Monday, August 23, 2010
Afterthoughts, on what will be and the things that are
not waiting outside
on whom they are not waiting for
on bubble wrap
on the way out
on the effects of baseball bats on art
on the history of brainpicking
on Church Builders
on obituaries
on remnants
on resilience
on the effect ofconcrete drywalls
on the effect of concrete.
In CINE QUA NON #2, Ana Luisa Valdeira da Silva reviews the 2009 Young Creators Show, organized by the IPJ-Portuguese Institute of Youth and the CPAI-Portuguese Club of Arts and Ideas in Évora and Portel. She asks:
//- Can I get inside one? Yes - // In a giant object that was also intended to be alive, in the work The Way Out is Through by Manuela Pacheco, a selection in the visual arts area. An enormous plastic bag keeps itself inflated through the airflows that enter it. There’s a hole through which you can get in, dressing yourself as a bubble, and inside it a realtime projection of what’s happening outside. We’re inside, cocooned inside the bubble, watching what’s going on outside on a canvas of living plastic. // [...] //- Can I crush it? Yes - That was André Neto’s suggestion when he talked about his work Branco Esterilizado (Sterilized White). And so I did or at least I tried. I step into his structure made of drywall with an edge of about 8.2 feet, pick up a baseball bat that was resting on a corner and hit one of the walls pretty hard. There’s an audible blast which reverberated for quite a few seconds. Lots of sound but the structure, already full of holes, made to represent a sort of an art gallery space, didn’t even suffer a dent. It turns out I didn’t apply enough power to it. Right away, the lady that was supervising the exhibit looked at me with astonishment on her face and said: only the author can destroy it. The young creator wasn’t there neither to allow me to destroy it nor to destroy it himself, there was only me trying to punch a hole through the drywall in front of the Creator, right at the altar of St. Vicente's Church. //
cf. CQN # 2, p. 94ff.
on whom they are not waiting for
on bubble wrap
on the effects of baseball bats on art
on the history of brainpicking
on Church Builders
on obituaries
on resilience
on the effect of
on the effect of concrete.
In CINE QUA NON #2, Ana Luisa Valdeira da Silva reviews the 2009 Young Creators Show, organized by the IPJ-Portuguese Institute of Youth and the CPAI-Portuguese Club of Arts and Ideas in Évora and Portel. She asks:
//- Can I get inside one? Yes - // In a giant object that was also intended to be alive, in the work The Way Out is Through by Manuela Pacheco, a selection in the visual arts area. An enormous plastic bag keeps itself inflated through the airflows that enter it. There’s a hole through which you can get in, dressing yourself as a bubble, and inside it a realtime projection of what’s happening outside. We’re inside, cocooned inside the bubble, watching what’s going on outside on a canvas of living plastic. // [...] //- Can I crush it? Yes - That was André Neto’s suggestion when he talked about his work Branco Esterilizado (Sterilized White). And so I did or at least I tried. I step into his structure made of drywall with an edge of about 8.2 feet, pick up a baseball bat that was resting on a corner and hit one of the walls pretty hard. There’s an audible blast which reverberated for quite a few seconds. Lots of sound but the structure, already full of holes, made to represent a sort of an art gallery space, didn’t even suffer a dent. It turns out I didn’t apply enough power to it. Right away, the lady that was supervising the exhibit looked at me with astonishment on her face and said: only the author can destroy it. The young creator wasn’t there neither to allow me to destroy it nor to destroy it himself, there was only me trying to punch a hole through the drywall in front of the Creator, right at the altar of St. Vicente's Church. //
cf. CQN # 2, p. 94ff.
Sunday, August 22, 2010
Sunday, February 14, 2010.
// it's Valentine's Day and Christoph Schlingensief is performing, HAU, Berlin, the Berlinale program says he's showing L'INFERNO, commenting on it, he's commenting on it alright, I don't know if he's showing it, he says Ulrich and Erika Gregor wouldn't call that showing a movie, at least not properly or cinephily or, he's fast-forwarding through the opening credits, then rewinding the whole thing, I don't know, is he giving in, he's showing that one frame with the director's name in it, smugly perhaps, here you go, proper and all / he's fast-forwarding again, all the while reviewing what he's not going to show us, then a sudden halt, he's showing a scene now, he's mixing sounds to go with it, then, is he losing faith in the act, he's turning down the volume, he's commenting on it again, or rather, telling an anecdote about some gallery opening in Berlin, only it's not an anecdote, but a lecture, or a parable perhaps, on the state of Berlin's art scene, I'm thinking L'INFERNO alright, he's fast-forwarding again /
first balcony, knees up to my chin, I'm euphoric, he's getting away with it, he came to do what, infuriate, agitate, convince, self-indulge, ask for money for his opera house in Africa, and he does it and he's going to get it, why, because art history and the art market have long decided, yes, we let him get away with it, but well, the audience came in disbelief of it all, smugly too, so he is performing and he's mangling minds and he's getting away with it, the audience is going away with their minds mangled /
I'm sitting in the bleachers, I am sad, there is something so utterly sad about him on stage, he's so done with cancer, he says it, I'm done with you, cancer, I think he always was, even when he was still showing off his X-ray images / he's done with the name-calling, and maybe that's what is so utterly sad, that there is still that fierceness with which he stated, cancer, you are an asshole, I refuse you, but something else is creeping in, something desperate, desperation, he says it, straightforwardly, it's so plain it hurts, he says, I want to be well / I want to be alive
there's no point in being dead, there's no point in being a dead artist /
the next day, I'm talking to Delphine, I'm telling her about the sadness and the desperation, I ask her, what will happen to his art, what does it mean to be a dead artist, a dead performance artist, a dead biographical exorcist, what will be, she asks me, are you of little faith, I shrug, his art, it will be, it is now with him and in spite of him, it will without him
there is consolation in there, somewhere //
Christoph Schlingensief died on Saturday, August 21, 2010.
first balcony, knees up to my chin, I'm euphoric, he's getting away with it, he came to do what, infuriate, agitate, convince, self-indulge, ask for money for his opera house in Africa, and he does it and he's going to get it, why, because art history and the art market have long decided, yes, we let him get away with it, but well, the audience came in disbelief of it all, smugly too, so he is performing and he's mangling minds and he's getting away with it, the audience is going away with their minds mangled /
I'm sitting in the bleachers, I am sad, there is something so utterly sad about him on stage, he's so done with cancer, he says it, I'm done with you, cancer, I think he always was, even when he was still showing off his X-ray images / he's done with the name-calling, and maybe that's what is so utterly sad, that there is still that fierceness with which he stated, cancer, you are an asshole, I refuse you, but something else is creeping in, something desperate, desperation, he says it, straightforwardly, it's so plain it hurts, he says, I want to be well / I want to be alive
there's no point in being dead, there's no point in being a dead artist /
the next day, I'm talking to Delphine, I'm telling her about the sadness and the desperation, I ask her, what will happen to his art, what does it mean to be a dead artist, a dead performance artist, a dead biographical exorcist, what will be, she asks me, are you of little faith, I shrug, his art, it will be, it is now with him and in spite of him, it will without him
there is consolation in there, somewhere //
Christoph Schlingensief died on Saturday, August 21, 2010.
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