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.