Thursday, December 23, 2010

The world out side and the pictures in our heads

The bourgeoisie cannot exist without constantly revolutionizing the instruments of production, and thereby the relations of production, and with them the whole relations of society. Conservation of the old modes of production in unaltered form, was, on the contrary, the first condition of existence for all earlier industrial classes. Constant revolutionizing of production, uninterrupted disturbance of all social conditions, everlasting uncertainty and agitation distinguish the bourgeois epoch from all earlier ones. All fixed, fast frozen relations, with their train of ancient and venerable prejudices and opinions, are swept away, all new-formed ones become antiquated before they can ossify. All that is solid melts into air, all that is holy is profaned, and man is at last compelled to face with sober senses his real condition of life and his relations with his kind.

Monday, December 13, 2010

Books, Letters, Notes, Diaries, Photos, Postcards, Magazines, Paper

“ I am interested in the archive…just not necessarily in its preservation.”

Before the beginning of the investigation into falsified arrests and mistreatment of criminal suspects, the agents of the law had to undergo an investigation themselves. These inquiries were documented in the Mind of the Accuser. This four- volume narrative of the lives of individuals from all parts of the criminal enforcement system represents the first attempt to portray the psychological and emotional lives of men and women during

1. Abigail Solomon-Godeau, Photography After Art Photography, in: Brian Wallis and Marcia Thucker (eds.), Art After Modernism; Rethinking Representation, New York 1984, pp.75-85, p.80: "That photography should figure as a crucial term in postmodernism seems both logical and (at least retrospectively) inevitable. Virtually every critical and theoretical issue with which postmodernist art may be said to engage in one sense or another can be located within photography. Issues to do with authorship, subjectivity, and uniqueness are built into the very nature of the photographic process itself; issues devolving on the simulacrum, the stereotype, and the social and sexual positioning of the viewing are central to the production and functioning of advertising and other mass-media of photography".
2. William J. Mitchell, The Reconfigured Eye: Visual Truth in the Post-Photographic Era, Cambridge 1994, 3-20.
3. Clare Ansberry, Alterations of Photo Raise Host of Legal, Ethical Issues, in: The Wall Street Journal, January 26, 1989, B1.
4. Cf. L. Hooper, The revolution is them: the shock troops of Digital Hollywood, in: Premiere, january 1996, pp. 95-104.
5. Mitchell, O.C., pp.31-37.

The abuse of the epithet "situationist" and of the meaningless term "situationism" is due to the emphasis given the Debord's analysis of the spectacle; savoir vivre, subversion of everyday life, psychogeography and Unitary Urbanism - in a word, the whole range of immediate and practical kinds of actions the Situationists suggested - were taken in little consideration. Thus "situationist" was doomed to become an uniformative term; cultural reporters then decided to attach it to whatever personage or artistic movement whose expressions were nihilistic enough to be considered "estreme" and spectacular enough to allow for second-class mass-mediology. Thus, the TV schedule of Italia Uno - decided by Carlo Freccero - was "situationist", as well as Striscia la Notizia and TV-truth on Guglielmi's Raitre "situationist" is whatever text written in a schizo-epigrammatic style, and so on. Most of these 'wild labellers' hardly knows The Society of the Spectacle and, taking it as a Talmud of radical critique (although it rather looks like a bunch of clues for crosswords) pretends to be inferring anything from it. "Situationist" has become a passe-partout opening all the doors, from that of a badly-chewed dadaism, to that of an easy-minded technological millenarianism. In a nihilistic world, whatever is real, is "situationist".
After all, wasn't Debord himself the one who changed his reputation in that of a spiteful Cassandra? Wasn't his own attitude to allow his best known essay to be taken as a Talmud? Isn't it true that , two

years ago, in order to explain the fall of so-called 'socialism' in Eastern Europe, he didn't do much more than recycling two laconic theses on bureaucracy, written 1/4 of century earlier and previously enclosed in the above mentioned book? During the last decade of his life, The Bore had endlessly tried to give his dramatis persona a place in the historical context; like the prisoners in Kafka's short story, "In the Penal Colony", he stepped into a machinery carving on his body not only his writings (Considerations sur l'assassinat de Gérard Lebovici, Panegyrique, Commentaires sur la societè du spectacle, Cette mauvaise réputation...) but also the Law. In his case, the Law was the Right Interpretation, against slander and passive contemplation of the historical experience of the SI, and finally against pro-situ misleading information. The ceaseless hypertextual

The strike of the cameramen was felt by some as the last moment when art and commerce could effectively communicate. Both sides of the debate were heard daily in the popular press. Each time an issue was raised which seemed to be the most divisive, leaders from the opposition fought hard to ameliorate the situation

"the difficulty of principle is that there is no unity of occurrence: fixed form, identifiable theme, determinable elements as such. Only anthemes, scattered throughout, gathered up everywhere. If, for example, the machine only selected words or themes, it could draw them all into a net of three, three and a half pages:" (208bi)

The act of transgression involved in such acts as theft, lying or, worse, sheer writing, comes down to the breaking of codes. The unraveling of strands of historical tissue which bind the shared modes of act and feeling to an impulse of willful abandon. Quickly grabbing hold of two or more pieces of paper from the shelf and tucking them into the folds of the worn valise, he left the room in a hurry…

Sunday, December 12, 2010

Sunday, December 5, 2010

Monday, November 29, 2010

Friday, November 26, 2010

Notes on Painting (and death)

Even the carcass can have dignity. When represented as Death the deadly image gains new life. Which form does it take? Unlike taking a picture the act of painting conceals its true interest. Pay attention to the frame.

Tuesday, November 23, 2010

Saturday, November 13, 2010

Friday, November 12, 2010

Black and Orange

First the black was not dark enough. There was a grayish brown patch over the book that would not fill in and made the background dull and uneven. The technician claimed that the image was flawed on the file but no evidence of irregularity could be discerned when displayed on the monitor. Later, by telephone, comparisons were made between the printed result and the original image. Fortunately the enlargement of the image did not destroy the sharpness of the writing. The title of the book, its author and publisher had not been degraded by expansion of the visual field. The important small details of the object captured by photographic processes such as the wrinkles and tiny tears and folds along the top edge of the paper cover of the book had been perfectly rendered by the printing. Two impressions resulted. Considerations of placement and color followed. One way to overcome the problem of the disfiguring ghost image above the book was to reduce the size of the black background in order to mitigate its effect. The issue of the subject itself brackets the question of primacy regarding background and foreground. The bright orange book floats on the velvety black depth holding and supporting it. The darkness enveloping the surface of the orange rectangle is without limit, without place and void of substance. This is the “melancholy”[i] of light—its absence. The remainder of the grieving process. A bitter tasting color left to cover the places where no residue remains. Bereft and fallen, the figure in the middle remains silent and still—motionless under the cover of an artificial night and hoping not to be noticed as passersby follow. The imperfections along the edge create an entry into the narrative of progress and discovery. False cover block passage into the darker territories of the story. The language of the list points to an unfinished sequence. This is like those songs you love so much. Do you remember the lyrics or the melody first? How prominent are the physical surroundings in this conception of song? Block out the interference from the background noise and concentrate on the sharp focus of song and speech. Attempts to undermine the safe marriage of each constitutive element along the fabric of experience originate in the position that each po[nt along the fold can only be made equal once an absolute measure of total effect has been attained. Sheer, barren language staring in the face of an utterly unsympathetic future. These are sad songs, sung only in memorial. The final entombment of unharmonious fictions of the last impressions of memory. This iteration is like the ending. Devouring the final shred of information in order to obliterate the last associations with place. When passing the location in fantasy, a story of completeness is projected onto the train of narration. Holding this edge against a figure of the end, the frame slips away making the fit difficult. The break is slight, like a dislocation of the limb—the logic of the end not meeting the middle. Inside—a tumult, disorder a cacophony of voices breaking through, in fragments. Something held open, door left ajar.

[i]Jacques Attali, Noise: The Political Economy of Music, trans, Brian Massumi, (Minneapolis: The University of Minnesota Press, 1985), p. 27:} In its biological reality, noise is a source of pain. Beyond a certain limit, it becomes an immaterial weapon of death. The ear, which transforms sound signals into electric impulses addressed to the brain, can be damaged, and even destroyed, when the frequency of a sound exceeds 20,000 hertz, or when its intensity exceeds 80 decibels. Diminished intellectual capacity, accelerated respiration and heartbeat, hypertension, slowed digestion, neurosis, altered diction: these are the consequences of excessive sound in the environment. A weapon of death. It became that with the advent of industrial technology. But just as death is nothing more than an excess of life, noise has always been perceived as a source of exaltation, a kind of therapeutic drug capable of curing tarantula bites or, according to Boissier de Sauvages (in his Nosologica methodical, "fourteen forms of melancholy.”

Tuesday, November 9, 2010

Sunday, November 7, 2010

Grid Life 2010

What can be the model for architecture when the essence of what was effective in the classical model -- the presumed rational value of structures, representations, methodologies of origin and ends and deductive processes -- have been shown to be delusory?
What is being proposed is an expansion beyond the limitation presented by the classical model to the realization of architecture as an independent discourse, free from external values -- classical or any other; that is, the intersection of the meaning- free, the arbitrary, and the timeless in the artificial.
Peter Eisenman, "The End of the Classical,"
Perspecta 21, (1984):166

Grids are inherently irrational. There is too much extra information, too many things attached to them. They carry the weight of logic, the burden of plain sense. This burden is too heavy to handle. The logic collapses under its own highly “rationalist”[1] position. Nothing can be quite as clear, quite as straightforward as grids are thought to be. They are linked chiasmatically with logic and rationality in an unstable relation that cannot be maintained. Arranged without differentiation, the grid attempts to eliminate decision-making. It is anti-compositional, anti-hierarchical. Each element is considered as equal. Equality implied by the grid extends into aspects of social relations. Material is presented rather than “composed.”[2] Once the grid is adopted, decisions have been eliminated. A polemic of rigorous flattening is initiated directed against High Romantic conceptions of “inspiration” and “personal vision” which presents a façade of coolness and restraint. The grid’s straight lines and logical, purposeful arrangement is easily understood, like a map. The only difficult aspect to understand is why choose a grid? What stands behind the decision to choose not to decide? : To abrogate responsibility for choice in favor of conceptual rigor. The pretense of disinterestedness is difficult to maintain. Entry into a grid is arbitrary. Beginnings and endings become irrelevant on the flat surface of straight lines intersecting at right angles. Narrative does not work in a grid structure. Grid world presents sequence and seriality instead, pattern and repetition of event. There cannot be an irregular grid. The contradiction involved in focusing exclusively on one system is a result of the tension between variation and repetition. Revolution, rotation and negation of stasis in the form of a regimented order of event and sequence drain the frame of meaning. The grid is a furious rage for control but the fury is a replica of denial. The structure holds and hides the plan for ordered living and clear actions. Intention can be determined by the adoption of the need to dominate. The grid covers control of emotion and expressive feeling. Emotionally, grids relieve the anxiety of surprise from our set of expectations. Constant, perpetual recurrence calms the viewer. The regularity of reoccurrence soothes worn nerves. Grids are not a pattern. Decorative character and repetition for the sake of motif are not part of the ideology of the grid. Grids do not spread endlessly—there is a finite limit to the breadth and scope of the structuring system. But limits can be transgressed, and all structures collapse under the weight of their own making. Because my grid is different from your grid, we will have to find a common language to compare our experiences. Leave it to the future to generate a grammar without imbedded assumptions about the real world and its inhabitants. Pure monotony of experience results from the repetition of a language generated by words twisted together to form straight sentences flowing from a frame of reference not referred to by other lodgers in the prison cages of structuring agents held together by the logic of speaking.
“ Moreover concepts of coordinates and horizontal-vertical relationships
are only learned by the age of eight or nine. Such systems, Piaget insists, are extremely complicated and unnecessary in the child’s early methods of orientation. So when Mondrian reduced the structure of the external world to a system of horizontal and vertical black lines, he was not reducing perception to its essential limits but rather to its most compatible form vis-à-vis the format of the picture plane.”[3] Plain facts such as those possessed by the designers of the frame of reference first encountered at readings of the margins of textuality form the basis of the evidence used to corroborate the story of the disappearing locus of truth. Previous attempts to imbue the grid with a reputation for reliable information-giving have failed. Replacement of the frame with expansion of the plane sounds arbitrary and flawed to those who came to witness the speaking of the truth. "Alas, I fear we still believe in God because we still believe in grammar" Interpretation of grid structures stops at the door frame of the picture plane which stands before the viewer calling for belief in an invariable system. This system will betray the viewer, raising the dead from oblivion; breaking the structure’s system into infinitesimal units and recalling each detail of its forgotten history.
[1] “There are, of course, some ‘elements’ of this rationality which, in the abstract, are transhistorical: 2+2=4 is undoubtedly valid in every society.” Philosophy, Politics, Autonomy: Essays in Political Philosophy Cornelius Catoriadis (Oxford, 1991), p.67.
[2] , “Composed upon Westminster Bridge, Sept. 3, 1802” William Wordsworth, Selected Poems and Prefaces by William Wordsworth (Oxford, 1965), p. 170.
[3] Jack Burham, The Structure of Art (New York, 1973), p. 31.

Saturday, November 6, 2010

Thursday, November 4, 2010

Friday, October 29, 2010

Palm Reading

Varnish and rust, flesh followed by speech of ghosts

Almonds ground into a paste.

Gold leaves

When cracks in my surface fade.

Murilllo mention of mold

On another list.

Tuesday, October 26, 2010

Monday, October 25, 2010








Sunday, October 24, 2010



“Facts, not schoolbook history, not Mr. Wells's history, but history nevertheless.” He leaned forward. “The archives of the Order from the twelfth century on are still at Malta. They are not intact, but what is there holds no less than three”-he held up three fingers-' references that can t be to anything else but this jew. eled falcon. In J. Delaville Le Roulx's Les Archives de l'Ordre de Saint-Jean there is a reference to it-oblique to be sure, but a reference still. And the unpublished-because unfinished at the time of his death - supplement to Paoli's Dell' origine ed institute del sacro militar ordine has a clear and unmistakable statement of the facts I am telling you.”
“'All right,” Spade said.
“All right, sir. Grand Master Villiers de l'Isle d'Adam had this foot-higli jeweled bird made by Turkish slaves in the castle of St. Angelo and sent it to Charles, who was in Spain. He sent it in a galley commanded by a French knight named Cormier or Corvere, a member of the Order.”' His voice dropped to a whisper again. “It never reached Spain.” He smiled with compressed lips and asked: “You know of Barbarossa, Redbeard, Khair-ed-Din9 No? A famous admiral of buccaneers sailing out of Algiers then. Well,, sir, he took the Knights' galley and he took the bird. The bird went to Algiers. That”s a fact. That's a fact that the French historian Pierre Dan put in one of his letters from Algiers….”

— Dashiell Hammet, The Maltese Falcon

From the vantage point
of the banks of Golden Gate Bridge Park,
she seemed to simply disappear…

The construction of a structure on which to hang
Our beliefs come to us framed by a sense of the past
Completely below the surface of memory

We will never know what Gericault’s sailors saw
Far away hopes for a future yet undisclosed
Romanticism promises us these virtues in History

But they will meet us again: lost souls, distracted pilots
Crushing images of the deplorable ways we treat others
Writing these secrets across a violence still waiting

Spinning out of control, like WCW’s Figure 5, the watercolors
Reflect a subculture described in such detail that the polite nature
Uniformly distributed across a surface still not yet unbroken by
The comedy of the moment explodes in a wealth of infinitesimal holes
Carrying information folded over the waves of misery brought on by shelter
Against this background of help with justification for hope against

The bell rings during this phase of development: that construction facing meaning to sink your teeth in. We were miserable then, with only friends
This line of defense beating back the onrushing years of regret, remorse and

Emotions stained into the surface of these acts of little contacts made
Worthy actions are recorded here. Heroes of love and compassion fake
genuine feelings replaced by injunctions of legislated codes of conduct

This swirl of associations: Hitchcock, Demuth, Williams, Burgin is Contradicted every time he opened his mouth, first by the interviewers
History serves as another contradiction, the sequence involved by

Panic reflects a cultural gathering of forces best left in the ethereal, the
Magnificent lines of smoke streaming across the sky demonstrate the distance travailed by those who do not mind long hours and hard work

None of the pursuits of fame or fortune mattered to the starry-eyed fanatics who crowded into the exhibition halls long into the night to witness fantastic
Stories of other grand narratives have been relayed via vocal incantation out

This line, this box will change over time; and over the course of transforming a need into volition. Breakthroughs will come later
Right now, pull back the sheet and see how deep the wounds have

Saturday, October 23, 2010

Friday, October 22, 2010

Tuesday, October 19, 2010

Monday, October 18, 2010

Tuesday, May 4, 2010


Perhaps a walk

Every night I'll go beside you
Riding with the wild procession,
And we'll chat and laugh so gaily
Over all my crazy speeches.

I will help to shorten for you
All the night hours-but in daylight
All the joy will fly, and weeping
Then I'll sit upon your gravestone.

Yes, in daylight I'll sit weeping
On the royal tomb in ruins,
On the grave of my beloved
By the town Jerusalem.

Graybeard Jews who chance to go by
Then will surely think I'm mourning
The destruction of the temple
And the town Jerusalem.

--Heinrich Heine, from Atta Troll

I am the revolution. Turning away from the evidence, we move to history. The reliance on scientific jargon has, after all, only served to confuse the search for an undiscovered past. Collisions of the two worlds singing the first time the instructions were heard. How many times will it take before we tire of the song? Unfamiliarity creates a living force, a thirst for surprise. Each individual holds a different threshold for the new, the alien: cold floors, steep stairs, dark closed rooms. When the city’s architecture falls to memory and is replaced by the new commerce, instinct adapts to the animus in the street. Quickly the urge to liberate is turned into a desire to destroy. The embodiment of knowledge in the form of structures of repression falls into a growth pattern that relies on chaos and genius of location. This lies hidden within the discourse on nature. Written into the wilderness of the language of repulsion felt by the fallen, the ideals of a forgotten past cling to this fragile architecture. Wandering through the streets alone, the remnants of these embellishments on memory are difficult to dislodge from the creature’s frame. This feeling has meaning only within the context of aggression and contempt. It is a rebellion against the continuity of sense --the logic of sequence and the shame of a monstrous decadence masquerading as theory. The control of this slow development moves toward true change after the late, last tributes to other stories have faded.
Every time I return to the scene, I feel as if I have to try harder to see something new. The strain against recollection begins to become a problem after so many near failures. The legacy of these passions remains strong when compared to the barriers erected to protect us from such intrusions. The love of nature itself takes many forms. Realize the startling potential embodied in renunciation of the goals of those who seek to regain the origin. We hold onto the quest for authenticity. Mere presence falls away when confronted with the descriptions of the stories of actuality in the age of nearness.

The ability to pay attention to small details can be given up once the skill has been mastered. Then it becomes possible to forget. The trouble with the borders between becoming and forgetting shifts constantly. The walker can be treated as an invalid—the delicate approach to recovery of the past comes with its own violence. In the end, the story unfolds with predictable certainty. Only the exterior surface of these structures of beauty replaces the weight of images from momentary lapses of language production that harm the walker in slight, but insignificant ways. Understand this inspiration as torture to the soul of a criminal mind left behind once the discovery of new paths toward sublimity have become understood. Cold and dry air replaces the images again. A quiet pattern of suffering followed by the pain of unrelenting throbbing in the brain. These things add to the wreckage of detail forced into form by script and recording of script. Scribbling while walking creates difficulty for an even, measured gait. The thickness of the air chokes the words into a packed, dark bundle. The throat clogs after consulting the clock of day watch. Regard the view from above. This is a terrible harm. Rise to defend against such dangers. Turn around and capture the response now lost to morning. This is only a light burn of light skipping the whole scene because of lack of space. The cost to the land is felt across the quarter. We hear only soft, passive voices of defeat and weariness.

Breathing easier after a short rest, the details of the scene begin to return. Moist skin and questions of forgiveness and regret. What holds these things together? Politics serve to sort out the accumulated pieces of hard feelings, difficult memories and dirty secrets. The emotional weight of history becomes an official policy for explanation of imagery. Stone, clod, jug, well, milk, water, cloud, thistle, leaf, hawk and other fragments of language.

But he also wonders about himself, that he is not able to learn to forget and that he always hangs onto past things. No matter how far or how fast he runs, this chain runs with him. It is something amazing: the moment, in one sudden motion there, in one sudden motion gone, before nothing, afterwards nothing, nevertheless comes back again as a ghost and disturbs the tranquility of each later moment. A leaf is continuously released from the roll of time, falls out, flutters away--and suddenly flutters back again into the man's lap. For the man says, "I remember," and envies the beast, which immediately forgets and sees each moment really perish, sink back in cloud and night, and vanish forever.

There is weariness in an abundance of things. Serving the purpose of delivery and retreat falls into the field of fullness and eventual resignation. The assault from each side waits while the numbers accumulate. Outside the details are charged with differentiation and distinction. The wallpaper of interior life marks a status and ranking ordered by purpose of being. Contrasted with the category of existence known only through the lens of the past, the moment of arrival stops briefly only at small points along a disseminated circle. We are not saints. This will not deter us from trying to seek the origin. Looking for an original source. That awful power we carry with us every step along the path toward the place of scattered remains. Gathering the information necessary for selection of the methods for recovery of the past. Grasp the method firmly in order to attempt union with disclosure and its benefits. Follow the story without regret.
This is the duty of repetition. The torture performed by light, by color and heat. The diurnal urges to seek an end to thought. Originality, then, comes to us in stages—for different needs. Incommensurable with meaning, the emotional need for distinction (within a temporal frame) is frustrated by the divergent paths to origin, to the source. The legacies do not shake easily. Connected and still tormenting the morning mind. Secretly the safe portions finalize access to the rhythmic speech of light and heat. Living near the time for recollection, only the artist walks safely between the border dividing memory and history. All of the attempts to reconcile the various interpretations for a non-decoded past fail to capture the imagination’s potential for destruction. Now struck by the desperate need for newness and the image of progress, the search for the shield of authenticity seems ever more pained. Time strains to accommodate conflicting stories for the need for this technology of truth. Telling the story accomplishes the lie. Belief in the lie smoothes the ragged emotional barriers separating need from desire. Causality and duration trouble the mind of the traveler to origin. This walk will not conform to the illusion of progress. The body breaks into the pieces necessary for reconstruction as time regards the numbers for accuracy. Selection of the actual drives this way. Over and then around the structure of these connections carries a burden—this will solve the problem of becoming and actuality in an age of belatedness. The artist makes a copy of the age in the form of a name for seeking. The creation of new sources of nourishment intoxicates the imagination with exotic flavors from unfixed sources. The blend of languages focuses attention to a still developing picture of speech without illusion. The value delivered to a mixture of sounds from noise to thought brings comfort to the mind tormented by change. Real change breaks down the speaking body. Elimination of language empties the corporeal from number, from form and light and day counting. Mark the absence of time by wrapping the sun into a picture of sequence. Time is always running out. The age of dissemination reaches a moment of self-recognition at the point when time is recorded—lying still, silent and scattered. This block of time is expressed through voices. Voices heard outside the window, over the doorframe, against the hard walls. Fear permeates the streets and alleys, guiding the blocked memories past sound back to images. Noise is forgotten in favor of light in shadow, pictures of faces and other stone surfaces. Built from the detail of god given sight, the pieces of the reverie in motion fade into oblivion of hard feeling. There is no word for feeling. Touching the edge of the structured response allows an illusion to pattern itself across the eyes. Constructed of materials known to be native to this land, the surface is crossed again and again in order to recreate the feeling of first crossing. Speak of others the same way that bridges know their maker. Glass eyes break through the surface of delusion and penetrate the barrier of sound. Reason perpetuates a cause and effect relationship with the falling down and the imagined destiny. No wonder, no malice, no ego, and no thing. This is simply an exacerbation of what has always been true. The repugnance we feel from such exchanges resolves itself in a tight bundle of unspoken responses to the future as an illusion of itself. This darkness is felt every time the wind blows back against an unknown face or unfamiliar noise. Turn around during the storm and witness the progress so far. Identification, incomplete and indifferent, itself a problem during times of distress backs up again and again when faced with overwhelming difficulty. Disinterest then recreates a path back to repetition.

History belongs secondly to the man who preserves and honours, to the person who with faith and love looks back in the direction from which he has come, where he has been. Through this reverence he, as it were, gives thanks for his existence. While he nurtures with a gentle hand what has stood from time immemorial, he want to preserve the conditions under which he came into existence for those who are to come after him. And so he serves life. His possession of his ancestors' goods changes the ideas in such a soul, for those goods are far more likely to take possession of his soul. The small, limited, crumbling, and archaic keep their own worth and integrity, because the conserving and honouring soul of the antiquarian man settles on these things and there prepares for itself a secret nest. The history of his city becomes for him the history of his own self.

The recuperative power of the embrace of nature meshes uncomfortably with the renunciation of progress. Natural forces are dragged into a complex of forces hoping to slide the cover of the natural over the stone of progress. This is the technology of defeat. Records are kept and then destroyed by mechanisms of revolution for the toppling of concepts like name, destiny, power and self. Becoming a name for a leaf, a stone, a clod of earth. Written across the record of the passage through the bitterest experiences the failure to remember marks night stains. The picture of history blocks out the supporting features of the decorative surface. Brushed against rough textures, gathering strength against a torrent of detail — the grains of memory fall into the spaces between the pages. The coarse particles of thought write a story of reversal — end to beginning, back to front, background filling out the frame. The interior space of the room selected for the transfer of information crossing and forever fixed on too blank paper will seem cramped when images are hoarded. The one thing falling into focus forever pushed into its own crevice between niche and shelf is the name of the end, marked by a forgetting of its secret.


Studio 4 May 2010