Saturday, 23 July 2011

Nick Land says and Jeri Johnson replies

fade up to
man kneading bread on a board, dark tanned hands on white dough containing seeds and flakes of barley. when the man pulls the bread toward him the board slides too so that when he pushes it forward again it sometimes bangs against the tiles at the back of the kitchen counter.

voice over, female, late teens:
Philosophy, in its longing to rationalise, formalise, define, delimit, to terminate enigma and uncertainty, to co-operate wholeheartedly with the police, is nihilistic in the ultimate sense that is strives for the immobile perfection of death. But creativity cannot be brought to an end that is compatible with power, for unless life is extinguished, control must inevitably break down. We posses art lest we perish of the truth.

Man stops kneading bread, fade to black

sounds of wind and birds. Cut to close up of spout of kettle. Voice over continues:
The words make the man. One cannot see through them to the character underneath; there is no underneath. Or, to return to the metaphor, one cannot chop down the trees to find the wood; the trees are the wood.

kettle boils and whistles. a hand enters shot to flip the whistle from the spout. Fade to black.

Sunday, 10 July 2011

Jam Econo, makes a stench.

The question is how to do it right. What code do we follow when no ideology exists that we would not tear down with the tenacity of a raging immune system?

How can we train?
We could replicate an action observed in order to learn it, learn how it feels?

It is not macho to be independent. Rather it is a sexist distortion of what the feminine is that makes this natural state of resourcefulness appear brutish by comparison.

We don’t need to think in terms of the extremes. This midway monstrous point can be the purest and in fact is more likely to be so.

Break open the language and break open the branch. The story should be as remembered. 

Produce works, perform actions, make a video entitled “how to work out”

I deal with fragments. This is forward looking archaeology, though all archaeology is forward looking; we find one piece then look for the next, find a tooth, look for a jaw!
The board is changing so what we are looking for is a way to keep our knees bent against he rolling and rocking. We need our sea-knees!
I’m not into extremes (there are not any extremes except in theory). I’m into the network, always local always close at every step. Finished is a farce!

A room contains 5 sycamore branches of between 6 and 8 foot in length. The end cut form the trunk is bound in a cast of plaster formed from a rough clay mould.
There are six low platforms around the room and the some of the branches rest on, against and across these. The platforms are 1 foot high with a top surface of variable dimensions between 3 foot by 9 foot and 6 foot by 6 foot. They are all finished in a black liqueur and two have a horizontal cream stripe, 1 inch thick that circles each platform at 2 inches from the ground.

On the wall are three large black and white photocopy prints each 4 feet wide and 10 feet high. Each of the prints are on separate walls and their contents are as follows: print one, an image of an alpine mountainside taken from a  1980s climbing magazine, the manner of printing in the original combined with the increased contrast in the blown up print leaves it uncertain as to whether the image is upside down or not. Print two, a photograph of the musician David Yow taken from a free poster in Kerrang magazine, a similar shot to this was used for the cover of the 1995 Jesus Lizard album Goat. In neither image can we clearly see Yow’s face. The third image is filled with block text which states “I Tried/To Kick/ The Ball /but My /Tenni Flew/ Right Off”

The content is


I believe in the undesirable synergetic relationships between objects.
I am interested in method, a way of behaving and a philosophy of work.

Should we not just wander off somewhere and produce? Does this limit the scope of production?
Not really, on the amount of time/resources can limit that.

The content is

The content is making art.

And other things. The fracturing of language and other methods of creating. Post Apocalyptic cinema arrives in force right at the end of the second world war to reflect on the new threat of total war however it also overlaps with another product of WW2, space exploration. Europe is in ruins and we explore these. Then begin to fantasise about future ruins when what we have is wrought into tamer landscapes of new development. Over these years we come to terms with the unlikelyhood of new and exciting lands, the globe is mapped, the moon is empty and the enthusiasm of the pre-landing days are not the same of the enthusiasm of a world after the race. However the cold war offers the possibility of new space, the thrill of the disaster movie is the awakened terrain. 

Broken equipment is the only new thing under the sun. We name these new things, put down our flags and move on further, we were promised progress for ever by our parents and if we must destroy half the planet to have a new land to map then all the more Romantic. It will not be us that presses the button for sure, it will be a government, and it will be the government and the infrastructure which is destroyed leaving us to start again. The broken equipment is visible to us, we are in it, in the real and playing with the un-named and what if we, this time, choose not to name it?

We have broken language before to get it’s insides, it’s messy organs. When we did it right it was not just to create a Fiji mermaid for us to christen in front of the world, to fix down in a tank, It was because these broken words, this broken language, could retain it’s visibility only through remaining broken. To footnote it, to socialise, was an attempt to harness it and that was a crying shame really. However much was too wild and in fact all the harnessers fixed were themselves and proclaimed to be the thing they were trying to tame.  But this itself is no surprise because that’s all we have ever done, placed a veneer down and called it the floor. That was the dream of progress we were promised, there would always be more round the curve of the earth just waiting to be accounted for, whether by the disaster of nature or the disaster of man. The question is whether this time we can keep the language broken, not a fix to it a footnote that will tie it down. I’m not suggesting we deny it history, in fact I am proposing that we hold all of it’s history with it, and our own, including what has passed since we last looked at it. 

jersey devil

He's the plan, if we walk about we can construct an institution out of nothing but discrete human relationships, and this institution is as much an object as a ball or a bat or a crown.
This institution is then responsible for it's own affairs and specifically with it's diplomatic relationships with such objects as a ball, a bat or a crown.
We could borrow the power of other established institutions, the industries of design, of management, of our parents with the way they used to loom over us at dinner, chewing like a combine and breathing through noses. We could do that too.


Four legs under the table. But one keeps falling off.

Down tune to SEA bridge pick up in the  neck.

The silence gets Bigger.
What is the opposite of erosion? or is there no opposite? because whatever is wearing away is being replaced by something else? The cliffs at Dover are crumbling away sneaking back but all the time the sea is advancing? The dirt your standing on came from Rotorua mate.


But can we sneak out of the power game? Every radical break becomes part of the canon, every method of survival becomes a means of further coercion one hundred yards down the track.


Put your hands in clay and just hold them there.

It's all fragments the stuff that's falling out of the sky. Put it in a box but it on a box put it under a box its still a  fragments, a meteorite, a thought experiment. Bergson was utterly wrong when he denied objects history, objects are all history, it's common sense.

Went for a walk in the forest to get out of the heat. Beautiful in the shade, in the damp, in the cool. Smells of washed sand. I sweat like anything, saw a grass snake, first time I've ever seen a snake in this country, led it's way out of a pile of ranger's woodchips and into the ferns. saw another in the pond, just head above water, the washed.
Walked too far, no buses, no nothing. Had to walk down the dual carriage way all rare plants and stolen drain covers. The weight of air carried past. fields and trees and just under the M25. Waltham Abbey is a shit hole.