If you should read this now, this is about the panelist requiring a chair while the table needs its legs.

fig.65.65) If the curtain should be to the left

This is about the panelist requiring a chair while the table needs its legs. That is, this is about a very soft performance that is about to be displayed inside of a closed room with little or no light. There will be props and there will be tools but there will not be any margin for error. This piece will begin with a loud noise and it will run for 7 minutes. The last sound to be made will be the sound of documents shuffling along in the direction of a barely audible, thank you.

This will be about all of the things that I cannot do alone or by myself. Because, this is about the panelist requiring a chair while the table needs its legs. A solo program that inserts itself at the intersection of race, gender and identity as they are being identified, weighed and measured for their appropriateness to any art which is on display that can be further interpreted as itself or as a long goodnight to any singular form relative to the viewers needs.

This is about the panelist requiring a chair while the table needs its legs. The legs that it is about to use are the closest that will come to describing the meaningless complexity of the viewers storied labors. They are the legs for things that are already of themselves rather being the mechanical means by which any of the viewers narratives are condensed or teased into this sudden form of leg that's in the vicinity of the panelist or the table. Each one of these legs will need to be a casual and suggestive shape, right? Rather than being the acceptance of abatement these legs will instead be like the fingers of long lines that have gathered up the stage of the day lightly while it was being watched. Because this is about the panelist requiring a chair while the table needs its legs this will be interpreted again and again until the panelist no longer requires a chair or the table has definitively acquired legs.

Comments

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 as ever. The violence of our togethering already feels like more than something. I reach out, taking the back of her neck with my hand. She's stepping in as I lean over to 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 the sheets. I get up and pee while Katt is talking about Milton. Her mouth's open, it's as rou...

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 ...

stagnanTVowels

Search This Blog