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.

Tuesday, December 1, 2015

Rejected Application: Artspace (Sydney) Studio Residency

The Artspace residency would be used to further develop the current series of mock Mediaeval Banner Paintings, transmitting poetic political messages that frustrate easy reading and subsequent repackaging. 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. At the same time, in earlier times in European development, art was pracised in a way that was much more mundane, with artist often charged with creating things like advertising, and planning weddings (as Leonardo De Vinci was purported to have done for the Medicis); which would now seem something of a failure for those rarified as “Artist.”The banner paintings utilise discarded bed sheets (again, common practice before industrialisation) and are very large in scale, necessitating a substantial studio space. The works are currently painted using mis-tints bought from Porter’s Organic Paint range (usually 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). Further than this, the work will progress into the creation of the paints from rendered fats, (lime washes being ordinarily created out of rabbit skin, they would potentially be derived from kangaroo skin), and utilise certain Australian Indigenous technologies in terms of the pigments, whilst being very much couched in their indigenous European roots. The processes associated with this development will be documented and most likely be turned both into a larger poetic work which may take the form of a book, or video, or both.

Summary of Artistic Practise
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 zeroimpact sculpture and painting (works derived from waste product) as well as video and prose poetry readings. A video work was included in the “Gap Year” exhibition in Artspace in 2012 (by the invitation of Susan Gibb). Over the last three years many different works have been shown throughout Artist Run Initiatives and the performances have also been staged as interventions in various nightclubs and on radio.

Wednesday, November 11, 2015

Rejected Proposal, Firstdraft 2015/2016

Z.O’Mahoney~ Framework (Whitewash),
a proposal

The phenomena of “Contemporary Art” are treated as distinctive only of a certain era, a time in which a pure universal can be ascertained through unprecedented connectivity and a truly global ethos; in this way they reveal themselves as yet further incarnations of a myopic European and Patriarchal machine driven by market forces.
The wider Australian public is notoriously suspicious of art and artists, creating little room for even a modest livelihood for those who simply create paintings or poetry, as humanity has continued to do for millennia; thus the domestic University system encourages a kind of speculative art designed specifically to cater to the tastes of oligarchs (at least if one intends to be seen as critically engaged), works that cannot be afforded and displayed by the average person. There is no reason why these things should be mutually exclusive. The current Australian art market (not dissimilarly to other contexts) is governed by as cabal of the wives of wealthy industrialists savvy enough to have created the market for what they then redistribute. This does not imply that artists must continuously pander to the tastes of those who can claim higher authority by being in no way dependant on art as their livelihood.
The gallery would be divided into two spaces representing modes of exhibiting past and present. Dividing the space between the studio and that which is exhibited. The half of the space furthest from the door would present a fetishised and working artist atelier, replete with typewriter, easel, projections of past works, and the occasional intervention of self, work collectively titled “Living Room Set,” featuring paintings on (stretched) discarded bedsheets and matching furnishings, many of which will also be artworks. The space will house an ongoing salon, over the course of the month, which will feature a launch for the forthcoming artist publication “The Ban” (which may be read about in greater detail in my application for the writers’ residency program), as well as a series of guest lectures of aesthetic significance (in the area of politics and the sciences). This would be sectioned by way of velvet rope.
The half closest the door (the windowless half) would then be space for the exhibition of
“Contemporary” works, marble plinths encased in plinths of perspex, ornate gold frames encased
in perspex frames, a gesture towards the absurdity of minimalism and its implicit misogyny and eurocentrism, doing little but self-consciously acknowledging the context of exhibition in itself, as though it were the last gesture that would ever be made on the subject that somehow the human condition had never any place in an art that is purely placement. There will also be unobtrusive furniture in the vein of the larger institutions from which members of the public may view the happenings in the salon space.
Paintings and publications will be made and potentially sold, including this proposal as reterritorialised as a place for art above administration.

Friday, October 30, 2015

Postface for a project gone awry (if I had my say, the last word):

Contemporary or speculative art has everything in common with the pomp and circumstance of high food, it is another qualification for those disproportionately allocated a share of the resources to the end of an affirmation of their right to have annexed the wealth, an affirmation that they are the ones who are cultured, who understand art, who understand food, an affirmation of meritocracy. It hardly needed the image of Charles Saatchi with his hands around the throat of then wife Nigella Lawson for this feeling of ownership of cultural production to be understood as the end of those patrons that have so influenced the kind of work that is championed by the establishment, to the end of the constant alienation of the general public. The university system, increasingly privatised at the expense of even the veneer of scholarship, serves to convince artists of the redundancy of work that can belong to the domestic in favour of the spectacles that are favoured by the oligarchy (for they can only be afforded by them). For every other working artist beneath the stratosphere of Biennales and institutional shows, galleries that dilute subject matter and turn works into suitable investment pieces for architectural monoliths there is a constant struggle with opportunities that are impressive for insiders that amount to a pittance in terms of remuneration for their labour. This work is one such incarnation of alienation. It is scab labour.

Thursday, July 23, 2015

Some images from "Minor Works"

Minor Works, 2015. Organic lime wash, stone paint and enamel (mistints) on discarded canvas, 2015.

The Firmament (art of the Glass Ceiling), 2015. Organic lime wash, stone paint (mistints) and acrylic  on discarded bedsheet.

Text reads: 

Fermenting: Proto Germanic, literally to seethe. Pouring myself into the void like it could take me, crossing the firmament to be of the liquid again, preserved in brine, soused to meet my outsides, for want of a catalyst, to ferment. Developed as a process over thousands of years of discipline. I have a military industrial complex that the pharmaceutical industry seeks to sustain, offering me ways out that are in, and I don't distinguish between the drugs I choose and the ones that choose me. We're calling these references hackneyed because potentiality is unavailable to us, and that's why we have a military industrial complex, one of those simple confusions over causation, all these abstractions in which we trust. It's that reek when we have wasted, not permanent except that it will be, at least not the reek of humanity, but its evidence, punctuation amidst the artifice.  

Is This Still Life (Sunday Painters' Society poster), 2015. Organic lime wash, stone paint (mistints), oils, pastel, texta and macaroni on discarded canvas.

Study for Ceremonial Upskirt, 2015. Organic lime wash (mistints) and enamel on discarded canvas.

Walking Fucking Quardiplegics, 2015. Organic lime wash and stone paint (mistints) on discarded bedsheet.

Wednesday, July 1, 2015


Keeping occupied, occupied, a foreign governance (ruling classes). In law as in practise the people are the intellectual property of the state, the physical apparatus of corporations. It's all passed- that that was- it all passed, was. Another time. A unifying theme of unification and subsequent degeneration into a state of apparently individual and homogenised consumption (Australia). Absolute power. So highly individual is labour unencumbered by art. Art against nature. From art dans tout to art sans tout and tout sans art. The whole world baulks, ever so slightly, at becoming the more like us, with our ministries of imperialist food, fair trade incarnations of ubiquity to shame the poor for their immorality concerning consumption, either not enough or too much- but always the wrong thing.

Trying to make out the meaning in the limited similarities, the rhythm and intonation, until the grip on the mother tongue slips, and the inessential nature of language is realised, fully formed. I woke up. And alert. Like the worst mistake of the European sun. I woke up awake. Waking up awake, awoken awake by the European sun and its mistakes against regular and purposive steps towards the morning and the evening and the improbability of regeneration under the circumstances of seasonal affects of the extreme (but now I can't distinguish her from her peoples). As regards language I lost, the language I lost, with each subsequent intervention into my approximation and their referents, as concerns the languages I lost not so much as was gained by the non-referential, the irretrievable, and genuine irreverence of the understanding of the ends of understanding, as trying as that was a notion for the anglophone and her systems of democracy from above.

The lack of sleep is no longer doing me any good in this way, in this way mediating, keeping me that much further somehow from reality, all the work being done at any given moment to simply keep back all the senses and the senses of everything to try and reform them into the endless project of consciousness, of singularity, regardless of how absurd the notion. Uncollected along the rail line, a few more glimpses of a country hitherto unvisited, always that feeling like its incredible that any of the representations were anything like accurate, and yet, here they are again, agreed upon like the orthodoxy of an art history, as much as I've plainly disagreed with everything right in front of me since it showed up... All those times I thought I knew more, obeying my own logic, and my own logic only... that collected sense of sense-information, as utterly mad as that now seems, on the margins or periphery of my own consciousness in this truth, this near nothingness. Lost connection to my image through overidentifying with my physicality, lost attachment to my sense.

From an email to a friend:

Regardless of what I think about work I have to make some money, I actually have a reason to now, other than it simply being something to do (to accumulate: to work really hard against growing fat because you never go hungry, because you have little more to think about than your stomach), the evocation of a historically privileged position rendering its enjoyment counterfeit. Australia. Antediluvian provisions. Setting up house was really the most cynical and deadening move on my part, as much as I will carry it through to an entirely aestheticised existence and its conclusion: build a life to sell it off, like an artist. Then back to the skin of my teeth, anonymous enough in a new city, time to read again...

I've been aimless, the walls closing in, the "scene" lost interest as soon as poetry became popular and so bad, and I was left like a child star at the altar, always the bridesmaid. I needed something new to throw my life away on. I needed a place where I would not be looked down upon because of my job or status, in the recognition that we do what we have to to sustain ourselves and that what's finished is never finished when one isn't aiming to make products.

I've come to myself a bit, perhaps, my senses, new alertness, unburdened of the weight of my history, absent the trauma memory that carries and informs all memory creating narrative out of being, which in actuality, without the story, is disparate... unlike a reactionary... Come to some power like someone with the power to undo a system with a patient smile of perpetual disillusionment. Like the Groys you sent, the power to see death in life. (Saw some Vanitas painting- wonderful, also, this guy Willem Kalf-amazing still-life of food- think I might paint some still-life of food).

Monday, June 22, 2015

Rooted (revisited)

The following is the contents of a booklet I produced for my exhibition as part of a Firstdraft residency in 2013, the physical results of which can be viewed here: Accompanying the booklet was a spoken-word CD, which perhaps resolved the work more fully, some of which can be listened to here: My writing has changed, become less abject, but there are some themes that I have come back round to that I began to flesh out with this work. I have also included a few (excellent) action shots taken by Charles Dennington at the opening, his work can be found here:

Photos from the opening, by Charles Dennington: 

Saturday, June 20, 2015

and I felt it

It forced it, came by chance, it was a product of its environment,
and its environment only,
It had no nature, it knew no nature, no nature knew it,
only an environment,
It was thought that it was thought,
the cynical idealism once referred to at the heart of sociopolitical solutions to the resolution of culture (once and for all, of all it was only once)
It didn't make a great deal of sense...
It had it resting on its interpretation,
which was as good as its very sense.
It sounded like a riddle,
so heavily weighted, so heavily rooted, was it in the prosaic.
I had no gift for riddles, for their interpretation, for their formulation, 
for that you had to have ownership of some sense transferable between beings, where I had started out whole, without debt and without sin.
The writing as almost simply automatic,
except that it was never simply anything... 
automatism spoke never to the greater number, thus, I may as well have been shouting into thick air.
The product was as the product would do, would be,
with the greater of the objects either before or in front of me, never strictly on top of me, as much as I could never quite meet their beginnings or their ends.
Some people had a hand in writing like this wrote,
the skill had since eluded me...
I was in the wrong place when speaking to my place,
it was something that never, or perhaps should not have concerned me.
Transcendence was too marginal an exploit,
now my hand never left the page, dragging on in it own way —emptied of its gestation and now owed crudely only to the earth, subdued and submitted like the potentiality of all children of men, of men. 
(Falling right into its own maturation and independent cycle of looking and being without.)
I could not follow it and I could not stop it, somehow.
I thought it would never happen again.
It was like a love that I could all but control,
his eyes and his stupidity for not taking hold when it took hold, 
the adoption of masculinity, only ever adopting the own borne fruit of their ambition and their assaults on the world of women. 
Taking some time, my own time, drying out,
as much as I know what had happened in a few short moments, irrevocably.
I did it all out of spite,
to get out of spite, to get out despite whatever it was that was holding me back, forcing me to leave.
It was strange what I was doing,
as if I could help it, as if I could help, 
as if I could stop for the life of me, for the life of me.
It happened again and it was at the centre,
It informed my being and my certainty,
and belonged, not to me, 
oh it happened again, alright, as much as I had made my realm the purely political,
It happened again despite me and because of me,
and I felt it.

Sunday, June 7, 2015

(Tiergarten) About Face

What is East and whatever is West
Obscured by a geopolitical forest of tears

What is right and whatever is left
Obscured by a forest of geopolitical tears.

Much talk of expropriation...

Much talk of semiotics and the poetry of the market
Without much to show for it,
No signifiers,
Significant to and of nothing.

If I have finally found a way
To express how I express myself
I have hit upon a compromise
And found nothing.

Data resounding,
An organisational tool or member
Meaningful as the forest for the trees
Against the backdrop of the source-language
Almost redemptively speaking only to its habitat

Carving out runes...
Can't quite imagine the mind before it
Incessantly to ply a trade in an attempt to ravage it,
On the other hand, the unbearable purity
Of solitary acts of disgrace.

Needing an answer for my exhaustion
Having everything to answer for my exhaustion
The last and best strategies
Of defensive corruption

I just needed a friend...
Someone who would love me plainly,
With only the most moderate adulteration,
In these times when the extreme
Is not the extreme.

I do not feel as though I have ever had my chance yet
Which seems an approximation of life,
Happiest when avoiding the known and the thought
For the sake of the desired.

Fashionable incarnations of countered interruptions
Of state and civility
Falling densely to the floor amidst the relevant onlookers
There to be looked-on, relevant
Preening an orthodoxy
Of tertiary production of primacy.

Repetition, refrain,
It never happened when it happened
—which made it enough
(and no more)—
to really build a career on,
No more or less reprehensible
For being so cynically idealistic.

About face:
I was.
No more or less reprehensible
For being so cynically idealistic.

About face:
As though not the one has ever been the one and the same,
The merging of relevant faults into a moderate extreme
Of blank visibility,
And the self-perpetuating logic of representation.

Poetry and the market.
Semiotics without a hand,
The manual-mechanic
:its iterations
:its overcoming.
Precision undermining description
With dense interpretations of surfaces
Now aware of their own superfluity.


Bodily projections:
About face:
Codes and algorithms.

Market needing a new word for itself...
Something divorced from its etymology,
The word that governs consumption
Without meaningful exchange.

I need a meaningful exchange,
But I have not
The raw symbolism of the market
An overabundance and overuse of overwords
That have escaped their origin,
No more or less reprehensible

For being so cynically idealistic.

Sunday, May 31, 2015


Myself having worn out my-self —having a fit of unconcentration, a separation... separating like a badly beaten mayonnaise, to a talk, post-body body talk (the cyborg) and tried but failed to listen to speak about a consciousness independent of its source. At my source, knowing many incarnations of incapacity predicted by bodily unrelation with mind "internet culture" has never been all that seductive to me —attempts on the host-body countered by attempts on life-sustaining bacteria, resulting only in mutually assured destruction— after the cold war these things were an uncertain choice to invest in, not that that has ever stopped anyone. Dread writing dread. More ready now not to be ready, to be away, from away, without a founding principle, residency, line on a CV, excuses for the lately barely extant OzCo. The mundanity of the postapocalypse as experienced by the Australian, "no place" and "good place" being European impositions resulting only in trauma, trauma to and from the ethnic European, resulting in even greater trauma on the landscape, the more for her inhabitants. Always a decipherability, as though this system might be the last: e/sc(h)atology... somehow lacking the energy of their source, the joyous counterbalance of power, the history of power.
Unconcerned by the dislocation, the charm of the expressiveness of second English in the systems of airports in places like Hong Kong, faintly archaic in their propriety (please alight from the train), these days of customers and not patrons and not passengers and not borrowers, these days post-English (we might be happier about it, really).
Unconcerned by the dislocation- obsessing over the quality of food, sourcing the next drink having become distant memories in the course of a week. Having formerly had nothing to fixate on other than prolonging a wildly unfulfilling existence, counterbalancing with alcohol and violence, as Australian as AMPOL. Certain joy in not scrambling to accrue enough alcohol for the next poisoning before ten pm, in any event...
The mediation of an airport window somehow undermining to reality, another uncatagorisable fault of human nature, design by nature and nature by design. Touring and trying to engage, thinking of nothing worse than the beaten track like some ghoulish advertising slogan. Somehow landing among the real artists, maybe it was luck or maybe it was hard work that never could have an ascribable value. So utterly impressed by the work in this city I almost forgot that I hate art. I don't know what I have been doing resisting the wider world for so long. To make or not make it irrelevant, just to see it, just to live it...
The marked contrast in mind, laughing, affectionately, at Elliot Hughes for writing a a thesis on Australian war art, going towards everything that they hate, when, in my quest for enlightenment having decided finally not to go to exhibitions that didn't interest me... realising my focus has even more myopically than that thesis been for so long on everything that is wrong... Joel Mu having said something that is finally sticking about how fucked everything is and how that doesn't mean that there is any sense in failing to make things better for yourself. The last thing I wrote before I left Sydney:

The short twentieth century:
The last hundred years amounting to a farce of mundane iterations of avant garde as present garde, using up the English language's stores words that mean "current" from the annals of imperialist history, each "movement" basically amounting to "this is what we can see because we can see no further than now, and now is a submission." Each movement of currency (pun intended) has been marked by counterrevolutionary appropriations of works that existed at the end of the long nineteenth century turned into a fashionable orthodoxy reasserting the absolutisms of military-industrial control, money that must be spent to be made. The art school begins with the assumed knowledge that what is known before it, predicting engagement with it is fundamentally wrong in the face of what began as cultivation, as draftsmanship, and ended as ideological structures privileging patriarchal logic aimed at rewiring a group of people (possibly dangerously) much more inclined towards lateral thought. The discursive imposition of consensus art, as manifest in over-polite "generous" discussions around production, and importantly not actual work, where if something can be explained before it is made there is really no sense in making it, proceeds from premises utterly unquestioned by all those complicit, which nonetheless, and probably like most of society, are fundamentally quite wrong when explored, to the extent of the performance of a theatre of the absurd, without the joy, without a subversion of content, rather a thorough absence.

There they were, that class of people, the absurdity of the postgraduate, of the post anything. Like a fox in the henhouse, never agreeing with the premises on which the machine was running. (In truth, the same story throughout my schooling, from when I started to get into fights with teachers when I was around 12.) But there they were, packaging their "art" their "work," no one challenging "criticism" such as it is, so much aggression directed towards artists it hardly seems fair to unload, and so so much goes unsaid, in a discipline in which we are disproportionately urged to be ethical, for some utterly incomprehensible reason. Always being chastised for talking about art by others who talk only of their own work because of something considered fundamentally wrong about this life. Having responded so negatively, having each stated authority trapped in a loop of my repressed disdain in which she can only respond awkwardly... Back to my roots, dislocation.

Monday, May 25, 2015

Images from 'Human Resources'

Human Resources exhibition, June 2014. Photos Andrew Haining.

"Transubstantiated," 2009-2014. Chewed bread sculpture. Bread, hairdressers' mirror, red wine, bird bath.

"Record of the Present: An Object," 2014. Original typewritten document, lectern.

Photo of painting undertaken as part of a performance by Yiorgos Zafirou.

"Suspension of Judgement," 2009-2014. Video Essay.

View of lectern and images.

"Record of the Present: An Object," 2014. Hand-stitched "zines."

Installation view.

Installation view.

Friday, May 15, 2015


Qualifying experts by way of quantitative judgements like the art establishment or university system, holes in the hierarchical order just gagging for the assertion of capitalism, no recourse to physicalisation, to sincerity.

I had it, I had to stop midway cleaning with Rabelais, the purity of stark puerility... I had a sudden thought that had not yet sufficiently manifested itself to be trapped in language, perfect in its insufficiency. It was something about thinking about those times before I had realised anything. It would feel better, it might feel better if I did, that was perhaps what was passing for hope these days, equal to the task, all things being equal, quite perfect with nothing new yet to happen or be, no way out, quite perfect, and insufficient.
That will suffice, enough for now on nowness, on the presence of the author, on authority. I have not quite come to understand the way I feel, I have no knowledge of this, carnal or otherwise. Last night I dreamt about dusting, which holds a special place in our family's history, as it is the dispersal, and indeed attempted annihilation of our family's dead skin, gradual stages graduated from, the last of the obvious instances of bodily function within the living areas of the home. Unthinking that any kind of attempt on the dead could be anything other than an act of reverence... Science warranting not a sceptical eye, but granted that we others, that at best, in the pursuit of our ideals might donate our skulls to the impersonation of a fallen clown, or else through vocation, to be fashioned into drinking vessels for the high artists.1 No value for socio-cultural innovation. Clowns for reflection and proselytes for digestion.

My health returned, today I ran down a grassy embankment like a little kid. I had actually forgotten what it was like, this youth... strange power... nothing more than potential... something so terrifying when it is not accessible... Those dragging days, the body at the bottom of the lake, concocting reasons out of senselessness, like the deservedly poor, voting aspirationally with my prostrate feet, like the capitalist church. Coming to convince myself that I somehow bring on the illness, anything to not sit pressed against the loud manifestation of lived mortality. I know when health hits that no one would ever have chosen to live like that.

The hyper-sexuality of sudden health, coming over like men can smell it, so much attention... almost reassuringly animal... Roughly divided in half as to where it makes me feel good and makes me feel awful... Instances of nice men introducing themselves, and then those others seemingly sparked by the intersection of sex and privilege, the rage inspired apparently by my particular intelligence, for having said something out of keeping... like I exist somehow in the wrong package... and everyone seems very outraged by false advertising in the current market. Last night I was subjected to a violent outburst from an Englishman with the simple suggestion that the "British" penal system serves the interests of the wealthy first and foremost, and that the caste system was enforced by the British Empire ("You need a history lesson, darlin'"). He yelled at my friend over why we were sitting on "his table" in the crowded bar. I had tried to forget that anyone still believes in the British Empire, it just seems so absurd.
I am still trying to figure out why these exchanges between the sexes are accepted as an exchange anyway... the expectation of passivity supposed to govern my chosen words... perhaps it is the poverty of the English language, the language of bureaucracy, that the word "exchange" is all we have and it is interchangeable, relation with resource. So many ways for a human being not to be, to be stripped of being in the mind and the attitude of others that are maddened by silly cartesian incarnations of patriarchy, so convinced of their own selfness that it apparently excludes the possibility of anyone else. Quite passively, calmly, resolutely going around setting things on fire, apparently, and apparently simply for not apologising for myself. Sometimes feels like when they are not trying it on they are throwing me back in the lake to see if I will float. Clowns for reflection and proselytes for digestion.

Refrain from itself, refrain of itself, refrain to refrain. Central motif of repetition that exists only for itself. A grip on the future somehow looser, ready to drop. Low impact art.
I am going to be a human sacrifice to myself.

1Lord Byron drank out of a cup made out of the skull of a monk that his gardener found in the backyard of his then home, formerly an abbey.

Thursday, May 7, 2015

Depravity and Deprivation

Writing to write that writing has lost its succour. Long hours of toil without putting anything in the world except for something to hang my hat by, that the next time someone appropriates my ideas at least they will have provenance. I don't know when I began to aspire to a humility of purpose (if, plainly, not of outlook), but I don't want to make art for and of and among the 1%, I don't want to make food for and of and among the 1%, and I don't want to make money that represents only itself, and so I fail to see a way forward that isn't riddled with pain and misrepresentation. These hackneyed tropes of the artist.

In pedantry and verbosity, as much as sustainability and grudging Epicureanism, encouraging the urban agrarian revolution, like a ludicrous Romantic. Scores of turgid and weighty tomes laying dormant like the larger part of any human mind, easy to chance upon being thrown out of libraries to the end of the deliverance from the macspeak (the code of the internet artists) and other $5 clothing cycles (complicity in slavery) of contemporary existence.

No more Movember, men in dresses for men's health. Finally proof that there is nothing demeaning or degrading about being feminised. (Early treatment, talking about feelings, resisting self-harm, resisting harming others.)
Talking about domestic violence as a women's issue is indicative of the pervasive culture of victim-blaming. Just as the only race issues are with the Anglo-Saxon, whose lasting cultural legacy will be the global export of the caste system.

Singularity through fault of my own. Devising stratagems, ways of talking to men, constantly being given advice as how to speak and how to act in relation, failures in relation necessarily ascribed to woman.

Byron, Don Juan, Canto 1, 194 (Donna Julia's letter)
'Man's love is of his life a thing a part,
'Tis woman's whole existence; man may range
The court, camp, church, the vessel, and the mart,
Sword, gown gain, glory, offer in exchange
Pride, fame, ambition, to fill up his heart,
And few there are whom these can not estrange;
Man has all these resources, we but one,
To love again, and be again undone.

Byron, and his progressive voting in feudal parliament, with or without awareness of the irony of his paternalistic capacity to argue on behalf of the dehumanised. Were we to believe that anything had changed... About as many resources for a woman now as ever there were. Boys keep swinging (

Byron and the invention of the rockstar mythologeme and its synonymity with the invention of the suit, Beau Brummell and the simultaneous democratisation of dress and hierarchy of style. I suppose it is not worth arguing with, aside from its necessary masculinity. Even the agency of style only attributable to the small minority that seem to shoulder all the world's problems, as much as we are the author of them.

In the event of Contemporary art, worth is more often determined by institutions, creating an underclass of speculators making work in the appropriately quasi-theoretical aesthetic of the museum, unsaleable to the bourgeoisie, as a forced reference to earlier counter-cultural statements.

An identity at what purchase (to seek to bring about, therein having ownership), obscured by the arcane, outmoded usages, undemocratic in their release from the tyranny of the majority, at what purchase: all paid for without ultimate ownership, or ownership only ultimately, property deferred to mortality, in death finally earned... but this is freedom, and even privilege. The founding principle of civilisation: sexual violence. Still, the major cause of death for those under fifty in this country, by his own hand, where they are both his own, suicide in men, domestic violence for women. To see the threat of suicide as anything other than another in a catalogue of sexual violences... the worst thing... the worst thing, they would have you know from the first, to be deprived, to go without them. He let me know from the first.

Thursday, April 30, 2015

Nominative Determinism

Every moment tortured by its self-awareness, anthropomorphised like the feminine. To understand this it is necessary to really know that the Greek word anthropos means man.

To understand this it is necessary to look no further than its context.

The writing is arbitrarily separated, categorised, imagined through refrain. It is an inherently physical writing. It is independent of narrative, except as it pertains to the machine that constructs it.

It is prescribed by the body of the author, as much as associated prejudices are imposed on the text through this self-knowledge, of author and audience.

The Contemporary:
Not chronologically nor anachronistically but rather descriptively “Contemporary,” the moment of stasis that is post-industrialisation, frozen as an arbitrary gesture against that which came before, which is all that it refers to, the absence of the past, of humanism shocked to death by barbarity “no poetry," nothing will ever be the same.

Nominative determinism:
At base a tautological statement, all words pertaining to reason and understanding somehow mean to diminish, they are words of containment and confinement.

All determinism is logocentric, it seems silly to even apply the word "determinism" when it applies to nothing but prejudice.

The nature of human intelligence is that it is not.

There is little to be lost and the whole world gained in thinking beyond reason.

Finally managed to explain myself, and to great affect, by simply stating that I remark (explain, stating, remark) that I (discuss) art as it pertains to capital, as it is predicted by its environment. Which is to say (say) that I write about everything, somehow, and yet it suffices by way of (definition).

With only a negative return on work, or real-time investment, accelerationism passing for belief in the afterlife.

Exhausted and exhaustive style making cheap the attempts toward accelerationism, as ordinarily unwittingly as they may be devised, and obsolete the anti-individualist attempts at retrofit individuality.

Once upon a time, belief was incentivised, but this system is perfect. It is all over.

For my part, believing in nothing, my independent dissociative state determined only to process phantom pain more or less resulting in the failures of my physiology and my nerve.

Task-negative network, overcome by the tacit incapacities of this working life, forging ahead only when stricken, closer somehow to the conditions of existence than when making money out of money.

I can't now and could never keep up with the expansionist intentions of those that set the working week.

Made all illness the responsibility, and indeed the fault of its sufferer as though it were subject to their authorship.

Here I am (there I go), one of capitalism's Dead Souls, feted to belong only to the hoard in an unfinished and morbid scam, or else to be wasted, to go to waste.

Light that by not being, throws into relief that which cannot be seen, the building blocks of the vegetative state, simply enough to feed off of, black light.

It just striking me as hard to penetrate, my own thoughts, a semi-permeable membrane.

The logic of penetration being assimilated as symbolic of a loss, a gift, a submission, is rape culture. And I have no desire to subject my perfect body to anthropomorphisation.

As a much younger man I attempted to write in metaphors equally virile, equally violent as those imposed by penetration in the dominant article. I wrote as one of a series of simple aphorisms: "I want to suck up all his juices through both sets of lips, and fucking, assimilate him."

The necessarily degenerative project of maturation.

I have nothing left to say.