Thursday, August 4, 2016

BCC, for Brian Fuata

A Blind Carbon Copy.
The first years of writing on a typewriter (rather than by hand, as in those days I was loathe to use a computer, a born video artist I am not), I was forced to write on carbonless paper in order to make an impression, so bemused was I that the most obvious way, perhaps even the only way to track down a typewriter ribbon was through the internet. By making darker photocopies I could achieve some semblance of legibility, if only in a literal and not in a figurative sense. Obsessing over the visual presence of words and hopelessly frustrated by the authority of the written word, I also experimented with impressions made on hairdressers foil. I must have spent a whole day pouring my heart out onto the foil, in the dingy, fluorescent lit concrete basement that was the sculpture studio, by turns soothing and aggravating my fellow students with the constant arrhythmic drumming of the keys amplified against the metal. At some point in the late afternoon I jumped up from my chair in the sudden realisation that the whole thing was indecipherable, much to the amusement of surrounding friends. There is a certain blindness to this obsessional ocularity that is supposed of us, of our culture, it hides its roots in a kind of skeumorphism, perhaps in the idea of a skeumorphism (the word used to describe visual queues such a floppy disks as save buttons, news-stands as purveyors of written content, as obsolete as both incarnations of technology are right now). I read somewhere that Apple planned to phase out skeumorphisms, after all, people any younger than I am have probably never used a floppy disk... But a CC is a Carbon Copy, a BCC a Blind Carbon Copy, working, as these things always have, just as language always does, as visual or oral or aural (depending on who is speaking). The mistake is to have made a neologism of the skeumorphic, while we talk of this thing supposedly too big for u all using the word “economics,” which really only means “home management,” which, after all, is really all that there is. Etymology is a skeumorphism in reverse, I suppose. Light, of course, moves so much faster than anything else, and so on that level, I suppose it is inevitable that visual graphics, skeumorphisms, would so much more quickly find themselves obsolete, while meaning as communicated interpersonally through sound waves, has the capacity to carry so much more through suggestion, has the capacity to hold onto relevance long after anyone can quite remember what it was. The word on paper has all the capacity of language to survive its own redundancy only because of its hopeless dependency. There is an idea and a word of Derrida's that I always quite liked: "paleonymy," (in Outwork/Prefacing in the book "Dissemination") an example of which was “writing,” which provides an outdated attachment to the graphic, when of course, writing does not have to mean “the written word,” but may encompass any human effort in the composition of language. Of course, the intention behind skeumorphisms was, in a sense, to have a causal relationship with the obsolescence of each of their referents (which some may argue, is not dissimilar to the mode in which language operates) it may be that a floppy disk graphic is to floppy disks what economics is to the home. I have never minded losing large swathes of work to different technologies, I have always known that the safest place for my writing was on paper, but I lose pieces of paper faster than the Apple Corporation can build in redundancy to their products, faster than the relatively short history of the floppy disk or the typewriter. There have always been fantastic scare campaigns surrounding revolutionary technologies, a greater development than we can even imagine, having been the printing press, but great powers do not fall by technology, democratising movements are born and facilitated, bibles rewritten in the common tongue, and then are subject to the subjects, to the blindness of language. I never used to be able to say what I meant and so I wrote poetry, so much of which was lost to my carelessness, and my fear of what I might ultimately communicate. And all in a language which was lost to her subjects.

Saturday, February 6, 2016

Accepted Proposal- The Place of Love (55 Sydenham Road, coming up on the 18th of March, 2016)



---------- Forwarded message ----------
From: Z.M. O'Mahoney <zmomahoney@gmail.com>
Date: Friday, December 4, 2015
Subject: The Place of Love
To: Talitha Klevjer <t.klevjer@gmail.com>



---------- Forwarded message ----------
From: Z.M. O'Mahoney <zmomahoney@gmail.com>
Date: Fri, Dec 4, 2015 at 6:07 PM
Subject: The Place of Love
To: contact@55sydenhamrd.com


The King’s Two Bodies (Peace T. Klevjer/Z.O’Mahoney) Present: The Place of Love
Conceit:
Like millenia of (painfully) white people before them, The King’s Two Bodies hereby assert their inheritance of the earth by referring back to grand philosophical traditions with their roots in Ancient Greece, which have exactly nothing to do with their hopelessly Norse and Germanic ancestry. They will do this with reference to the (brilliant) 1969 Pier Paolo Pasolini film, Medea, if only in passing allusion to the stylistic turn of accentuating the dirty, brtual tribal nature of life in times reified for their enlightenment by successive (lost) mediaeval peoples (and current governments). With (also passing) reference to the Vandals, for their good work in sacking the monestary of Saint Augustine, sadly not before the damage was done regarding the doctrine of Original Sin (which does not exist as significant in either of the other Abrahamic religions or in the Eastern Orthodox churches), they will recapitulate the essentially short view and blantant theiving of the finer points of history in servive to the oligarchy that has characterised their limited (Australian) education.
Actualisation:
Klevjer was saying something about how the Parthenon’s unique use of perspective blew the minds of both Le Corbusier and Freud and became very important to their various ideologies,  as the perspective was somehow "outside of space and time," it was haunting, recurring, and could not be placed anywhere. Corbusier said that every time he saw it is was like seeing it for the first time... and seeing as O’Mahoney thoroughly dislikes both men, O’Mahoney agreed that they should indeed have scantily clad men form a living Parthenon whilst holding up a glass ceiling. O’Mahoney cannot for the life of them remember why, exactly, but they thought it would make for a very nice painting for T and so will contribute that, also. Klevjer informs O’Mahoney it had something to do with “the glass ceiling”of architecture and its limiting and aggressive relationship with art. Thus, they have decided to stage one of the works of Antonin Artaud entitled: "Paul the Birds or the Place of Love," which is about the early renaissance painter Paolo Uccello and his relationship with the sculptor Donatello and architect Brunelleschi, and culminates in Brunelleschi ejaculating a white dove from an enormous prosthetic penis.
please call Klevjer: 0401 *** *** (for a good time)(for any information regarding her practice) (please text through your questions five minutes before your call and she will be happy to respond).
Sincerely,
The King's Two Bodies

Here is a poetic reference for your enjoyment:
Time marked by how little it mattered, beneath the lights or somehow above them like the first and forever. Strange to think that it seemed reasonable to think, that it seemed reasonable to think that the sky was the blue of the sea and not the other way around, relative understandings of density and refraction, already outdated by the last thing I wrote, but without a science's pretension towards perfectibility. In a sense, the sky is predicted by the sea, a firmament holding back the emptiness that contains us that will surely kill us. 
To succeed is to drown in the sky
Float away
Sorry to speak of everything and nothing, a jarring lilt uncomfortable with the assimilation of the superficial idealism of an imposed tongue, close and bad-breathed, hotly molesting your ear, the strange inclinations of an unrequited lust that is the will to power. The sinking feeling of success like the rapture, to reach the edge of the fluorescent dome and swim for your death, just to be among them, safely above it all in sodden sandals, subprime submission, ununiform, uniform nonconformity unrealised sartorially, real individuality... while I was physicalised the uniform nonconformity of them who can expect to be entitled to little more...
To succeed is to drown in the sky
Float away
But back with those others in sodden sandals that might buy the whole wreckage, float it... Floaters them all, the pantheon. Prima Vera in my pants... the middle of the night ends in closed daylight, the menacing progression of environmental patterns that deviate further and further from their theme. Time used to be marked... it was forgotten and conscripted to hamper all interruption, but it will again be noticed, be imperfect, unrealised.
To succeed is to drown in the sky
Float away
I was one paycheck off the street with only beauty to qualify me and all the blame laid at my feet for having privileged learning over the alienated market of alien labours sent down to keep you from time enough to understand and acknowledge anything, your condition, whatever...
To succeed is to drown in the sky
Float away
Perhaps too long have we been afforded the luxury of personal space, contemplative time, time uncollected, uncollective, uncollated by the wider mechanisms monitoring every human action to the end of inhumanity, presuming that humanity and inhumanity were anything very much to be thought of to begin with, perhaps or even basically only that: to be thought of. The last days of the bourgeoisie, witnessing a last-ditch attempt at it... making good of it... idling in ruinous beauty from when function and form maybe took some precedent over immediate value and expediency in general. The final hours of youth culture, barely lamented by an apathetic youth fully individualised and so integrated beyond identifiable differentiation, norm core. Thought domestication might stand for something for a minute but accumulation has only ever reminded me of precarity, of all the things that have existed in their very scarcity, around the time that it became obvious that money is not made but claimed.
To succeed is to drown in the sky
Float away
...It all could have been named of earthly things, a language not dematerialising around religious conceit, a language recognising its own practice in the passing solidity of sound-waves, and electricity, and pieces of paper... I exist now in gratitude for the glass ceiling, the firmament, (bête comme la paix) (après moi le deluge) staring ceremonial upskirt at their wasted sex like the pilgrim at the edge of the world, writing from without my indolence like a broken promise to superstition. Morality plays that only work. Fruitless utilitarian, so wary of sugar, romancing Mayakovsky but only for his despairing futility. I never brought poverty on myself out of romance and privilege, I never sought it at all, I sought only privilege, like everyone else, found it in taking ownership of my own time, my own future. I need to be coupled that I might live somewhere where I am not being slowly killed by neglect. Writing of my maturity, at first blush, the writing of my maturity was just that, it was writing of it... thinking a chronology would somehow be divorced from the seasons and the cycles, that it would all lift away anew and I would somehow find a way to say things in a way that which would endear me to the greatest number. Now I can't even gratify the will to make physical that always somehow grounded my aspirations with a light gravity, soft power, passive repression, passive violence, like a mirror, only a mirror, souls of others.www.55sydenhamrd.com

Friday, January 8, 2016

(A Domestic) _Accepted proposal_ Runway magazine/platform: "Ecologies" issue

(A Domestic)The word “ecology” is derived from the Greek word oikos meaning “home,” thus an ecology is quite literally a study of the home, which is interesting only in its obvious feminine undertones, as though such disciplines refer to the fragility of nature against human (male) intervention. The notion of human control over environments that are essential to all life, one would hope, is contemporaneously understood as misguided, and yet all things pertaining to bare life and to home life, “caring labour” and the domestic, are consistently undermined by discourses that privilege a kind of thought independent of its source, absent a body. The work would take the form of a video essay, an homage to the work of Chantal Akerman, specifically the films “La Chambre” (a short film literally revolving around what is presumably the home of the director), and “Letters from Home” (a rich visual survey of New York in the 1970s, coupled with a voice over of letters apparently from the director’s mother). It will be a paean to domestic art (both Australian and of the home), compiled of video footage of the artist’s own home, the ‘walked’ experience of Sydney, as well as engagement with other artists and musicians, and overset with poetic text on the theme.

(For Elise Harmsen).

Wednesday, January 6, 2016

Rejected Proposal _Container Artist Residency_ Z.O': Contained

Artist Bio. 
To begin, I have no inclination to either write this in the third person or have someone else speak for me. The artist bio belongs to the bureaucratic dissemination of the arts, via institutions and galleries linked to the machinations of corporate capital underpinning culture, which must either directly justify itself as economically rationalisable or go through the university system, which is increasingly and ultimately subject to the same checks and balances. Ultimately the discussion of this is the art, as was it ever: portraits of the wealthy. This is what I make/do.

Letter of Intent.
The work produced to date has employed poetics as a method of critique of the supreme rationalisation of societies under late capital. Historiography is rather utilised to open up and defy rationalisation, than to inform and affirm existing power structures. It has taken the form of zero-impact sculpture and painting (works derived from waste product) as well as video and prose poetry readings. The container residency would be used to create a poetic work ruminating on the challenges concerned with what is expedient and efficient both in time and politically/environmentally (shipping being one of the most environmentally sound modes of transportation). This would be turned into a performance and video as well as a series of illustrative mock Mediaeval Banner Paintings. The paintings themselves, as well as being stand-alone works, are meant to be a physical exploration of the changing (anglocentric) definition of art, where the etymological root (in French also) suggests “man-made” and thus somehow outside-of or above nature, which would contemporaneously seem wrongheaded, especially given the now obvious impact of exactly that kind of thought on the environment. The banner paintings utilise discarded bed sheets (again, common practice before industrialisation) which makes them easily transportable and easy to work on in confined spaces.The works are currently painted using mis-tints (lime washes), which serve several material ends, in that they are inexpensive; they constitute environmentally sound practice (as they would likely otherwise go to waste and they are non-toxic and created from natural and sustainable materials to begin with); and that they are made from the same materials that would have been used in mediaeval times by artists to create primitive advertisements for things like fairs (lime washes being a lot cheaper and less precious than the kind of pigments and materials that go into oil paint).

Links (videos).

Link (Banner Works).
http://zmomahoney.blogspot.com.au/2015/07/minor-works-2015.html

Wednesday, December 16, 2015

The Ban #2- rejected for the Firstdraft writers' residency 2015

In law as in practise the people are the intellectual property of the state, the physical apparatus of corporations. In Australia, history has been whitewashed into jingoistic institutionalised racism, the bastardised legacy of war for the British Empire, but also of early, often well-meaning, labour strikes (and terrorist operations) several carried out by Irish separatists (The Eureka Stockade, Ned Kelly). Despite the short history of European settlement, very few citizens are aware of the history of the dispossessed, let alone of the thousands of years of Indigenous History. The unofficial national anthem, “Waltzing Mathilda” was actually written about the Shearers’ Strike in 1891, in which the farm owners, known as “wealthy squatters,” attempted to bring in cheaper Chinese labour and further disenfranchise the population of itinerant farm workers, which laid the foundations of the labour movement and Australian Labor Party, as well as the infamous White Australia Policy. The residency would centre around the specific site of Firstdraft as a free space in an increasingly privatised landscape, dedicated to experimentation and community, which has, sadly, almost become an anachronism. In the past two years the State Government has sold off public assets (land and real estate) to the value of $1 billion. The City of Sydney Area has largely been inoculated from this practise thanks to the Clover Moore regime, which is set to soon reach its full term. As a society, it would seem, that we have accepted the growing commercialisation of public assets as though the only means of entitlement can be through means. The ruminations on the subject will eventuate in an extended prose-poetic (and journalistic) work to take the form of an artist’s book (or at least a mockup of such to be exhibited), with accompanying images (paintings in the style of agit prop as well as images of sites of historical interest in the public interest), as it were, (and largely ironically) forming an aesthetic of politics. It would also potentially be performed, through petition to council, in places set aside for public use that are underutilised to the extent that they could conceivably be threatened by a change of government in the city (such as various Town Halls). These interventions would be both filmed and photographed and feature within the book itself. It will essentially amount to a critique of Australian culture through the history of unionism, through place and architecture.

Z.O'- as featured in Art Collector:

Thursday, December 10, 2015

"The Ban"

In law as in practise the people are the intellectual property of the state, the physical apparatus of corporations. In Australia, history has been whitewashed into jingoistic institutionalised racism, the bastardised legacy of war for the British Empire, but also of early, often well-meaning, labour strikes (and terrorist operations) several carried out by Irish separatists (The Eureka Stockade, Ned Kelly). The performance/installation would consist of abstracted campfire stories, accompanied by video scenes of European engagement with country, and contemporary interpretations of Australian folk music. Despite the short history of European settlement, very few citizens are aware of the history of the dispossessed, let alone of the thousands of years of Indigenous History. The unofficial national anthem, "Waltzing Mathilda" was actually written about the Shearers' Strike in 1891, in which the farm owners, known as "wealthy squatters," attempted to bring in cheaper Chinese labour and further disenfranchise the population of itinerant farm workers, which laid the foundations of the labour movement and Australian Labor Party, as well as the infamous White Australia Policy. This and similar stories would be told for the wider implications for contemporary Australian culture, from the treatment of refugees to the continuing oppression of the indigenous population. Australia's history, current policies and repressive techniques would also be examined in the context of its influence on the rest of the world, such as the influence of refugee policy on conservative movements in recent elections in the United Kingdom.

Rejected Proposal: EVA International Irish Biennale

Wednesday, December 2, 2015

Some recent Facey posts (for the less-connected)

October 21

Reading back through an old diary to find something I was working on (at least I amuse myself): " Believing in contemporary art is like believing in the tooth fairy, without the return on investment. In earlier ages of humanity, if the oligarchy wanted you to believe in some essentially silly control mechanism that served to affirm the power structure, they would at least offer you some kind of incentive to do so, that you might associate pain with reward. Not so now, because this system is perfect, and as such, already over." 30/4/15

October 25

More old stuff (self-satisfied shit kicker): "A now all-the-more-alienated peasant class deploring the triumph of technologies supposed to free up time (freeing up time from what work remains that doesn't demand of its author's consciousness)- ending in nationhoods of senseless mediation, the bureaucracy of Dead Souls, repurposed humanity. The lack of resistance is a hostile act on the part of a decentralised, deactivated humanity."

October 29

Last night: saw a woman carrying a Kelly Clarkson album under her arm, like, an LP, like, as in vinyl. The CBD is weird, man.

October 30

...Then, Claire, Alex and I were walking through Hyde Park and were stopped by tourists (peering intently into the trees) who asked us where they could find the koalas... to which we of course replied, "the zoo," much to their obvious disappointment... We then attempted to appease them with the possums... Alex pointed out something furry in the bushes... which turned out to be an enormous rat..

November 25 9:24 pm

Don't know what I am supposed to say about SCA, the latest casualty in this utterly corrupt city, as vulgar as it plainly is to lament the demise of an art school in these times. I never experienced the same connection to the former COFA (though I did to its student body), but even those first steps into an education without discipline, a non- or pseudo- education, gave me my life back after I had been so ill, hope for the self-determination that had seemed so impossible. And the prevailing culture (especially at COFA) took so much away throughout that process of assimilation and indoctrination, networking and art prizes, in place of the impulse that had driven us all there that I still believe is the unifying force, however naive or superstitious that may seem against the spectacle. I am unconsidered in my exegesis, attempting a Masters for some reason, without any pretensions to adding to "discourse" as they call this particular debasement of philosophy (which was normally ludicrously patriarchal to begin with), and unable to understand why I should create so much less, be less prolific in the name of some one-liner, in order to present myself accordingly. Frankly, I am bored with all the hostility directed at those expressing real criticality, and feel that those with anything more to say for themselves than that which they have learned by rote to manage the world in terms of their hopelessly redundant milieu, would tend to prove more generous in their approach to debate than those that I continuously am chastised by. Fuck what has become of art and all its schools. SCA was a good place for a time, a safe place, and I am more grateful for the generosity and support of the faculty and technical staff at SCA than I think they will ever know, but this is Sydney, where nothing like that even matters. Back to preying to the gods of accelorationism like nothing better ever happened to me. But it did. I do not want to live only to leave here, but I am struggling.

November 30 8:11am

Ninth day straight of work, it is my soul that's collapsing. My body is scaffolding with a CGI projection of my refurbished self printed on synthetic gauze, but the crumbling edifice is still just barely visible. I walk up to the cross to get something for breakfast and some workman tells me to "smile, it's Monday," like there's nothing like a bit of casual misogyny to remind you that you're a pretty girl, and pretty girls belong to the world. There is a Christmas tree next to the El Alamein (Dandelion) fountain, and I absentmindedly go for a closer inspection expecting needles and condoms, maybe even woven into the branches, but then I remember what year it is, and wonder why a Christmas tree seems so much more offensive than all of that that was there in the past... perhaps because I would seriously doubt the Christianity of those new residents that some public installation like that would be for, but then, that doesn't mean their children should go without santa. I've lost what joy there was to be had in fighting, it doesn't seem so funny anymore. I have failed and I have been failed, my worst projections: my refurbishment, any facade that I have to keep up for such a meagre share of the wealth. I have been told I can write, and that there must be something I can do with that, that maybe I could lecture, but I can see no way forward, I am as hopelessly bad at asking for help as I am at asking for companionship. Being good at communicating never brought anyone closer together.