host John.

Come see John Otte present his Angel of History book treatment series.
September 4th from 6-7 pm at The Seen Gallery.

And of course enjoy the rest of the Decatur Book Festival while in the area!

Super Studies for The Inhuman

2010-08-03T17:51:00.001-07:00

So I have this perspective I want to grip.
Knowing full well the lineage, but I'm not going to. For obvious reasons,
gracious enough.
Abrupt declaration of a need for, at the very least a break.
Through the backdoor, sit down politely, they are a bunch of sausage squares, well, then I guess maybe I will look in the mirror.

The Inhuman.
First and obvious, non. Lexical, imagined, and sounds.

Of monsters. Monsters are Inhuman related to human. Land monster being hairy. Even their mouths filled with hair. This is their poetry:

Grying troof grinds ouch rooted future tooths.
Iss loose fork nub moon
under her soon.
It wiggles lowf.

So many grow row bull locks wow
timeless weaving for mind coffins.

Of luke socks.
Tramble fift system.
List trinit grimble cragged
and silently bindery glue and glock.
Stuck rotten occurance blocks.

Trimble grinit gravid, grinit ragged listed ratchet.
Muffit slough moribund lump.
Grying ragged troof.
Facks brequalcome fick rendition.

So mow be won fork flit sis n' shoe gross sober moss soppy,
roped optics sought text ops for shunned.
Categories of labored over thoughts.

Sea Monster's :

Turks, coys, and drew. Hooks.
Frish slash n wangle, is lasting in a half truth, real.
Slap slobber grey flapping. Padlock deep and rethinking.
Angle blau, anger's lapse a bloop whisper bubbles, weed sleeking
and why worry.
Swindles wires way hauled and longing lolls.

Slipped flapper waah shhhh sklale,
rakes and scales.
Stillborn short fathoms
call bee con clink. Rusted dendrite,
wrinkled sheath,
ankh slink train pink.

Nattered waah plaffer pilshed
inside hermes hurt and ball key.

Link bloat words squirming murk
collosum tremble bridge legs
under trollganger mere or you beacon

Air monsters: groar woah flu woah snow poof waif slaw bloof sue woohoo bruise most sose brie pillow flast dried wow sigh wide wee
know won hiss blind or than knee...

The Inhuman

2010-08-02T18:39:00.000-07:00

we. seeking around this outside of meat that surrounds me. need. isn't it soaked in nonsense. stacked treading viscous globs in stasis. anxious jumps the skin. dreamed but grids strangle the made possible. oh well. in pods uncommon talk and babble hand in hand then compartmentalize the feelings. saturated wracked and then moments of outside the self. in humans are the unshared made into shadows, and sometimes rainbows. maintaining is metal flavored sweat and rung out asphalt check accounts. words fail the desire to jump and feel alive. and so it goes.

jessica blinkhorn: my life with the thrill kill kult tribute

2010-08-02T16:44:00.000-07:00

jessica blinkhorn. my friend maxwell sebastian has painted her portrait and used her in larger compositions repeatedly. all to strange results. i have no idea why this text is hyperlinking and to where i dont know.

jessica will be reading at the seen gallery on sept 3rd at about 10pm. her work freely discusses the sexual desires of a person in a wheelchair and any specifics that might occur because of the fact that a wheelchair is involved in the action. evidently shes very frank in her handling of the topic.

JIMMY LO & letters from Hong Kong

2010-07-22T17:04:00.000-07:00

The womb, ancient wriggling scales, through water or air, a luck dance clangs through the giant origin of all, through a market place capturing a very common place, a feeling of careful observation of the every day. As a hybrid beast, a dragon dancing, and then what looks like maybe wing chun being observed in a circle of humans, so accustom and comfortable with tradition as to allow a practitioner to swing a blade within inches of their face. The dragon dance trails away, setting up for a strange subtle kind of touch Lo seems to have. For a split second, after seeing a band of animated talented performers, we see a trailing follower or shopper, just somebody -anyone in a frumpy daze of their any day of their life, an odd looking shuffle and an endearing gate this straggling weirdo, and then the glimpse is gone.
The scene cuts to another careful moment of nothing, one that recognizes a specific beauty in the moment, and almost is part of it, were it not for the delicate involvement, the awareness of an eye picking and framing this scene. It is the perfect "barely enough" and often seems to catch interesting quirky happenings.
Often obvious throughout the soft visual journey is the realization that it is from the perspective of a member of a group. Following family members. A person part of something quite normal. It is the choices of moments- and keen awareness of color. In one scene, we see from over a boat railing, a smaller boat, a sort of slate grey junk ship hustling against misty waves and fog. Looming behind it, buildings with colors matching that of the little boat's sail seem to be noticed by the person filming. In another a funny faced man smiles as he slurps up noodles that match the color of his shirt exactly. Background warm reds, just a part of the environment, cannot be orchestrated but are there perfectly.

review aint done like it wld seem the film continues like normal like i am writing this. im going for a walk and will finish this later for whoever notices. hope yr having a good evening. i love you.

jeff d

SEEPAGE at Whitespace gets a formal structured shit smear.

2010-07-09T20:06:00.000-07:00

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.

that show at whitespace

2010-07-07T19:22:00.001-07:00

i think the damage done to the art on the beltline was an inside (the closet) job.
it seems to me that those inclined to know about the art on the beltline , care enough to go see the art on the beltline, bring what appeared to be a weapon/tool..looked like an axe to me... (premeditated? and requiring a return visit?) why not just destroy the whole thing? --it just seems to uuum...appropriate, convenient- reeks of desperation for discussion. which is sorta great, but in this case it's like the rejected nerd kid that tries to start selling drugs so he can have at least a partial conversation with the assholes he thinks are cool. the assholes in this case are an imagined audience..the reality is "we" as artists are the audience- so spare us the empty gestures to "them" let's play to each other. we know the parlour tricks. the theme is important, the technique is about original as anything on tee vee at 8pm. moving on, okay?

im all for discussion of art, tho. i just find the art on the beltline thing to be kinda funny. it's more about the path than the goal itself to me. meaning, screw the beltline itself...whatever. if many of the artists scrambling for a funded opp and supposed attention stopped and looked at the deal itself (the "affordable workforce housing authority of it all, the crock of shit that this thing is, if they were truly principled about their art, many wldnt want shit to do with this giant liposuction recycle gesture. we'll see it in 30 years or whatever. the beltine. meh.i dont think many of the artists gave a shit about it itself. i truly do hope it helps the layout and connectivity of the city, so far, i see miniature arch de triumphs and mock brownfields turned into sets for plastic fast paced sales lifestyles that are reinforced by big glowing billboards of useless self-images. mirrored buildings crammed between curved lifeless asphalt roads braiding into bigger expanses of interstate. one way frenetics adorned with beige concrete. keep moving. homeless people. stretches of industrial boring business blocks of gook interpolated into interesting places effectively fucking both. ikea. little fucking orphan annie? greasy ghetto meat for 8 bucks in yr gut and the wrapper rattles down the street... on the beltline itself tho, of the art ive seen..the piece by mensoff, cipcic, drouett..is the most amazing. it truly is a beautiful balnced delicate thing. being loosely aware of all three's work,the combo itself just seems enticing. i saw it and liked, it stopped me, and then was told who had done it- and just stood their enthralled.
as an artist i am paying attention to what other local artists are doing. on a local level, it's fun to isolate that focus as much as it is to ..well, not. to consider the entire planet. i just get a kick out of all the local saps thinking they can and need to educate "the public". all the starry-eyed kids with their 8th grade health book definition of community. all the washed up old-timers strutting around with their imaginary paths of glory behind them. some of them do inspire and carry a myth thats worth floating on, tho...
i love how local grassroots organizations get lost in the details, get lost in The Idea they bring of something good to meet with others' Idea of it AND SILENTLY NOT BLEND AND NOT CREATE DYNAMIC ENERGY, allow scary shallow evil fucks to plant themselves in the middle of a situation and rot while they cockroach rattle on and on about what a bunch of gold nuggets they've planted in nothing, and gosh i know its necessary...but... money. i'd like to dream that ART can find a place to actually experiment and focus on each other as friends and artists and thinkers, without egos and care on that level enough. to be free of worrying about straight up kuhniving bullshitters without a creative bone in their body, no ideas, all of its intentions (tho they dont matter) reveal shallow thought products incessantly slathered on gallery walls of vanity -with thick knee deep willpower that pushes their hideous face into stubborn firm place, hustling out a shitty yawn of an unimaginative no originality addict's living, with a nasty sneering raunchy gross humored base-level laugh and a warehouse redneck's bravado- and compromising the whole damn thing while everybody sits by and watches. free us of board up the asses bored meetings for meetings. free us of well-intended pc'ers thinking they need to not be themselves and suck every art events asshole clean just to be the nice face on the scene. is there a common denominator?
i was going to write about the show at whitespace. maybe next time. you guys need to go see it.

SEEPAGES @ WHITESPACE this friday 7-10pm

2010-06-21T18:15:00.000-07:00

Potential image from a potential piece, constantly in fertile motion. Delicious in its rot, its growth. Its history. We find it when we aren't looking, in those places so real and turned open, they can be nothing else. By-products of disaster and disasters themselves. Events continue to occur and spiral off. Taking root in the most conspicuous places, hiding while seeping, generating, and multiplying various spores and windows, a sort of cut-out looking into a truth. It references itself and examines itself, showing the raw compost of experience express uninhibited. Breaking through everything and then raking it into a fermented faux-bedding, suggesting that randomness and awareness do abruptly collide to create in their destruction.

Caroline Lathan-Stiefel curates a show opening at Whitespace this Friday: Seepages.

(above image of work in process by John Otte)

thirst knows no season

2010-06-21T18:06:00.000-07:00

2010-06-20T19:42:00.000-07:00

ostentatious

2010-06-20T18:17:00.001-07:00

His bare taut belly, sunny side up, pressed against the side of the boiling red machine. August heat and not too many hours after sizzling bacon, inertia still bright and versatile in his blood, the crescent wrench refracting chrome light in the yard. He couldn't figure out why she was running hot. Sixteen crushed cans around him in the yard. A cold one almost finished- before it vanishes in his brother's hand.
Frank crushed the empty one with a smirk and sauntered back closer, leering under the hood with his clean original business jawline. Carpet bagger and Freemantle, he calibrated rancid meat in a processing plant for a living. Drove an Audi and listened to pop R & B a pretty good bit.
Frank spoke with a stutter. He somehow perfectly incorporated it into his manner of being as animated and excited.

so frank says
to his brother
still smirking

"You shoulda never divorced her in the 1st place, Bob." Only Bob knew he was talking about the overheated car. Frank pretend to be basically unaware of the car while he discussed the fact that his recent ex-wife had, of all things, gone out and decided to take up some new form of electric yoga. Done virtually, but requiring nudity. It all sounded suspicious. One of the nose pieces was missing from Bob's glasses and in the sweat of the day, the bare coarse metal gouged into his red tender flesh. He stared under the hood, pretending to not let on the that he realized what was going on.
"Frank, have you ever seen The Two Towers ?"
"No man, aint my thing."
"How 'bout Slingblade?'
"Ain't even heard of that"
"The Shining?"
"What? Brah. What ARE you talkin' bout? No. I aint seen no shining."
Bob didnt stop.
"An American Werewolf in London? Rob Roy? Saving Private Ryan? Aguirre, the wrath of god? Walkabout?
When Frank continued to be oblivious,
he picked up a wood splitter (fly swatter)
leaning against the car and
struck him in the sunshine with it

while he gawked at a woman walking by.

Then they laughed and chased puppies and giggled all day.

(image above is from discovery village in austin texas)

MECHANICAL MEANS W/O ACTS

2010-05-26T16:09:00.000-07:00

satisfaction to him was another kind of labor. she connived and had her own highchair to dive from. a toy of herself. did he remember to bring his drugs up from the basement? his bald head twitched. sandpaper and cattle calls and small blades. an electric mower for grass he doesn't want to cut.

she gave him the unholy stinkeye. bangs and eruptions from his stomach, a shutter,the slats and shadows of her veins in his face. charisma shuffles its feet and peaks through a free publication. liars dance and pantomime while partial-psychosis partially serves as a conduit for an entire truth.

micromanaged thoughts and personalities, a lack of a notebook. scheduled pleasures turned into a middleman, a silly fool- and lazy. won't frame a picture. the lost and lonely bathroom detached from herself, it reeked and moaned about most of the day. a lichen or two in the urine stench. friends that make art.

consciousness of surroundings at all times. a fixed preparation and sort of tension. she needed a birthday present on the 30th. she wanted to schedule a time to show the venue. she wanted a waiver of arraignment. she needed her art to sell. she needed a microphone. she needed me to come get my art. he needed me to come get my art. he wanted to come get his art. he wanted me to submit some of my art. she doesnt trust my art. she doesnt care about my art. he inspires my art. so does she.

his mannerisms had grown so subtle; feedback had begun to disappear. treasure my ancestors and a day when black and white left more. we filled in, tried not to lie, while she read from her fantasy and held it together- thoughts somewhere in the room almost cried, happy and so supportive. afraid of a different kind of loss. she wasn't just moving away. they'd shared the craft and it led them to

sentient cavern that fills and then drafts, so warm, then so apathetic. a container. non-reflective racing thoughts and a roof, a sort of business that's delusional. busy-ness like prayer, makes thinkin' do more or less not much more than half of fragmented ideas. a thorn in the mood, rotten cayenne hourglass with a wart nose chuckle. permeates and stains. trashy multi-tasked fingers cramp and sleep, to wake up and do it all over again. oblivious or so it would seem.

bathroom love

2010-05-17T21:58:00.001-07:00

and somewhere overlapped thought bubbles of ed hall (cryptic invisible mixed in is also whoever else,such as be that as) it may john otte and praps' eggtooth and then geof huth is the head of this tireless frozen meteorite trailing notions into all of it.
still life of fruit from the collection of unisa asokan featuring waterjug "off-hand abstractions" and the eyed of the hurricane again-topel with part of the Living Point to the right of image.
just some spittle.
see that soot collecting from the volcano, from the oil across the sea floor, in the grit of natural mediation's pop, the filter clogs. and makes pretty patterns.

bathroom sand and cloud phase

2010-05-11T19:44:00.000-07:00

notice john moore williams lIIght poem in upper right corner
John Otte's contribution to the most recent phases come from an undertow that has been pulling and digging for the torque for over 2 decades now. His hand and eye have saturated in a way for so long now, they are rotten with a fertility that is beyond me. There's a sense of vision I enjoy relating to and it is very much, to me, about the humor in points. I'ts covered in and rich with awareness of so much before it. I relate to what is held on to. To come to now, and the desires that art will always have. The need for work to breathe. The necessity for this kind of environment. To play.To look for ways to gouge- and to be quite relevant and quite serious.

one chance detail.
andrew topel's work serves as a sort of twisting eye. the sanded back details surrounding it are what Otte calls anthropological finds. im reminded of geological references to laws of superposition and inclusion.and playing chess by myself. is strange the balance of this process. the creamy yellow-ish color is bothering me. i want to react directly and swiftly, but then i do not. been feeling a great deal like this bathroom is just simply gross. and just a bathroom. a sort of remorse and self-doubt turn into a renewed affirmation,tho. so much at play. the understanding is bigger than me and shifts in many parts. this public space that has no claims. is so roughed up and tilled, ready to be attached to with no right or wrong. experimentation teases me. so much to do.

VISUAL POETRY @ EYEDRUM may 1st through may 15th

2010-05-04T13:32:00.000-07:00

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_eyb02nLqbs&feature=channel

the above video in the foreground can be viewed at the link to youtube provided. video "rains hard' by nisa asokan
melissa johnston
steve dalachinsky framing one of 30 stills scrolling thru a video made by nisa asokan.
carlos m luis
nico vassilakis (pieces anachronistically displayed from his "american fossil" series
Reed Altemus (primary colored pieces on wall) in case features parts of satu kaikkonen's work on left and christian hamrick"s book on right
satu !
christian hamrick, zacc denton, and geof huth
andrew topel. this piece was used to seem as tho' it were a key to the exhibit.
nisa asokan's statement regarding the practice of burning books.
john m bennett
andy martrich
pilar martinez
ashes from burned book night of opening

geof huth from his "waxwords" series
clemente padin, caterina davinio, john moore williams, allison rentz, john m bennett, mara hernandez, reed altemus, nico vassilakis, steve dalachinsky
john lowther, melissa johnston
andrew topel on screen in background (framed by steve dalachinsky's work)

Characteristic Grammarisms

2010-04-29T18:23:00.000-07:00

Hiked characteristics of a schism, insolent and wishy-washy.
They divided microphone time up with
ants covered in ankles, leg hairs black and tickled,
socks wrinkled and soaked in alcohol and xylene.

They pictured themselves in their best clothes,
radiating maple leaves and long x-rays.
For rayon salty skin,
un-delicious and beachcombers with gasoline fumes,
derision's formalities and proper grammar.

Mostly frosted flakes and spider veins, the lake wasted darkness in rumbles
worldly burnings carved frozen orbits along flat edges
and bits of plastic a storm.
safety in the earth uprooted by fallen trees, discussed and snakes and
maybe yr eyes sting.

Delicious its wet and green transparency loves the sun
networks throb silence in a million delicacy tilted
and then balanced upon agonizing self-aware a finger
fixed hair and that.

Where's whammy's ampersand's clastic, campy,
and candy waffle candor. Tantamount two
a fountain's spouse, transparent caster flax perhaps
and acid laxatives.
List them and ballasts flabbergast a guttural rump
and soporific dolorous
musty nights of sleep.

VISUAL POETRY AT EYEDRUM may 1st.

2010-04-29T17:13:00.000-07:00

i am excited about the visual poetry show at eyedrum,it is going to come together cool, but not half as much as i am of the on-going never ending or beginning process that can do no right or wrong and "belongs" to nobody. the bathroom at eyedrum. it is the most affirming process in my life these days. its uselessness calls for contradictions and im in love with finding them.

Amongst Guest Hosts & Ghost Custodians.

2010-04-29T16:52:00.000-07:00

Here are words generated by a simulation of the (simulation of attention to) the same unattended growth that(once engaged and courted- or honored) takes place in a public bathroom frequented by creative types. An observation of the process of valueing as well as the process of observing itself.

1.
randomness acts alike in waves of hand held devices.
once a computer, a clown, torn in wages forlorn to maybe
and she busted out a graph
tornado tonight sez: "cradle laughter with fifty fingers"
garbage with words
neurosis sweaty sheets
the place beneath the stairs and
carved buildings
examine the beginning of the edge and
yrslf w/ an other.
Incubator Rabies suffers analytic depth charges and pings.
it's often the camera follows just out of the line of vision.
is wishing for a certainty into that edgeless space is

2.
laura barfed and picked up a brick.
with sounds and captions in the sidewalk
slade, dangerfield, and japanese love apples
so many stains and answering machines.
metal grids and dark resin on rain hot asphalt
sizzle.
carl grabbed his uvula with tweezers.
gathered matchsticks and tiki torch fluid.
(bastard files rock ford fidget fjord)
Layered and wet refractions drip green through white,
edged with gold and felt inspiration.
a horizon, a lookout and a memory for words
wanting is a color and an ambiguous almost

3.
catchy mamby pamby banter mandibles with
botox mombo soma blunder

shint stumble grunts

gravid lax on saturn emasculated manuscripts,
plastic mastic treason. Since
satyr labia and werebear crisis slimes pink ice with itself
glitched chasm's electric tambor razes fancy infant fantasies
into grimace fission and mucus poopy
amongst blast shield guest hosts and ghost custodians

Atlanta's most relevant installation with martinis on the way.

2010-04-26T17:10:00.000-07:00

detail from eyedrum building's hallway.
be sure to visit the eyedrum bathroom & gallery
with work by eggtooth & john otte and who the fuck ever else.

Striving in the South (to dethrone the Genius of Rot)

2010-04-26T16:45:00.000-07:00

photos taken by john otte
words significantly inspired by him as well.

just friendly enough to let you punch it.
dynamics keep push n pull alive as they rest
over and over. back for more.
eviscerate while feeding a fancy meal.
honoring it by turning it inside out,
as a custodian he says,
as we would wish to free it from its death, its loss of meaning, he says,
in museums-where reasons have long since disconnected themselves.
honor by gutting. make something happen.
trashed while kept in immaculate working order. efficient at what it does.
but never claiming, always in flux, as necessity as it
really pulled it out of itself, its own natural state, and showed it to itself.

Like how certain outside elements were introduced-made to make eye
contact w each other,to recognize their shared basic elements. The
"evolved" meets its maker
I don't think maker is sentient tho. Just is.
Speaks to beginnings and ends that dissolve or fuzz edges into
everything. Including the human experience that discovers it.
guest plus host equals ghost, he said
what i dont know about as much as what i do know about

Art Criticism and Writing

2010-04-18T18:40:00.000-07:00

School of Visual Arts

http://artcriticism.sva.edu/index.html

MFA Art Criticism and Writing

The practice of criticism involves making finer and finer distinctions among like things, but it is also a way to ask fundamental questions about art and life. To pursue both of these functions requires a grounding in art history and aesthetics, as well as a wide-ranging knowledge and curiosity about contemporary culture.

(I'm going to write thru this a bit, drawing comparisons within the context of Atlanta- specific to this. "Like things" - common denominators, as if a computer chip that were pre-written set the model, the pattern. the same way children are brought up within a religious belief system. the common denominator being a preconceived notion of an environment that exists-if only these people could be informed about the arts existence. "like things"of course is a brilliant opening, in that it encapsulates a sense of experience on terms of time as well as specific to things, works themselves in any given moment. adjacent to each other and like one another by proximity. or like each other by a felt memory, optical muscle memory as much as a greater undefined or unteachable level. this is the art and life aspect. a presumed goal and way to achieve something is part of the "like things". the active participation of when art has crossed from life. the reference to the image and how powerful it is seems an obvious reference to Internet and all forms of community packet switching.

We live in a conflicted time, when the need for criticism and critical thinking is greater than ever, but the practice of these arts is more and more constrained. To avoid a post-critical future, when public matters are decided by fiat and force rather than by deliberation and debate, the critical faculty and ethos must be vigorously pursued.

(fiat and force vs. deliberation and debate have for so long starbelly sneeched their routine, there's no way to tell which is which anymore. this is an absurdity to suggest. not even trying to make reference to where criticism plays its role (( as if criticism exists in atlanta anyways)) in a larger sense of where say, robert hughes in his mona lisa curse youtube available video suggests the direction and influence of the over-all art experience exists. the silly charade level we keep ourselves within is due to the fact we refuse to admit that we as artists are the only ones watching ourselves. as a way to begin considering the process of applying honest expectations. the critics could do this -even as they show they are learning about history and aesthetics-not before-the process exposed would be honest and invest in future works and future attitudes raised in the environment. instead many cow-tow to hopeful money opportunities and the few rich patrons with no taste and silly business engineered ideas of what they can do with the arts. we do live in a conflicted time and the constraint is something the art itself as a pure thing will crack through. among other factors, the constraint would seem to be the obligations to the art market- in conjunction with the increased pace/power of visual information. The public factor is mentioned as a given. the sense one gets when public is considered in Atlanta feels often more like a government funded scholastic health book than any idea of investing in genuine risk-taking ,exploritative, or otherwise about telling us about ourselves in a forward-thinking way .

We also live in an age when images have an inordinate power over us—the power to influence public opinion, to create and direct desire, to comfort and inflame. The critics of tomorrow must study the image in all its manifestations in order to better understand how we are subject to them. An underlying principle of this program from its inception has been that the image should begin to occupy a place in the understanding of life comparable in importance to that occupied by the humanities and sciences.

(Implications are clearly with regards to anything from/to Internet-cellphones and perhaps future better designed /realized developments in the area of complete virtual experience. The better use of these images,the self-realizing use of the power it has in terms of leveling a playing field. Of revealing the hyper-personal in a more immediate fashion. Of restructuring in a way that is healthy, ways to see ourselves. the hurried implications seem maddening and conjure future shock thoughts...but not necessarily. scientific method applied to placing the idea of our movement of an image along with its meaning cannot seem to separate from not having something one is set out to prove. would it ever be able to sincerely seek while saying it "doesn't know". still feel belief that art's word for itself implies something naturally much bigger....it will find a way thru..this is not an end to culture,or a devo sermon, it is change. critical viewing of it precognitive as much as foreshadowing- and maybe a little self-fulfilling. sometimes feel the circuit has closed and there is no distinction between art or critic or world or gallery or patron...)

The School of Visual Arts has a long tradition of employing practitioner/teachers, and this will continue in the Art Criticism and Writing program, where courses will be taught by those who have made significant contributions to the field. We will focus on the essay as form, as well as on shorter forms of review, and learn criticism by doing it.

This program is not involved in “discourse production” or the prevarications of curatorial rhetoric, but rather in the practice of criticism writ large, aspiring to literature.

David Levi Strauss, chair

I dont wanna talk about it (honor it)

2010-04-18T05:47:00.000-07:00

a book of poetry(and a wandering night through you)
a curated visual poetry show (shared fingertips and smiled bleary wondering)
a white glove (wetness burnishes beginnings and endings)
a collection of people with words ( burned in my memory yr perspective)
an environment in our peripheral made a contradiction (blurred forever always a thing wonderful)

:duchamp, bok, spicer, twombly
peachtree spaces
weird plastic accidents
cy twombly research (to be announced) see krog street and the bathroom...

like a mall (in terms of art in public space)

2010-04-14T14:57:00.000-07:00

the bathroom is bigger

cheery... oh.

2010-04-08T17:50:00.000-07:00

community. i'm all for idealistic, for realizations about fundamentals. what it truly means to get involved in your community. be yourself. express yourself.
serve others,think of others. and what you can do. examples like chris filling in potholes story. children's art walks. community and culture.
notions of falseness with regards to commercialism. presuming a goal towards a command of respect and value in a high society or historical marker sense of accomplishment,evolution etc....
the usefulness of art.
two separate overlapping ways that art can be "bigger'.
disconnect in community.
lack of earnest feeling in art in galleries.
art is bigger than galleries. trends into
public space
which is first?....both point to same direction but for different reasons.
the real. life itself . actually caring. to effect social change.
as if before art. or so connected that you and your art are one as it overlapps with anothers oneness and so on and so forth.
or bullshit.
individuality.
public space.
community and sense of self.
as defined by what? "im for the good of the community"-okay....that statement says more to question who you are as a person than anything else.
education and community defined by what feels like a government funded 8th grade health book.
fundamentals are always nice,they can never be forgotten.
they are pure and need to be visible as much as participated in.
but
we do challenge on another in healthy ways. and always have.
applied expectations
at some point.
relevance of in the flesh community is good in reaction to so much life taking place in the internet. the public space.
the bathroom.
a bathroom in an art community's corner. revealing a sort of honest ugly truth. bare and without expectations. there is no wrong. a private place for personal experience. your moment to be quick with.
in some cases, to express the self like one normally does not have the opportunity.is a way of perceiving the self in a moment that is transitory. is ugly and ridiculous. is nobody's. (well..the property is owned by somebody)
but the experience. the public environment created is like the blog's comment section. with built in anonymity protection.
from this place sprouts
commodity.
community.
want her.
individuality.
alchemy and 4th dimensional shadows cast.
spiritual awareness.
the Norwegian boheme.
sweet auburn and the 4th ward
real dental insurance.

be ourselves w each other. shared. expectations become established. the unframed freedom to experience something and perhaps even feel involved.that connection between art n life. (makes me think of krog street tunnel’s bathroom and comment sections on art blogs.)
public space awareness as a way of being and then taking a sense of awareness to a removed place, art. so that it can reach back in. chasing itself in a circle.
only aware of tail.
or as a dynamic sphere.
reminds me 404ekopus’s idealism.
and an 8th grade health book.
and beuys planting trees.

no other choice

2010-04-04T18:15:00.000-07:00

2010-03-29T15:12:00.000-07:00

"Perhaps misunderstanding and aggressive ignorance are ways to gouge
away. No expectations. Initial intrigue inspires and step closer as
usual desire suggests,but leave out of touch. W/o affirmation
requested. Hiding in plain sight. Action still takes place.'

what i meant (and this is going straight to my blog for all the world to not see)

"perhaps misunderstanding and aggressive ignorance are ways to gouge away."
my older brother is a nerd chemical engineer genius. he used to beat me at chess regularly. so one day when i was about 15, i decided to start making deliberately irrational decisions. trying to find the dumbest thing to do-not in the sense of just giving up pieces,but just nonsensical movements. and boy wld they chap his ass cuz he had these movements he wanted to execute.
i also think of a joke i like to play on myself: try to pick out of yr music selection what which you want to hear the least. and be honest.
misunderstanding and aggressive ignorance(the ignorance tied to aggression cuz it is obliviously confident, and battles with that which the "belabored w knowledge educated" are emotionally or rationally weighed and tired out into theorizing and non-action)

gouge away:implications of battling with (note: i say battling not harmonizing...i will play that side of the fence later) a "they" who are they but in a way our own selves and our own potential lowest common denominator? does it become about death and quality of life? gouge away at what? the seemingly knowable,i guess. the things taken for truth. for sake of art...blech.no. ego in exploration. relative to previous movements in art...i see how this one can fall backwards in many directions. gouge away at ways to ease existence. to go off in a direction as yet unconsidered simply for the sake of hoping by accident, a new aspect of what ? life itself? ...will be found..is hard to fathom. my thoughts still stay within range of images from books and my memories.

where are the dynamics in harmony? gouge away, you can gouge away...the pixies song,of course.
but gouge away, i recall seeing in my mind either a sudden tangent at an odd angle thru blackness of space or a tear in fabric of "now"..tiger shreds style...and before me i see in these tears other truths,other lives- or hell..some forest, somewhere else.or some whatever... that exists
...all that crap..i say crap because i don't believe in the practicality of the effort. not really. starts to become academic. can i learn from those before me? of course! part of this gouging is in defiance to research itself. ignorance and misunderstanding really dont exist. due to the fact all interpret and recall from exp what they will.( prolly from something that dictated this prior to their birth.)-again it falls backwards i know...the hypocrisy...logic vs emotion....facts or defined points of perspective-inform feelings...but feelings select imprint's saturation and even tweak fact. fuck i cld start quoting anne bradstreet or diogenes etc blah...hmmm..gouge away..means explore or make it new,of course. the plea for validity in ignorance was the upshot. plea for validity of laziness. for allowing people to just be themselves and be allowed to change their minds at will. isnt that bullshit if i ever heard it? ...thinking of rauschenberg's white canvases. thinking how i hate the need to show knowledge of predecessors,of how much is instinctive the rest is expression of it, and how that expression of it is recorded in our collective accessible memories as people.like a flag. or a launching point.
it makes no sense..me as an artist. me migrating and sort of reverse gerrymandering..the negative space that defines me is based on in the moment ,is also gouged away at..by my truth. which is ignorant. i dont know anything. i really am rationalizing as i go. i dont know. i do have intentions,tho. i do exist. consistently. i hate that i sounded like a 13 yr old in this..isnt that silly? in being truly ignorant,the thing i want..i get it. anyways...

"no expectations"

this comes from infatuation vs love. being in love. courting. recognizing feelings and that time period it takes for them to overlap into... expectations. and its all down hill practicalities boring real life shit from there....memory imprint transplanting like 4' 33 or quotes like we cannot know our last love if we dont truly forget our first....no expectations seeks to (by previous knowledge) sort of cheat..fuck an a... death. the thing that we focused on by forgetting we were aware of life was the thing itself. but to be aware,to point at it,define it..acknowledge it..or react to it??(i consider reactions to life to be art-otherwise it's just life) stops its motion. thinks of quantum laws now..but not really cuz i am ignorant to them in full...relative to what goal...goals vs paths. control is such a stupid word,is so easy to control it and slippery its meaning into grand implications that allow for the person it is directed at to load and point at themselves right before the one that said it. in real time.

"Initial intrigue inspires and step closer as
usual desire suggests,but leave out of touch"

this is more of the same on expectations. talking about that unawareness that creates goodness.the intial urge and 1st step or moment lived in it. how we make memories that will be like reels of tape in our minds,how we do this best and most pungently when we are not aware of it. i think we do anyways..meditation and prayer i believe are about the futility of it all. meditating for me brought about an awareness of a cycle,a pattern ...how we lapse in and out of feeling like we are there,or on time...lsd kinda did the same..i did a sweat lodge once an it was different but same. visceral escape nto head and rhythm. place to be and ride...sex is same...but shared....

"w/o affirmation requested"

how do we affirm ourselves? im not asking...is what im trying to say. no quarter asked or given. it exists and happens.....(action still takes place)

so u see.in order to better prove i am ignorant , i need to practice more and learn more.about how tired even what i just said is....
funny how i learned to think about negative space/positive space of self/other definitions and endless possible interps of presentation("intentions mean nothing" and "you gotta be doing it for yrself" crud amongst others was thru lonely/alone experience of internet...

On Mar 29, 2010, at 9:21 AM, Jeff Dahlgren wrote:

The following are some questions line for line.

Not indictments . . . just questions for sake of greater clarity. Hopefully.

Clarity is what defines art (at least, this might be one effective definition of ART).

"The artist acts like a mediumistic being who, from the labyrinth beyond time and space, seeks his way out to a clearing." (Duchamp)

Perhaps misunderstanding and aggressive ignorance are ways to gouge
away. (gouge away at what?)

Not about any particular place

2010-03-29T13:43:00.000-07:00

to experience art.
getting too close to details that cloud space and infiltrate,the roots of where it begins. saturate and realize a limitless sense of ...

eyedrum bathroom

2010-03-27T11:54:00.000-07:00

fluidity informed by upbringing.

2010-03-22T10:28:00.000-07:00

ingrates

2010-03-22T10:23:00.000-07:00

they line both sides of the fence. inside of me outside of me
a wave layered with truths and an undertow of feelings
water cooler lies and accidental involvement. perfect.

try again bathroom,do again bathroom..a lifestyle

2010-03-21T11:08:00.000-07:00

bathroom is disgusting and i need it and i go in there. a piss or a shit and hurried movements, for perhaps another will come in this private place,that isn't mine..i use it.they use it to.nobody ever feels quiet clean. but this is my moment right now. i feel free on a base level in here. honesty and direct by-products of me. the walls are connections of everyone's own little universe.
putting art in here. i realize the challenge of my serious joke. it is bigger and more saturated than me. its feeling is stronger and i must acquiesce to that. i work with what is here and pull from it .Blur the reasons of why do this with an addressal of presentations and positioning. position my shit directly,this is me. am i worth noticing?
the bathroom commands me,tho. i feel the need to work to only extend it. it will force a connection back to itself, and each persons approach to it. a bathroom, a place to communicate, like a log in a commode, a blog where you comment.
i went into the bathroom to install art because i thought art placed in a bathroom,not so much curated,but editing the bathroom,an involved way that is sarcastic but serious, is trying to say something about -strangely enough-the internet. how we communicate anymore.

BATHROOM. at eyedrum (men's version pt 1)

2010-03-20T13:59:00.000-07:00

John Otte's work dominates this latest branch of Eyedrum's expressive arm.
Curated by eggtooth,
It pulls from what is and stretches it out for us to see, emphasizing, while showing a conscious awareness or hand of involvement, but just barely enough. The work is obvious. There is art here.
Into another attempt at honesty. An unrefined brutal realism...or an idea of truth as close to life as possible. Questioning, in a sense, where the experience begins in relation to how to perceive work. And maybe even why. expected to interact with this is the many and the unseen,in their private or unleashed(unzipped) moments...
The path is also to draw attention to the hilarious need for clean and proper presentation of work in Atlanta. Even in work that utilizes important observations that could address social change/ needs, the work is more concerned with safety in terms of art careers,some silly idea of couch aesthetic, resumes and permission,not wanting to hurt feelings. Often this results in an insulting rape of what art could do to take important issues and connect back to life. (and incidentally-invest in an art scene that could one day actually be taken seriously...we "shit in our own mouths and call it a sundae")
The repeat result is ultimately an evening's gesture for art, while the long term is a stamp of inauthenticity, keeping Atlanta's art scene braided with but disconnected with itself. Trying to clambor (with good intentions and often great art) for a piece of a fake perception... so much of this is done with such an obnoxious concern for proper presumed ways to context work,disguised as polite and proper,that for years now the soil has been fertilized with forgotten ineffective walls for etiolating and atrophying anything good that might happen. It grows portfolio minded students ,presuming they need to behave and work the existing system,when in reality...there is no system. more than anything,the environment itself needs to be addressed in the work.Atlanta itself and perceptions of self exposed.
(the use of the bathroom)
The bathroom in a non-profit multi-use art venue. The result of this .The weathering and characterization of a bathroom in the manner one would expect. Scribbled thoughts. Graffiti. Crap tags and weirdo doodles. Thoughtful delicate effects over the top of eroding, and molding perhaps, the utilized truth of basic human use.Taken for granted,maybe. not maintained? (will this show result in change?) this bathroom is sacred in the same sense that krog street tunnel is sacred,only more disgusting. maybe. It is also a beautiful sort of public usage. a sort of neglect and desire to piss on or claim territory.Or to express the self freely or even with rebellion.( the coming insurrection written by The Invisible Committee, is used in the present eyedrum bathroom display as a flavoring)
This bathroom now known for its creative dialogue, political dialogue and trash intellect base humor. It is gross and it is heard men fear it so much as to use the womens in cases of number 2 needs. Mostly scribbles and urine stains in the air. A funkiness that is unshakable.
Positioning art in here seeks to not liven or sprucen, but to operate in conjunction with. To quietly and without pointing,exhalt by blending with this natural almost expected state of existence.

In an effort to echo the sentiment expressed by other organizations supposedly interested in utilizing public-ish space to supposedly create new platforms for where art can intersect with life, the work here makes no bones about that fact that it is congruent with the environment. It is an extension of it, not addressing it. makes no claim otherwise.
In this bathroom case, maybe the result will be an exaggerated awareness of what is in so much a raw "natural" state as to be undeniable. It balances out and absurdly does , as art, a perfect kind of nothing.

whitespace beep beep kavarna

2010-03-14T08:26:00.000-07:00

I see icee seeth i sea
these other ecologies (within eco)w/in on/off (ecolologies. A corner
in my blindspot on edgewood- with a coffee shop. And within willt to walk to walk>>>>>two walk
walking distance places where another gig is being played.

And it is as real as it is real as an image
an image on a computer screen to me. i move through based on associations that have their origins.
and mine is from here.
Over there on

burnaway

what they feel like. My first impulse is to consider their characteristics that get in the way of even having a point of relevance to discuss things. I would say that base level or common denominator is in how we are both cutting our chops. forever about the path and trying to not admit that we are an exposed process of development too much,because while that is admirable,it also discredits a value or respect that seems to be needed.
These different pockets. And then i think of a sort of flash mob that i participated in at the last "fashion rules!" event at Nieman Marcus. the pockets of people there. the art on the walls in nieman marcus. funny. would you go to an art gallery and see the thin cliched idea of clothing fashion in its own reverse. would i go to a bill lowe opening and see...tuffskins on timothy tew's strutting buttocks?
i see comments over at burnaway and i try to trudge through other local art blogs. the local level. the self-aware while comparing to others. Cautious expectations that still, in the end, have to be 110% with regards to confidence in expressing an idea of taste,or simply being yrself,using that physicality that does at least take up that space,to be honest about that. as close to the chest as possible.
i still see comments about some supposed stifling idea of southern mentalities,when i'd say one is pretty hard pressed to find anything but transplants these days. Coming here, presuming there is a soil to plant ideas associated from other places, more connected in terms of walking familiarity- as well as connected to the self.

Atlanta's make for a perfect business environment.(As 40% of our skyline is in foreclosure,they say.) Designed to keep us in our compartments and still communicating,a perfect editing of what on paper is the necessities. In the same way a fast food uniform and dress code are supposed to remove clutter of personality, real individual personality is deleted respectfully and efficiently from the transaction. and one could argue this is a good thing, i suppose. how much emotional energy do you have for others? for... art? Don't you want to buy your burger or communicate with your clients and co-workers with as little emotional touch as possible? to save it,to savor it for sharing with those you truly care about? How much/when does all of this compartmentalizing ever end? I think of those long in the tooth ladies in certain small mom n pop shops around, older people as well as running into those locals that just in a maybe subdued drawn out drawl...talk.not flast clattery chatter of change and drawers slamming empty talk. a place of mind and pace that precedes it. While they ring you up, it is all happening.funny, my first thought when it comes to interacting with the public at large has to do with strangers encountered in the environment made for buying things.

What with people in art openings? art in this environment. specific to atlanta as if it exists in a bubble. okay let's play. know thyself. but our being ourselves is the hiccup,the groundhog watching traffic.

where all did i go? i see art in kavarna. i dont feel like writing about it when i see it in my mind. whitespace.
(*sidenote as i write this: funny how i still have this lingering feeling of impending obligation to...something....like waiting for the phone to ring)

i get bored with structure,but chaos makes me feel lost in a department store. freedom and rules and whitespace. these different images. the front gallery is specific imagery with horizon lines and human figures and class distinctions have been subdued by our own need for purchase and our own delight with the numbing illusion of electronic gadgets.individuality and cohesion. solidarity is never,is defined and replaced with false light. "the owners of the means of social production and wage labor" -are ourselves ultimately. lost in a cave away from it all while feeling in the thick of it, a place without relevance in the "prevailing mode of economic production and exchange, and the social organization necessarily following from it..."
to try to bring an awareness to legitimate class struggle. ever again. when artists themselves are reduced to dance floor club transplants rubbing elbows.

the liberation of the self must be attained on the self's own terms and by its own blood. arts duty reflected in this outmodes and moves beyond my own awarenesses and back into a suburb. atlanta. looking at art in whitespace. now recalling the paper cave and rubber uvulas and stalactites of beep beep. and the girl withthe hard serious look on her early 20's face,dressed hard fashion points and severely apathetic about her unlit cigarette and demanding glasses frames,she commanded the air in front of her nose as she shoveled into the see of happy mingling diminishing returns. bodies blobbed and drinking seeing the art or overflowed into the parking lot. the
long brush strokes in whitespace
and the silly same feeling of burnaway. i feel like going to mint or beep beep is kinda like what happens to flynn in tron when the mcp pulls him into the computer world.their coverage ranges,but the collective feeling of the thing is a tribe of its own. a class that attempts to use the machine of manufacturings sweet images while retaining this-this .....incohorent intent that is so well-intended.

BRUCE COVEY @ Whitespace (Texting while Decaying

2010-03-13T10:49:00.000-08:00

Bruce Covey is a better poet than me.
Practiced and self-aware, i admire his brian posehn need for cuteness a bit. It is very confident and comfortable. Could say it respects his audience. I've never written a poem as focused as his. I subscribe a sort of same state of mind to some of his origins in my own incessantly improvised situations. Random and maybe even a bit sarcastic. A use of a quality of words that have their own character,making it where a glance of his page of words is similar to a distinct personal line quality in a draftsman's style. Is evident in a feeling that comes thru with the generalized pattern creeping through sounds and their visuals and then the association with the symbol for that idea.
I watched brian posehn read at whitespace and enjoyed the body of it. His stature commands presence while his demeanor is disarming and goofy. If not a bit awkward. When reading,this awkwardness is utilized as a tool. The performance of reading poetry exists in a direct manner.
A common language is presumed,
one that matched common
expectations
to a certain extent. Certain expectations
for what it is supposed to do were done:
A bit risque, but not really. Funny-but also a little insightful.
Experimental-but palatable.
Using as a frame or grid,Covey draped various random sets of subjects to a rating system that, after a short while,the repetition of it became invisible,focusing the thought on the selection of ideas and words. Hearing him say "7 out of 10" in reference to ,i dunno--perhaps a bowl of spaghetti or a flintstone vitamin-it was fun to hear these objects made to seem reasonably situated together. Inspires me to go further with the realization that it is all practice. it never begins or ends and so therefore training for execution of a specific intention becomes somewhat mute. Living is it as much as it is preparation. The improv emits the intangible and uncontrolled that is chaos to the other option of strangling true creative life with another rote methodic pattern that should not be confused with meditation or ritual. it is cut off from the source and in the classic contradictive sense provides while it malnourishes. Specific to Atlanta and this year of two thousand something-gimme a break. I almost yelled something like, "Whimsical Spectacle Trash!" at him because i felt what people want from going to hear poetry is some sort of release,or scratch- an intellect or a biological click, a challenge of expression that connects them to today and ..yeah...whatever..whose to say..theres so many reasons.
but in this case, his little ivory chapbook, so pink and sweet and elegant at first glance. I look at it with a sense of dignified respect and like it immediately for no reason. I open it and read it and then close it a few moments later, sitting there looking at the art, hearing people talk. This now slightly icky object in my hand begs me to open again and examine and read and simply read.. It is vaguely vulgar and sarcastic now. This little book of words. Is a schtick in a way. Was reinforced by the end of his set(or close to it....I had to leave at about 9:15...)

I enjoy Bruce Covey and enjoyed the environment he created at Whitespace with his words. Hosted by Anne Stephenson who organizes Ready Set Readings courtesy of Susan Bridges of Whitespace who likes poetry and who has an eye for good matters. I am thankful for this evening experience provided. this is the internet. i can pretend to scrutinize others with typos,wires, will and local live sampling, crushing suburban sentimental marketing one flux project at a time.

COMPROMISE

2010-03-08T18:41:00.000-08:00

GRace and greed layered with an altered sense of benevolence. Utilitarian:

Some discussion of Importance, Will & Compromise

2010-03-06T21:07:00.000-08:00

The ability to perambulate, the secondary handling of the books.
Debtors and Empty Commercial Space, alienates and inspires
Systems of collaboration & Level Playing Fields, the growing up
The Merchant, mercenary alcoholics and graffiti wrapped around
old rail lines and and gentrified stereotypes.
Gridlocked into numb patience under concrete and trees,
laughing at the self and the hatred, importance and

Fantasies educate the stability,the high society and
share competition for funding, and grant proposals
for abandoned spaces so sentimental and disappearing.

Huts & UFO's don't point at value
Fire purifies symbolic of materiality
lost in the gaining of new grids to
connect us
together as individuals

pt.2
Justice loose and wobbles forward
into a purple soft material.
Stained and angry, the reptilian aspect grovels for
sand paper for tears, rote and forebode in
(titanic mandibles reverberate massive shadows up black trench cold walls)
carnivores bungee desperation against sea mist and iron pours
Learned satisfaction rakes payments across checkered patterns.
Red and White or Black & White denial particles defile
License rubber candelabras and dance hall monks so chaste with laser beams.
In favor ripples tune the gallows robin breast while
warf tomes lone swank kayaks mountain praxis.
Antigone:
Bruise colored children's cereals
Chapped lather desiccates lost green house monocles
sober truths travel on intangible pot boilers of last jobs

Burning pt II

Memory succumbs in saved and captured
and moving forward filters spirits shadows
flickering thoughts so low
self-contained vision is (kind of) transparent
omnipresent discorporation

TRYING TO DO EGGTOOTH IN for myself

2010-02-14T16:47:00.000-08:00

I went to Lenox Mall. Mostly because of all the poop-talk on Burnaway & Artlanta ( art blogs covering the atlanta art scene) that I did in their comments section. In fact, like this Flux Bloom thing at Lenox Mall-I should have just remained in my leaving them alone realm. Well- I should leave Burnaway alone-not Artlanta. Artlanta represents freedom. Really, quite frankly, here lately I'm starting to feel like I don't have anything left to do but actually splinter off from everything. Freedom. To actually purify my perspective. Write from there. I suspect the directness and will to call it like I see it would sharpen dramatically. It would be an interesting phase of research for the character.
Maybe, instead of art galleries, I will start hanging out in malls. I will display care and desire for expensive decorative things, from a place that is at least more direct about doing just that.

I have no use for Lenox Mall. I don't recall going there since probably the early 90's. It's a mall. I know what is in there. Oh wait. No. In 1999, when I was concerned with fashion, I purchased those Buddy Holly Giorgio Armani frames in, I think it was a store called Specteca. My goodness.

Let's try again: Today at Lenox Mall.
The Bloom Dance thing was about what I expected it would be. What kept recurring,tho, as I looked around, I couldn't help but realize that I wouldn't normally find myself here.
It has been many years since I had any regular use for malls. Was this... artistic missionary work? Was it trying to deliver a message to those it felt needed to hear? Or was it simply booked there because they knew the trick would momentarily dazzle the herd, while presenting a safe friendly empty gesture? Or... do the organizers simply not "get it"?
The message claimed behind the performance, but not necessarily overt in the thing itself- seemed to think there were people to be reached and that their message would not only reach them,but be interpreted as they intended. It wanted to claim it was being confrontational to the materiality of the environment. It was not.(one of the dancers blatantly wore nike swooshers and theres even a publicity shot over on one of the other blogs prominently displaying the same shoe swoosh,huge and glowing-coincidence? we'll never know) In reality, it was very playful and seemed appropriate for the holiday weekend entertainment in the mall. (I am all ready seeing other write-ups and the self-fulfilling writing and creating of the myth of this silly ineffectual gesture--and id be supportive were the need for the reality of it not so desperate-)

This mall-is this a broad audience?A new platform? I'd say the platform,if one was attempted to be created-was overcome by the pre-existing expectations of the mall environment. There were a variety of types of people there, of course, but I challenge that a common denominator in the desire to be there at all blurs that variety and bonds them. If I wanted to be snarky and blithe-I'd say the adhesive relied mostly on work invested by television commercials and magazine covers .
Did this dance performance challenge? Did it bring something new and unexpected - or "foster an awareness of the richness and diversity of the city's creative culture"? I don't really feel like it did. It felt like it seemed as though it belonged there on some fundamental level. It had the attitude of importance in much the same way a girl in a clothing store would.

It is really unfortunate. I understand the intent and am supportive. I simply feel that, in order to actually culturally stir things up-art is going to have to reach into that deeper more confrontational reservoir. This age moves fast. It's collective memory has seen a great deal and requires more. Reaching into the reservoir that is more direct and unedited, realizing how pure the message needs to be. To actually make change, that is. To not be just some happy gesture. It not only has to say direct things it has to be direct about it....that seems so obvious.
The confrontation is a natural by-product of remaining focused on what needs to be done. Just as MLK would have realized, I suspect. Civil Disobedience comes to mind. The cultural state of this city is sedated and requires dissolving of existing cinder block thick bonding agents. Phony dividers fabricated from sick shallow materialistic senses of the self keep us apart. They connect us and keep us at arms length. Events like this actually reinforce this glue. Keeping us apart and capable of being herded..into malls.
Today in realtime shared space and the internet- utilize an awareness of the information traveling- on the very same wires,in the very same air used to share/create with, how it is shared with life itself-the art experience-the act of observing is so immediate,the effect is blended with the cause in an instant-exposed and raw. Unedited and powerful. Not simply a Happy Valentines Day surprise treat.

I did produce and fund my own mall art show, not too many posts back it was recorded. Displayed in the much more low-key or low-rent mall-North Dekalb Mall,the show lasted about 24 hours. I'm sure you all recall it..the one where Eggtooth channeled the spirit of the recently deceased King of Pop, Michael Jackson? And in doing so, found Michael's main wish was to use crayons,like a child, and draw doggies-like a child? Well, that's what Michael did. And I showed them (and gave them away by leaving them displayed) to visitors of North Dekalb Mall. Those were the days. Empty weird crude and naive gifts. Perhaps it fostered an awareness of the richness and diversity of the city's creative culture.
Today, at Lenox Mall, I watched mall patrons watch these dancers- a dance troupe whose name I forget- establish a central square point in the mall, string musician in chair with security guard,convenient to the Giant Starbucks Island-it was happenin'. The dancers worked their way outwards from here, about a dozen of them. Mostly female wearing what appeared to be deliberately sort of stylish-dingy black and white, they were reminiscent of mimes in moments. An accordianist followed,as did Louis Corrigan(founder of Flux and funding this event) with a child-like smile, as he giddily kept pace with his camera.
Mall patrons had the reaction one might expect. About half seemed oblivious, discussing happiness or concern in the purchase they found as they zipped through,maybe passing a quick curious glance and moving on. Others enjoyed mocking what they had just seen by displaying their version of the dance movements observed. I found myself watching reactions as much as the dancers themselves. Many seemed bemused and disengaged. Or on the verge of laughing. Some simply did laugh as they moved on. And yes some enjoyed it and took pictures with their phones. It made me wonder what it would be like were this not billed a big one-time special deal, but a usual part of our culture-a regular part of life. No need for selling it as this highly emotionally physically charged whatever, no need for blaring within the mall the expected gushing musical scores.
I saw one couple, a freaky rat's nest haired weirdo and her boyfriend in distressed expensive hipness with tatt sleeves. They were inspired to dance on their own as they exited the scene of the event. This amused other mall patrons just as much if not more than the Bloomers. Seeing that it had inspired others to dance was actually kind of nice. I sensed part of the desire was in the mockery,like talking back to a movie in a crowded theater, testing one's base comedic/charismatic sass-ability with strangers. It was a playing with the circumstance, a chance to express one's self in the most immediate convenient way.
But the thing itself. It is not what I think of when I think of the Flux Mission statement-which i will now post right here:

Flux Projects supports artists in creating innovative
temporary public art throughout Atlanta. The organization
produces new platforms for artistic experimentation that
engage a broad audience in their daily lives, beyond the
walls of traditional arts venues. We challenge artists to
make exceptional, surprising work that inspires Atlanta
and fosters an awareness of the richness and diversity
of the city's creative culture.

It hurts to read that because on a generalized level it is inspiring. I can tell they realize what they are dealing with in this particular city. The diagnosis is on-its just the treatment. it gave them what they wanted. or rather,simply didn't strive to mark deep enough. I cant help but feel the words "innocuous" and "congruent" somehow belong in the mission statement.
Going beyond the walls of traditional art venues-the appropriation of this idea by this organization: In much the same way that detournement is a part of the language of modern advertising, in as much as this idea of "lowbrow art" is no longer coming from a sub-culture or counter-culture. It's concern are still ultimately with playing the game right.

Did it foster an awareness of the richness and diversity of our city's creative culture? People seemed pretty accepting of its occurrence.I listened and even conversed with a few people about it. I saw and heard reactions. Some did seem curious about why-they saw others watching and wondered what they watched-but to go so far as to make a connection with anything beyond assuming a mall sponsored holiday event and into something, in theory bigger,like a city's creative culture...no. No way.
It is like in the movie poltergeist where we realize the headstones have been moved- but not the bodies. We look at headstones and deny that we know the bodies are not there. To do so is crude and snarky, I suppose. A vulgar inappropriate thing.

Why do we pretend the surface is all that is needed? Yes...digging up a body is (figuratively and literally)probably scary,dirty, ugly- work. Realizing how far we have to go back and within to confront fundamental truths about ourselves-and work forward from there. It doesn't require committees and permission, resulting in the compromise of six different feet dug, one foot spread across the surface in 6 places, going only so shallow and gestural. It digs straight down in one focused pure spot. Directly to the goal. By itself.
Which is what I intend to do. Dig my own grave. By myself. Screw all of this. It's useless.

Jess on the cover of a cd.

2010-02-10T20:24:00.000-08:00

i wrote too much and decided it was pointless and presumptuous.(like art?)

oh jeez.
i will take a swag,knowing full well this one has ancient and modern writing elaborate and beyond me ripping this topic inside n out---but yr words jess:"no one involved with any show ought to read any more into any review other than it being the documentation of one person’s experience."
to be honest,my whole sharing and hanging out comment had a double edge.was being sassy. in terms of cultural exploration (evolution?)(or the desire to command a dollar value)---oh oof.where's ciliberto, i hear him around the corner)--this whole presumption about bringing into public to show to others anything has an expectation. it has the idea of expectation...not seeking to define that specifically,just drawing attention to the desire to make marks. to prognosticate or be relevant to now.indicate awareness and building from there. that desire's existence is undeniable... Reasons are endless...but the very act of taking it into public-or environments that suggest "this is a place/place comes to this/you are now/now you are- art and/or experiencing ART".
for instance, i try (and fail)-because i care about the individual and not the artist they are?) to consistently measure an expectation from art in atlanta against this idea stemming from what i def. know is my intentions. the individuality in it goes for navel-gazing oblivious rotten self-absorbed broke- and why shldnt it? if im going to do it-do it.curiously, its source is to try to actually realize there's nothing to lose and it's because i care about... everyone..the "doing it for yrself" thing is like saying something cheesy like falling in love happens when someone sees you as you see yrself..(wipes vomit from side of face here)
/not like i have an obligation to an expectation tied to trad expectations of clean editing and nice frames and non-reflective glass/ coherent/ cohesive 3fbiwerfgberigrei..do i? do i? not like i write for the loaf or ajc or some by-product of it trying to adapt to the times- this desire to be concerned about the business aspect of art,quite frankly. it's art first. how pure can that be? am i malleable and definable by the direction of the wind...blurred edges to the point of not existing. id hope my "agenda" was generalized by not to the point of not existing-but also not hyperspecific..im more interested in how themes are handled, i guess.

both idealism and our track record reflect a need for an address of art on its core terms. meaning-stripped bare and fuzzy and bright,pungent...speaking of pungent,heres a good example of something but i dont know what: old whatshisface over at solomon projects: okay-i confess to the work not engaging me in the slightest.id go so far as to say it bored me and even made me chuckle as i at once deeply respect when a postcard sized architectural doodle titled, i believe it was "barn" and has a context that escapes me, and requests what i consider an odd value in order to own it physically. but i sense a goodness to it...i cld research (curious how research itself is that act of becoming something you presently arentz) ...malevich,suprematism,case study houses.eames favorite chair i dunno the jongno tower or cctv -it still prolly wldnt engage me. but ya know ...my gut still tells me something important was in there somewhere...and it could have been brought to light for good reason.

and it wld be asking people involved to read more into it than they are(if they arent)

isnt part of sharing/creating putting ourselves exposed to situations and experiences alien to us?

i wanna research whittington. i guess. boy does kibbee stink,tho.crikey..they consistently make me feel like im covered in aspartame)
hey yall that r still reading...in the willingness to just..do this here now is my hand i show.(hi jess.) theres art to even this phase/being as an individual in public, meeting... ahem-friends who also make art, too. knowing how to harmonize/make dynamic-leave in or out,manipulate and use others by pretending to be oh so risky when in reality yr careful and.., oh did i say that out loud? (and yeah uh huuh..riiiight...the word COOL no longer exists. or genius. or TALENT. or uugh. funny how much i hate politics and yet i really love/obsess it on a removed spectator abstract level-- oh another word: Valuable....i mean, we care and share and hang out with others...the ends justify the means and dammit..what are those ends again? lies tellin' truths anyways,right?important work positioned with importance by someone- whose word is... respected?-not this "might interest you". life before art.. it has to be.
but atl--yes...i wanna see stuff that is so raw its like a zit in yr armpit, popped and photographed -taken under one of those lights in a department store dressing room.at lenox.on a bloated pale day. more bloated and pale than usual, while holding a picture of yr first pet. gross. i was going for a description of immediate genuine honesty.

sorry- i was just hangin out sharing. i dont trust anyone- especially myself. but its fun to halt all the whirling internal chambers every now and then and fire passionately and as hard as i can.recall doing it 2wice from random angles on a whitespace show..beauty of the internet..love effing with its (my sense of self i mean) boundaries on a bare bones blunt instrument level.
love escaping from daily grind. using intuition ...and learn stuff that i cant- and in falling short create something.

2010-02-10T02:58:00.000-08:00

eye ed thing

2010-02-05T22:50:00.000-08:00

Friday, February 5, 2010

AYED HALLIM and other stories

Charged spiritual particles so subtle. Imagine elaborate narratives sung by a choir of albino castrato,the metal gristle dangles and jingles in some alien history book. They wear these items one might imagine. Masks and silver louvres for trapping gasoline fumes. Gills and tails wiggle,made of aluminum and bone. A culture vulgar and pure and ridiculous. These objects are actually from our own. Made real and quietly asking nothing now. It is here on earth, like a rotting spore-ridden black and white archive, spread sheet-thin over a tattooed sacrificial alter-it is wrapped in itself and its history. Brought to now for display.
Using randomly chosen symbols or gifts of chance, letters chosen by higher powers, they are designed and found together by a channel. A body with an openness to bringing both new meaning and revitalizing a golem's wish for the old. Old meanings are often reinforced by realizations, usually circling back to a fear of death. Bound to this earth through sarcasm and wisdom,research becomes a weakness. Just listening to the self is the path. Intuition deadheads an auto mechanic's morphed perversions, and curves fluid feelings through their abandoned usefulness. Made new and rediscovered. They never left us, only took on new faces. New ways of becoming. New ways of being worshipped.
Made of rusty flesh, the evening's kiss is delicious and ripe with found and lost moments. To the lecherous underworld and its pantheon of textual flavors,they (being Ayed's ingredients) couldn't and don't try to hold the waning candle's maudlin subtext. They hold their own. They blindly grab seven letter words (like quixotic)-thats 8-okay- in one go. They smile and live.
The deliberation of this man's perambulations and fingered gravel gatherings is washed up with beautiful everyday ossification's-Ayed Hallim-his exacting tendencies examine the spiritual and the new truth in metals exposed to elements. Structures razed and nurtured at once, they deteriorate and become parts for analysis. Parts of a pattern. Parts of man-made engineering, freed and undead from a fertile disease related to the act of breathing and praying. A healthy rejuvenation serves as a beacon to specify reason.
This almost is not art. It is more of a museum of relics. Stories fabricated to mimic either lies that soldify or completely make gooey and edible an honest connection to why we're here and where we go after we die. It is about the charade and the persona,the gestalt or the thermodynamics of sharing creation.
Scattered fragments of charged energy are collected at Eyedrum in the small gallery. Remnants of another's past, imbibed with lilting and flowering memories, layered by a delicate and strange brain. Ayed Hallim is a menagerie. Within his kingdom is a reversal of organic milking wealth. A raised goblet or chalice (or book written by that discworld guy) overflowing with lightweight fonts, loaded with detached meaning. Recontextualized and silent, the parts have age and intrigue.
Under a glass case and scattered all about, thoughts and secrets are like disembodied puppy noses.
Danielle Roney observed (this isn't a quote) in conversation one time, on a night as un-rainy as this one, "flat readings" of art have a certain i dont know what. Research and conversation with artists are lodestones of ubiquitous tectonic layering(my words).
All consuming and more involved as conversations develop, going into history, the inclusion of the found object and the collage behaviour of awareness, it is set inside of intentions. It gives words to themselves and back to us. We piece them together. Singing metal gives everybody from Hephaestus to the Rougarou a lesson in the origin of the tango. History supports certain thoughts. Washed up brake pads vaguely connected by the softer semi-circular recyclable and generative bone developing crumb trail. Red plastic chokers,mothers of new iron teats to trod upon and ponder.
We keep digging into artists' skulls and into local art blogs for boredom and for pleasure. We find ourselves caught in an unproductive cycle of having to nod to what is wrong. The fundamental approach sees direct paths to honesty and denies it as a medium for either being art or reporting art. Or both. We compartmentalize and age and replace dysfunction with gestures. The coils that once carried oils,the gears that once operated like bumble bee wings in another ecology, they scatter and become lost and singular entities. Hallim's pieces have meaning that expand if held or isolated. with consideration-not closed off minds. Interact with its history, its forgotten community. Imagine how it functioned as a mark within a bigger piece.
Often meaning reflects against nothing and wilts. Meetings form to examine the parts with smiles, manufacturing ridiculous frankengetrudestein-ian dolls- that fall apart as they perform perfectly. The system can only continue, as it means well..and in being so avoids the criticism it needs. The new vantage made real by an artist's hands.
Fear is in how far back in intent one must go to examine and start over. Parts placed together, reassembled and crying out, they show their experience with their textured amber patina. The search for signs of ourselves in relation to others only stares at itself.
For meaning, the shortest distance between two points is in honesty, regardless of its wisdom. Unaware and taken and made perfect in an awkward dynamics that grows with time. Keep working under deadlines until yr dead and have bypassed meaning in places where it was offered. Parts rust and fall off to be found by another. Perhaps a month from now or twenty years-it would be just as refreshed and throbbing. The ends do not justify the means.
The hope is in what freak finds the parts and if he can get past that dorky watchful eye of the machine.
The Gods of Ayed Hallim's world: Note the sound reverberating within. Release an individual moment and approach with a specific vision.Tiresias bleeds mercury as the caution attended to this rebuilt orchestra. The markings sing,sometimes in a rough guttural voice. It plays when you are not looking and serves as a conduit for the act of assemblage and examination. However time shifts and regurgitates,we come back. In some cases by the deliberate will of one of our own. Ayed Halim isn't legion. He is not a shaman. A mystery of an idea, a front made of realisms for connection between the man behind it and those before him.

Ayed Hallim's Instrumentalities is on display at Eyedrum through February 21st

NEOTENY.

2010-01-23T09:04:00.000-08:00

bottom: features print cut-out image of heidi aishman's osama makeover 2008
top: features print cut-out image of sam gilliam's atlanta 2003

A transparent child's foot in the sand makes an arc. Blurring hats and beginnings-a true piece of creation never complete,parts of on-going liminal strivings,between sound's lexicality and the visual in language...the regression into a state of being that continues to un-learn.oppositional defiance or lack of attention span,on purpose for so long that 2nd nature,just like art...in this here & now,a series of fractional lattice structures ever-shifting, referencing the self for a hope to be pure,not a lie,not a representation or reaction,not even really about sharing so much as feeling a wholeness that sees everything at once....creating from this place adapts to surface level characteristics,evaluating and admiring different ways artists have handled this quandary in the past...

CHRISTIAN BOK youtubes ive stored here.

2010-01-23T08:45:00.001-08:00

jib kidder underh2o atl skyline lapse time

2010-01-19T17:07:00.001-08:00

Poem: Divisional Mixtures (and the versus) Graft-Up Fluxta

2010-01-16T19:22:00.001-08:00

"farrah" @ Atl Contemporary
Baconator ferry dune flagalia photograph for what's that fashionista.
Sincerity says things with hedged and carved perspectives. Layered,then cut,a planar saw-then a rip screeches across the moment,rendering visible the sound,built up layers of stained transparencies and accelerated aging,the shape manifested across those details that don't normally mix. Not memories. Not a representation of the fractional landing sights of sensory input or depth perception dilemmas,unrelated to the wall one might walk up to and ,unrelated to the glass door before it,the street leading up to this place. The mother's hand with the spoon and the thrown toy on the red shag rug.

kombo chapfika's burqa at beepbeep: there was another that was rather intricate and representing essentially the same awareness of techniques and swatches of art languages- (easily found samples/references on request.) his handling in skill is natural and worthy of a look on that level,but not beyond that. The "startling" contrast of flat superbreakout rectangle cheese angled colors, against a textured ground,intersections of not only processes that reverb,but of compartmentalized associations-forcing a sort of odd dynamic on a couple levels. His works pretty well. I've seen more successful applications of this recipe,but i think the beauty in this is the randomness is so highly personalized it really is fun to see what happens when different artists give it a mashed-up patched jab.

....Symptoms recur,this self-referential style of live sampling in the moment,referencing a choice whose origin is in down-playing,in humility or forced apathy,it determines a location assigned,a station that remains perfectly relative. It interrupts itself with other masks. Incongruently forcing the experience into a question of that act in itself. What it is worth.
Is the goal about evolution? (Is there a goal).....

Mannerisms inconsistent with over-analysis(almost validating "analyization" as a word) succumbs to something less rigorous and much more affluent in path-isms. Standard romantics have less than qualifiable needs when it is rated in terms of art. Somber,yes. Lacking,no. The basements of icebergs as an analogy becomes self-aware, re-covered in graffiti. Passages back to the mountains. Sarcasm runs jagged fingernails over half-studied lessons. The intuitive or instinctive or the half-asleep decision making process. "Cyclonopedia: Complicity w/anonymous materials by the by the Reza Negarestani stored here for future reference. Excellent.
The Contemporary Center for Art in Atlanta's latest mergers & acquisitions show today. King Congregation the other night. Traffic lights and sharp pains in necks and backs. Coffee lessons. Missed poetry readings.

Nothing much to say about that place I will never deliberately go to again. Unfortunate gathering of bodies crammed together,as if misplanted from buckhead-avoiding that thought of monday having fun starting the evening with an idea, a thing to say you did. Law of diminishing returns doesn't apply because the goal is being achieved. I ignore myself. I didnt buy the frame for a face. i did buy a grady haugerud if that aint funny.

Micah Stansell video was like a giant fancy Sears commerical for last autumn's modish colours...if you know what i mean. The shot of Atlanta with the Westin as an almost centered division,its little black squares bespeckled its length, a reminder of a tornado that came thru downtown Atlanta. Division of orientations brought to question. Whose side do you prefer to gaze on? Where and why do you recall what you recall...the vehicles in the driveway and that day at the park. I wasn't enthralled and felt a sinking sad feeling. This person spent a pretty penny probably. probably quite sincere in her expression. perhaps commanding a necessary air to its quality and deserved measure,its vantage filters the space between it and eyes,disguising any desires to acknowledge
the atrophy and bedsores.

Just generally ambivalent .

conor harrington

2009-12-25T19:24:00.000-08:00

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

-cribes.

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.

2009-12-21T16:50:00.000-08:00

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 v ly 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.

eggtooth

December 21, 2009 at 5:35 pm

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.

Greg Hopkins, Hilary Pecis...

2009-12-20T11:24:00.000-08:00

The Eye Him Hates He Eye Are His Pee Hey Are Tea Why
2008
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.
bill,
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 Gabbiani...no, Katie Herzog.

2009-12-20T07:53:00.001-08:00

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

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.

an Internet view on: Whitney Biennial Choice : Lesley Vance

2009-12-19T07:34:00.000-08:00

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.

Remedy for Insomnia. (try to read this)

2009-12-16T20:01:00.000-08:00

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
be
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.

2009-12-16T18:19:00.001-08:00

found: Archive of Paintball Experience

2009-12-14T17:09:00.000-08:00

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 is...is the activity hinterland?paintball? i dont think specifically..no. 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.

2009-12-13T09:30:00.001-08:00

2009-12-13T09:15:00.001-08:00

2009-12-13T09:13:00.001-08:00

2009-12-13T09:12:00.001-08:00

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=pIOFHZz2WhY&NR=1

2009-12-13T09:11:00.001-08:00

2009-12-13T09:09:00.000-08:00

2009-12-13T09:08:00.001-08:00

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1dIfFhPSnWQ

MINT :the pot the coffee the porn

2009-12-13T07:23:00.000-08:00

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 range....no 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 all...is 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 is.it 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 way...as 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

2009-10-18T17:12:00.000-07:00

Possum traction- acai, like cold climb it.

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

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.

HOBO ZOMBIE (the new bitterness)

2009-10-17T07:45:00.000-07:00

In toady's immediate surroundings,the report to the self-the distance required is unavoidable. It attaches attachments and sends them..a oneness, an isolation..like 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.

egalitarian

2009-10-03T11:57:00.001-07:00

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.

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

2009-10-03T11:30:00.000-07:00

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.

SOLOMON WHO?

2009-09-24T18:31:00.000-07:00

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

I HATE ART i love people

2009-09-19T08:43:00.000-07:00

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.

2009-09-19T08:33:00.001-07:00

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 now..how?
by the future.
by lore that reached generations later of what happened now...travelled still by the flesh
not instant wires.

Sojourner Worthington

2009-09-15T17:04:00.001-07:00

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.
Blech.

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
squit.

2009-09-14T16:46:00.000-07:00

WHERE PEOPLE OF TASTE

expectations.

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 guys...show.
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.

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

2009-09-12T13:45:00.000-07:00

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.
(apathy.)
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 line...in 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
importance.

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
anything
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
art.

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.

THIS IS A SPECIAL HUGE POST.

2009-08-27T15:20:00.000-07:00

This wraps around.or hugs the tree

the tree.

WHITESPACE

2009-08-22T12:20:00.000-07:00

AND ANOTHER THING.

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 anymore..it 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

Ignorance.

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 ...life. as it recreates itself. the process is.

uuugh.

really

...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.

2009-08-09T04:49:00.000-07:00

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

OCEAN GRAVE WALKING OLD MAN COLLAGE THING

2009-08-06T18:14:00.000-07:00

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.

2009-08-05T19:12:00.000-07:00

overture:
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...
emancipate.
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.
nevermind.)

STRANGE MAIDENHEAD (chapter sumthin)

2009-08-05T14:55:00.000-07:00

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:
brandiwells@gmail.com
heres the blog:

http://brandiwellsreview.blogspot.com/

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.

CLOUDS: fun messing with them while forgetting poetry and art crap

2009-08-04T17:50:00.000-07:00

2009-08-03T19:05:00.000-07:00

LAMP PANTERS SCRAMMING CANTER DECANTER CANDLES MAXIMUM OVERDRIVE BUDDY.. PLUSH ENOUGH FOR ASIAN STUFFING. A GUT MUNCH HUNG GRANDE PLOP WANTON FLARMILISM SALIVA SCRATCHES/ RAKED TEETH CHASE MANHATTAN
MOON BOOB THE TULIP SOONER THAN YO THINK THE SCREEN BURNS OWL MOP LOBSTER SILENCE PYROMANIACS AND WEIRD CREEPY RAT NOISES. LUNG MORPH DISTORTED LORD OF THE OCEAN WALKER. SICK WAY SUCK YARN AND MOPED LOTION. SOUR MANDIBLES. DOOR JELLY MYSTIC CRAMMING TEST HOT LICKS FOR FEMALE GUITARISTS. WARM TEPID COLD LIVID. ANGEL ALIEN CARDBOARD BOX.

2009-08-03T18:46:00.000-07:00

creaky boards:
listing leaking importance and recedes into
a stupid deep. missed. missed,cringe.
i dont know why i do this.
im thinking maybe.
just maybe.
this is it.
hopefully.
laughter laughter laughter.
"quint?"
....no.

MOUSE CLUTCHING

2009-08-02T13:10:00.000-07:00

bomb bee zorro story boring
butt lamping hip stiffness

2009-08-02T12:20:00.000-07:00

blanket apple and zowie.
transient deep passion is nomadic graffiti sloppy toy boy noise with good intentions.
well red pair ants.
bytes
with addicts
space for heating and eating. and drinking.
on lines of dreams and time.talents
and hawks up claws for rent.or enter his thing.
word bombs melt friends. catch rows of emotive dents.
rodents.
moaning moaning moaning. it's a bitch mans world.
make your bed to sleep init.
make you r bed to sleep in it
makeyou rbedt os leep ini t
ma ke ourbed tosle ep init.
m ake you r bed to sleepinit
mak eyou rbedt os leep init
repeat.
you get it.
whats the point.
are you in it?
into it?
or wut? what the fuck ever selfish tiny tyrant sharing tangent
me me me you me me me
who you who you who you
you you
i dont know i dont care i read about this i read about that
work or be
be or work
im a work or be
perfection of a felt completeness
i seek
dont cover me tag
burn me graf art
for internet territories
for internet communities
i like my fat balding zit covered skin.

lazy white bread for teeth to rot and break.
poor me wanted thought i deserved it.
walking fast smiles alone
alone.
eventually shares

more blundering

2009-08-02T11:43:00.000-07:00

tell us what you remember. the soul. skin. wrath machine sound and distant happy carnival music. chanting ominous thunder hisses a switchblade. the dog barks and the swish of a broom. bells jingle and a lady sings.
silence like a river with leaves landing. fingers on torn jeans. disease called age. timer ticks. reboot the jiggling powder of wisdom. from beyond space ,an alien with tentacles mutters not another word.
blundering hurt. my people. idealist misunderstanding. one man.
grunting chickens the delicious sweat inside a straw hat. friends and politics. rich americans.
laughter and glass restaurant clinks. you've come to the right place spider.
admit the flinch,the significance within and without a sense of what of what of grunting.the real text of sex would be what. a baby screams. okay. lets see, i have something prepared.
space fuel burns the moon's shadow and scuttle claws veins clambor for denial of invading metal monsters. a crunch of marshmallow suits and flappless flags.
a zipper of a brief case made for flowers and mosquito nets. be very careful,no second chance. how do we know it works. a beautiful scientist nods and touches.
another whirled. the anotated woods of blue diagram crackers, tanned and blathering. traffic bastard files and angels with drums. a morning porcupine clears its throat. off somewhere in the distance a keyboard clicks and clacks. a crutch and a missing leg. war torn country up hill inside the mountain for there will be pus.
black holes and cumberbunds urge in the midsection for launch. traded thick bubbles in infinity, for electrodes in the deepest parts. for lack of atmosphere.
more blundering close-ups of big snakes and teenage pre-shaved after mastic tears and veneers of head crushing boulders. the ocean again. it stumbles in a perspective that seems singular.

2009-08-02T10:55:00.000-07:00

today i woke up with dreams of beheading friends.
a white building with pills eclipsed the horizon.
shadows of empty figures in perfect unison,chanting, following me...sucking the gas from my tank.
my brakes went out on a grassy hill. a trigger or a light switch attached to
a spinal cord swung from the sun,thru clouds
and slapped me on the cheek.

i grabbed at its slime and questionable strength and began to climb.
issues of art magazines and peoples parents on clouds filling out subscriptions. prescriptions. passion and concern. a routine expectation laced with morning coffee and work orders.
followers for the friday
the downturn in the movement of money.
my trunk is empty, a turnkey relay of systematic automatons-like a glob of focus.
Is focus actually an emptiness.
a singularity, a culling and a bottle neck gestation. Walking on water with floating feces. same difference.
burnt swinging arms off of screen prints from germany or los angeles. atlanta. the word atlanta seems to have a film over it of closeness,of expectation and predisposition.
i see the retaining walls
the supposed sound barriers of the interstates,hiding backyards of homes but only slightly.
voices connected to bodies and bodies connected to thoughts,either manifested sexually or as friends touching the same dinner table or as an idea. as a community.
objects. with joints and likings for animals. north american health and fame. houses rotting,built by foreign hands.
fresh.
painted by cheap curb side desperation. appreciation lingers and attacks pick up trucks with pick up lines. cat calls for territories.

a colorful purity to imitation of life. art and internet. internet will fully flesh out the reverberation of wires to beyond images and sounds. to more. as art is and only responds to life, as it always has...the two share a reality
in the mundane.
the my-ness,the faceless you-ness of alone time to share as friends or for recognition. for who you are.for the negative space that defines you.that you seek to define. with response. comments. feedback. money.
to real time. to

clouds.