The mended object as art is as art for art's sake

Latin for, repeat me

This document is incomplete, it contains descriptions gathered from passages that were examined in the previous section. With some effort they can be abutted and read with a similar intention. It's not difficult to imagine the potential of these techniques when they are applied to the plastic arts. Their visual component also serves to highlight and inform our individual experience. However they can have unintended and deleterious side effects such as prurience. Skepticism by necessity is the consequence of experience and not included here. It's marginal to quote directly from popular culture or from the actual source.

Don (Helvetica): True to purpose, the liver of my cup is only a sample that aches.
Comma (Texas): Then let us gather around this green tree and pass our warm energy in a comfort circle of joy and bliss.

me repetere as transition

This isn't a baseball or some other machine for nostalgia it's a master plan with statistics and variables. But without intervention experience as the gabled end or apex for any cognitive structure remains incomplete. It's isolated from grace and geometry like a lost cat lost on toast. The arc of experience engages social practices that include fringe elements as well as other distinct independent types phenomena. What we generally understand this to mean is that separated nonlinear actions can be resonant. But they can also be avoided by adopting techniques of deflection such as humor or addiction. Instead of following the passage below we will skip forward and examine the textual revivalism of the DIY aesthetic:

Gonna make me a baked cake Gonna crap crap in a blender Gonna serve it on a blank slate Warm and buzzy crap crap around the bender

Here the ideal is easily discarded and replaced with any at hand fabrication. Because these are not so much a set of principles as they are a form of collaborative risk taking the system tolerates the exchange readily. That is until we move forward by a matter of degrees. We can plot the development of this degradation across the system with a simple graph. While not detailed the arc of this experience is a subtle map that commonly yields unintentional results that stymie. A lapsed receipt or a note on a slip of paper that's inside the front cover of a book, Pritchard's corpus? Nobody is suggesting that you forget (nnsert joke)

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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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