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).