Showing posts with label art. Show all posts
Showing posts with label art. Show all posts

Sunday, January 16, 2011

Re: Open Call - 7th Berlin Biennale / THAT'S HOW WEIRD IT'S GONNA BE (IV)

My first reaction was to hum the George Harrison tune, trying to figure out just how the rime goes: inverted, diverted, perverted, controlled, no – wait – they labelled and sold you. Here we go.

My second thought on Biennale curator Artur Żmijewski's call to please send in art and a statement of „... your political inclination (e.g. rightist, leftist, liberal, nationalist, anarchist, feminist, masculinist ...) ...“ was a sudden reminiscence of earlier Facebook days, when you could still state your political views by ticking the box, labelling yourself on a scale of very liberal to very conservative. The middle-ground being moderate, which to me always sounded very much like the apathetic option, or Żmijewski's alternative to giving that statement, namely being „... not interested in politics at all“. At least Facebook had the other option, too. Today, you can scribble in whatever you please, and explain – as far as the word limit may allow you – just what kind of an apathetic liberal you are, of the American or German breed - - -

To sum up, the Open Call left me thinking something along the lines of Is that a trick question? And, Let's hope it's a trick question!

As Żmijewski goes on to elaborate in his curator's statement, he deems such a process of self-labelling necessary however, because there seems to the an „invisible rule“ within contemporary art by which artists are kindly asked to produce „'political'“ art, however, from an „unindentified political position“, which – as he states, justly – simply doesn't exist. I have never heard of such a rule, nor did I ever expect an artist to live by it (neither from an art critic's, nor a spectator's standpoint) – on the contrary. But then again I am not an artist in any professional, bread-and-butter sense; I never had to answer to a gallery owner or a curator, I don't even have to answer to my editor, yet – only to the voices in my head - -
Me: „What's with all the pretentious self-indulgence?“
Me: „Hm?“

Żmijewski's goal, as he points out, is to get the artists to break that very rule and lay bare „the invisible/ hidden structure“, the „obscene background of [their] art“, their politics. And, he wants them to remember that, after all, „[p]olitics are not, as politicians would like to convince us, fights for power or dirty games. They are the language of our collective needs which people share.“ The cynic in me (or is it the realist?) wants to shriek: Aren't we beyond irony?
Żmijewski: „...the curatorial choice will [not] be based on preferred political identity [as stated by the artist] [...] [but] on intuition and ambiguity. But this time intuition and ambiguity will be a little deformed by this over-obvious political element. So, we will see what happens.“
The Cynic again: Don't we know what will happen? I read it in the newspaper on Thursday: Post-Tucson: Sarah Palin refrains from calling Obama Hitler until Monday morning. Aren't we already living in the aftermath of the deformation of „intuition and ambiguity“, read reality, by the „over-obvious political element“, read ideology, in which the vocabulary of the „language of our collective needs“ has shrunken to nothing but statements of political inclinations, even been replaced by them? It is a game of politicians calling each other names, and as Żmijewski suggests, the artist should join in, starting with himself. To make that work, i.e. to give that „little deformation“ an outcome that cuts through it all and is mind-mangling (and I want nothing less), Żmijewski will have to sign up for a serious case of short-leash / tight-rope / whiplash curating – nothing else but strangling the artists/labels/artworks until they suffocate or snap. Oh, the possibilities!

But step aside, you Cynic, and come in, Idealist, for Żmijewski is pointing to Hannah Arendt as the reference point for his call to „describe what we do as artists also in pure (sic!) political terms“. To quote Arendt: The event illuminates its own past, but cannot be deduced from it. There is no such thing as causality, only contingency. Hence, the event, the Biennale itself, the performance of all that art hanging on all those walls in 2012 will render all good intentions and inclinations, as stated, labelled or mumbled („Hm? Other?“), futile anyway. Oh, the possibilities!



- - -












THAT'S HOW WEIRD IT'S GONNA BE (IV/last installment), 2011
exhibition flyer















THAT'S HOW WEIRD IT WAS (III), 2011
still from THROUGH THE BENT BACKED TULIPS / tiananmen square 2010 06 22 (2010)













THAT'S HOW WEIRD IT WAS (II), 2010
still from THE AGE OF THE UNDERSTATEMENT (song by The Last Shadow Puppets, video by Romain Gavras, 2008)

















THAT'S HOW WEIRD IT WAS (I), 2010

Tuesday, November 9, 2010

Put down the glue gun. And the noodles. And Andy. Put. Andy. Down.

#manifestomonday









MY 2nd GRADE ART TEACHER WOULD GIVE ME AN A+*
*ONLY I AM NOT IN 2nd GRADE.
noodles, metallic spray paint, a poster and doodling on canvas
30x40cm
2010
(pixeled, blown up and edited, 2010)

Actually, this is the perfect Andy-quote as a comment on Mr. Brainwash. Isn't it?
And I wanna see this atwork of yours in the flesh before I say any more about it. (d.g.)

Watching EXIT THROUGH THE GIFT SHOP reminded me of the fact that I still had that poster somewhere and that it was in dire need of some proper framing. Yet, it's hard to contain. For what does the 'getting away with it' actually entail? The neatandtidy answer being soup as canon ///
Institutionalisation/commodification/commercialisation/etc.. R€nt mon€y. Uncle artcrust. A write-up in LA Weekly. A quote by Banksy on your art. Noel Gallagher at the opening of your show. ///
MindMangling – your own (self-medication) and that of others – preferably Carl Barât's, on the Arsenal's rooftop terrace, in green shiny pants /// /// (a.h.)

Thursday, October 28, 2010

Scrapbook. part 2

I get paid to look at art.
Well, not exactly to look at it. Rather to watch it. To watch over it.
Because, you know, the art needs to be protected from its visitors. They threaten it.

#1
Mind your step, please!
Ooh, you stepped on the art. Haha.
-The art? Oh ... Sorry.

But mind you, in that same exhibition, there was also some art to step on!

Sometimes though, it rather feels as if I was some kind of caretaker for the visitors themselves.

#2
Excuse me, where is the exhibition?
Right here. You are already in the middle of it.
Oh. Aha? Thank you.

And sometimes I simply don't know what went wrong.

#3
Sagen Sie, sind das alles echte Filme hier?

The woman asking me this was at that moment visiting an exhibition devoted to art films.
Mhhmh.

In fact, I'm not really sure who or what I am protecting.
It's probably my own sanity. Or is it insanity?

Sunday, June 20, 2010

the blinding

















concrete, brownstone.
(a.h. 2010, acrylics on canvas, 70 x 80 cm)


d.g.: "...it seems possible that they are in fact looking at the source of the light, their features maybe even erased by its intensity."

- - -

On a rooftop, in between the concrete and the brownstone, they are standing, the wings of their paper clothing fluttering around their backs. A throat is cleared, then "I guess we didn't get the eyes so we stop argueing whether or not we're a bit dead behind them - and get on with it."

Thursday, June 10, 2010

7th Berlin Biennale for Contemporary Art

12.06.-9.8. 2011














-- -- -- -- --



Venues:
Oranienplatz 17
10999 Berlin


Artists:
Vincent Vulsma





















Vincent Vulsma
ARS NOVA E5305-B, 2009
Spray paint on shrink film over pre-fabricated canvas
















installation view (general design),
oranienplatz 17.



Public Talk (tba):

Manierismen der Abgewracktheit.




-- -- -- --


Monday, June 7, 2010

Scrapbook. part 1


#manifestomonday


#1
The doors are barred with boards. Enter through the cellar.
A supporting construction hovering above me. Is it supporting, itself? Or is it supported? - Enter: Two hens. Bourgeois hens, I'm told.
The smell of fresh paint. White. And black.
The windows are barred, too. But I'm inside, not even seeing the boards.
Noise, a naked man sleeping. He's just pretending, I'd say.
Photographs, photographs, projections.
My head has started to ache.

#2
A decaying building.
A Former department store. Former furniture store. Former "Real" market.
A real market of the real again now.
A mock wardrobe which is not a mock wardrobe. Or is it?
Beautiful black paintings which are not paintings but pretend to be hidden behind curtains.
Remnants of an old pleasure ground seen from the staircase.
A carpet made of salt and one with words and some more carpets above.

#3
A dark and empty salesroom.
I'm standing with my back to the window, looking out of a window, seeing pedestrians passing.
An artist's flat and workspace.
He is absent.
Lots of knives. Two old sausages. A caligraphy letter.
Now my back is aching, too.

To be continued.