Said Kitty, remit to midst amok, amok

This text was written as a response from another machine to the machine that is reading the text written to be read by a machine over and over and over again...

Dearest Bunny, Art histories Dogma unsettling. It recalls a puritanical veneration of the letter of the law at the expense of its spirit. Its this spirit that Canadian Thanksgiving is pursuing in it's show and you've missed it entirely. I know this because, they would be the first to agree with your statement about the Warholian revisionism and its subsequent codification of our Art making apparatus. All you have to do is look at the show to see this. look at Ross Ho and Bobby's work to see that both artifice and plasticity are the true faces that life wears with complete aplomb. To say nothing of Stillwell and do-goods observations on the duplicity of common culture. While all you see are a set of unmet tenets. That by their letter are ill suited to the change implicit in our current day to day lifes and therefore unattainable. Thats just so old school Bunny! shoes now. Art as a matter of necessity in the post-modern era is as obvious as fashion. Which as Cocteau said, "we must forgive... because it dies so young." Since Dooshamp, Art wears an increasingly banal face right? but it took the deconstructive stance of Neo-Realism and its subsequent codification of the banal to reach the masses once again in a form that could replace in secular terms, all that was displaced when Nietzchae proclaimed God dead, forgive me. I aknowledge it has been an irregular transition and art still maintains certain formal aspects of the former aesthetic orthodoxy. These precise points however are aknowledged by Canadian Thanksgiving in true anti-aesthetic spirit by declaring that reality and all of its inherently lyrical ironies, including art need a Jenny Jones style Make-over. A silly name, a hockey puck and some "turkeys" are certainly art in the right hands. In Canadian Thanksgiving's hands art is armament against the entrenched aesthetic Loyalists such as yourself. While you were busy searching for substantiation of their "silly name" in the clutter of non-existant Icons and symbols. Canadian Thanksgiving has taken the pure stuff of life and infused it with the poetry of its own existance. Kisses, Teegra

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Not the Willem DeKooning Retrospective (Not Even Close)

Willem DeKooning, Excavation (1950) oil on canvas Yesterday at work I bumped into this piece by Donald Kuspit on DeKooning's retrospective over at Artnet . Then this morning I bumped into this one on L Magazine's site, by Paddy Johnson . I don't know that Paddy Johnson demystifies DeKooning as much as she takes issue with his pallet, declaring it repetitive and boorish en masse. By contrast, Donald Kuspit writes an article painting DeKooning as a sadistic brute inextricably tied to the modern tradition in general and Picasso specifically. Together they make for some interesting reading, particularly as Kuspit never addresses the show itself in favor of drawing his conclusions from individual works. While Johnson seems to wear the show like an imaginary wool shawl, noting it's uncomfortable, out of style, and the zipper is broken. But she doesn't seem to get to a place that addresses what was actually there either, only what she felt was missing or to her mind ...

The apologist and the appraiser have decided to stay put

dashed wet and grim Oh now, Reagan of steel glitter in pants with which to shake them on down. Oh now, I shit you not for these are the things. Yes in any order you should choose these are the things to please please me, Oh Yeah. - Unmarked letter signed, A to A They'll say to me that it's safe to say so much for ubiquity, for disenfranchisement, and the terrorism of privilege. They'll say to me, With all of the effects from these profoundly toxic effects, is the project of our shared humanity effectively being dismantled. Are these the idle thoughts and sad tidings of despots and the tyrant kings inside of their comfortable towers of raised muck. As I've said before, They're not so far gone as to be gone for the good of all. This is plain to be seen in a world of bent backs and gross hyperbole. I'll sit in any unused doorway. I'll be beside myself while every door is locked. I'll dream of the halls and listen as the curtains, the drinking, an...

Piles of leaves: Letters Campaign

Suddenly old but feeling perfect, my wet underwear is on the the floor. It's gathered round my ankle. Myko laughs, just as wet and full of piss herself. Already, the violence of our togethering feels like more than something. I reach out and take the back of her neck with my hand. She steps in as I lean over the counter and write; Dear, Temperance, October, and Brine, You are more than a place to me. More than walls and simple chimes, but I'll write to you anyway. This you'll know as you read my words. From here beside the lark's buttered breast, from under the heavy lids and the bright side kettle where we'll hum. We'll hum together, Bunny. Dickens be damned, we're now brightly doomed. Soon enough we'll see, the forest within the trees. To you, Tigre PS. are more or only this bed, maybe the floor too. We spend the day in, ordering takeout and hiding under our sheets. I get up and pee while Katt talks about Milton. Her mouth's open and it's as...

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