by Travis Jeppesen on October 12, 2013

A real modern education. I’m talking bout the cocksuck life. Disexplode. Load a life of disk, shitfaced, eat boots made of clay. Thin strips of jaundiced neck steaks illuminated on sidewalk fancy, stream of jewels elaborates hockey stain on underwalked side. Blank strips of Wednesday’re made blanker by homoservant, long jeans a jagged ass for praying on home. Bones in her applesauce, she complained I was at least jerked downward. The way napkin disappears when you need it the least, preliminary disposition ultimately prevents fantasy from actualizing itself among erosions of real-life parrot frockery. Iranian urine landmine shines high above the midnight shadow spring induces when its golden satellite shits out an egg through the narrow straits of dawn; poetic hangnail once ultimate falls down in the shower.


by Travis Jeppesen on October 10, 2013

Frame Fetish (after Stevie Hanley’s Turning the Corner That Never Comes)

by Travis Jeppesen on October 1, 2013

It must be so nice, that feeling: to be contained. But then again, the danger is that it might lead to other feelings, feelings of a more rebellious nature: you know, to break apart that container. Still, we chase after it in all our day-to-day, the inherent aimlessness of all our wanderings. It’s always the three dimensions that hold onto, embrace, the lower, two dimensions. The lower supposed to be our focus, what we are trained to look at. We always try to do the right thing, sometimes it’s hard. Can I be a/yr temporary container for a moment?


Or: the space outside that container.


Now we’re confused.


We could try to contain some of that space – or replicate it – that is, catalyze, create the illusion of space – inside our own picture. A picture of containers. But then do we contain that picture? No, for to do so would be to take a moral stance. We’re (suddenly) more interested in the adventure of non-containment.


The frames float in the container I’ve created, the space around them is formaldehyde and the thing containing them is an aquarium. I have ichthyologically inseminated this sphere with a new meaning. And now that the drama has been centered, a new one emerges to contaminate the preservative: What about time? We can’t avoid it, we’ve already brought the formaldehyde of space into our percept.


Time is the one part that can never be seen. Due to our innate perceptual limitations, time remains motion’s bitch. Time gets buttfucked each time we blink our eyes. The picture – that which is contained – will suffer, will call out for a preservationist to blow bubbles into its vitality – no one notices the way the frame suffers, those stains that gravity leaves on its surface. Gravity is motion, time, too.


But there is another, joyful component to the frame’s sufferings at the whip of time, for time is also the mothering force seeped inside all ecstatic awareness of becoming – even if most becoming is a poetics of decay – this morbidity is not without its erotic aspect.


When I need to escape from the deceptions of enlightenment, I look away from that which is supposed to center my gaze – that thing being contained – and the bars of the prison become my fantasy phallus.


I will never be as inside as you are, I know, because you’re the one who gets all the hairy eyeball love while I merely hold you up and away from the ground. This is the tender romance of our disengagement: you will survive and thrive, though wounded by time, without me, while without you, I am empty and useless, waiting to be filled.

The Captured Rituals of Iwajla Klinke

by Travis Jeppesen on August 2, 2013



One of the more pernicious symptoms of global capitalism has been the spread of an overwhelming uniformity of style and appearance that goes under the name of “popular culture.” Like the global spread of English as a lingua franca, it is meant to serve as a universal language – one whose symbols we must all comprehend if we are to live in the world today, whether we like it or not. The annihilating effects of this phenomenon on local cultures and forms of expression are well known, and indeed, any counter-globalization effort worth its name must take into consideration some measures of preservation.

It is with great timeliness – despite the inherent timelessness of her images – that an artist like Iwajla Klinke then arrives on the scene, fully armed to give us a glimpse at various micro-worlds that continue to endure against the grain of contemporaneity. At the same time, Klinke’s photographs are global in their outreach – she does not confine herself to one particular culture or region, but has set out upon a journey to preserve glimpses of fast-disappearing collectivities that connect us to ancient traditions of myth and ritual, rites that continue to resonate in our day-to-day lives, whether or not we pause to consider their reverberations.

Klinke utilizes classical portraiture to capture her subjects in either traditional costumes, or else manufactured creations that somehow preserve some semblance of ancient ritual. Not far from her home in Berlin, the Sorbians of Eastern Germany still celebrate the annual Bird Wedding on 25 January of each year, in which two children are selected as bride and groom and brought together in a mock ceremony to celebrate the upcoming end of winter. Klinke captures her child brides against dark backgrounds and in natural light, allowing us to admire both the fine detail and flourish of their traditional dresses as well as the determined expressions of reverence that are somewhat surprising to find on children’s faces; they bespeak a worldliness that goes beyond our traditionally cosmopolitan conception of the term, a worldliness that is definitively earthbound and engraved in the machinations of a past that is eternally present.

In another series, Klinke travels to Sicily during Holy Week to select decorated subjects from the festive pageantry for her portraits. Here, the Mysteries have been played out in the days before Easter ever since the 1600s in processions that can last up to twenty-four hours. With baroque extravagance, the children take on their apostolic roles with dignity and honor – and yet the disparity that emerges between their exaggeratedly colorful and detailed robes and sacred cloths and the pitch black background they are shot against is like the very chasm between the Earth, with its millennia of history, and the perpetual darkness from whence it all emerged – and to which it might someday return.


The question, then, must be asked: What distinguishes these photographic works from a mere exercise in cultural anthropology? Despite the seeming esoteric subject matter, Klinke’s gaze is never clinical or desultory; rather, she holds her subjects in the same reverence and esteem with which they carry out their annual rituals. One could say that photography is Iwajla Klinke’s own ritual, one whose results she generously shares. Even her method is quasi-ritualistic. In her travels, Klinke produces her photographs using the same method she practices in her home studio in Berlin’s fashionably shabby Kreuzberg district. Eschewing unnatural light, her photo shoots always take place during the day time next to a window. Given the relative poverty of sunshine in Germany throughout most of the year, the light is usually soft, dim, and pale, as though to allow her subjects’ “inner glow” to fill the frame. Deceptively simple and straightforward in appearance, the photographs are actually produced in sessions that can last up to several hours, during which hundreds of shots are taken, from which the artist will select one single image to serve as the finished portrait. Her subjects, then, must enter into something like a meditative state and wholly submit to the process as the work is being done, which perhaps accounts for the sense of serenity that emerges from nearly all of the figures in Klinke’s photographs.

It is no mistake that Klinke prefers photographing children. One cannot conjure a future worth living in without a cognizance of the past that entails at least some engagement beyond the superficial. Iwajla Klinke’s practice, after all, also extends beyond contemporary photography’s limited concerns and is perhaps best seen situated among the paintings of the Old Masters that continue to inspire her, with the chiaroscuro endeavors of Jean Barbault and Caravaggio immediately springing to mind. Excavating some of the most unlikely sources of our contemporary fabric and forcing us to turn our gaze upon them in an intense consideration, Iwajla Klinke effectively re-invents the sublime and gives us a new politics of reality.


The System

by Travis Jeppesen on July 23, 2013


-after Ashbery-


The system wants to eat my hair, and I said no. That I cannot allow and simply will not give in to the flux that demands my windless participatory combo. O holy darkness, synth in the ashtray – the astronomical voidance thrusts itself into our misapplied notions of temporality, fuck’d the entire picture for once (rather than just a minuscule discrepancy.) It was a dark and stormy housewife, my friends had violence ideals in the wrong zoo. Animals chasing after us, we scrambled down to the showcase city to find out which of our fears would get us there sharpest. A rotten menagerie of twinks and sullen yardsticks, awaiting the buttock brigade they had been promised, future seminary was more my thing once it had already drifted down the stream. The timing of the day was my anatomy also.

Had so much to say. I think I love mostly those things I can never be a part of. That way downfall pre-announced. The bugs rotted needlessly in the windowsill, identifying something. Black flags roasted an innocent horizon.

What was once ruled over now to be innate unearthed and wailing, singing to some ears. Lightbulb’s fantasy is de-containment, the shore to be unframed. Mired in my cosmic lust, I taste time to be out of it – sense of denial lights my antithesis up and now the object begins to bleed from within. Do I exhausted with candied unfeeling? Please allow me to wipe the zero’s ass before placing it back on the counter. You see, I was just reaching out to the anti crawling on your karmic labia.

Cher is the best female singer that has hair, I once heard you to declare. You were digging up that notebook I’d buried one night in the cemetery where Hegel’s bones disintegrate – I thought, why this town? The system’s harelip

kept me married to the deadbeat state I could never afford to overflow, such was my engulfment in the chronic uncertainty of its nether regions. Please elect me Next Best Dictator before I graduate from high school oh lord of no holy motion, my vehicle just done had a plop and it looks a lot like yr face, especially the part that’s no longer there, I cut it off with scissors, the same ones the waitress used to shear my Pyongyang noodles into suckable gobs.

The dictators listened to each other in those days, that was the thing. You didn’t just hold your ruler out and hope that someone grabbed on. Imposition was not nearly so costly as this modern era. Now you really have to force yourself upon the masses, and often, they don’t like it all that much. Teaching the masses to like something was once a favorite pastime. Like fishing in the Tumen, the Volga, the Vltava.

To write a new river is to have a friend. Here is me in this photo trying to survive camp life. My favorite human god put me there. In the photo, I am trying to say. There is no other way, not to put it sourly, it is just that the system could not fit me into its mouth. The system is neither vegetable, mineral, nor mammal; it is more like a vestibule with hairlike slithers that may or may not be alive, depending on the season.

Here is my bemusement looking oh so sexy upon a TV screen, and still I have no plasma. Now that the system has granted us permission to misunderstand time, I’m wondering if we can go back and make that house unburn itself. Or make Hitler shoot someone else in the head. My colleagues in the social sciences thought it might be more fruitful to see what a lion might do with a python; same old benevolence, I thought.

They all looked for something that might dictate the flows. This is what will make life easy – that’s what they all thought. We were never so lost as they are – or were we? Is ours not a falser freedom? For inner necessity doesn’t breed discontent. Becoming passive (inner), we propel ourselves into motion. Squirt fascist intentionality into my breakfast cereal right before I fall face first into the void promised by most breakneck bowls. I can only smell the truth in the darkness of morning.

Winter wobbler called out at the ghost army: Wrong season! Cops’ll keep coming until every highway’s desert. Don’t let the going stop you. Command

gets underway to blow the legacy back to liquid city mortified by shell bombing. Plug that hole, the General’s song echoes off the buildings, implying wake-up time, the next moment to go to work…

That autumn, he led us into the revolution happy that so few of us had felt like getting killed enough to do it. Our enemies were snails. Vampire bats shitting on open collars, eating minnows upside down. Dream of a state of mind. What happens when savior no longer feels like saving. That is when the propaganda machinery begins its evening grind. Cover all the holes, that became your job. He did not wish to hide the truth that bit him in a most improper area on his bodily specimen, the vehicle that could have led to change and change for all, whatever the slogan might have been before it was erased, like a poem writ in sand by the big toe.

We have done all this towards building a republic of dreams, and wet we can’t stop seeming, no matter how hard we try to dissolve into the unformulizable fabric. Seeming is a lot like going somewhere, only not. The otter wore sunglasses and choked on its own necessitude. Burn most banks, it seems. Riots ate most of the continent’s cities that year. An announcement made that the dictator’s pregnant once again.

Fat stuttery looseness heard the telephone to ring and hung it up real quick before a voice could be emitted. This is my nation, she thought, her fingertip stuck against the hourglass. No more mirrors, it felt like too soon to morph into magazine rack unbegone thugness – someone wrote a poem to the god-in-the-machine which done lost control on the road to vituperative stain.

They’ll never be able to design a car that drives itself until they understand how human beings work, and by the time that happens, cancer will be a canned product you can own up to down at the corner stower, where best friend Molten Mary stirs the stew and her fat wife Stir-eyed Sereen can fart a bible through the tailpipe and sell it as contemporary, even though it comes from the future. Some of us have goals, as embarrassing as it may sound; lucky for the rest, we keep their manifestations hidden in our subtlest gestures, while focusing our prospects on the military industrial complex. You can’t explode an armpit without a race riot, grampa used to always say.

He doesn’t like death all that much. So then why does he continue to play with it? Ejaculation is a matter for the police, princes in autumn. Kills turmoil tit in the citywide lust span. Lust, after all, was a city, too. Place to have an incomplete thought about: found himself invited to be interred. Designated capital all painted aluminum, though some claimed it steel. It was not the type of system one need have feathered dreams of to make real. It breathed its unrealness like a redhead into the flowers.

The system’s lungs teargas burns. Individuality’s burnt mushroom okay? For the generation to have a TV show. There was never an honest moment. Lung made out of a curtain, both iron. They tore it all down in the riot, a hundred children wearing gas masks. They all had machines where their hearts were meant to beat.

Humans were lovely machines before they became spatiotemporalized. Now they dwell in the hidden agony of the system’s malfunctions. Flat across the sky, a hidden bat screams to welcome them. But as the newest spawn, what need have we as overseers to see what goes on inside them. If anything, we are the city’s innards – its kidneys and functions. We both are and we move at once. There is no becoming greater than that which defies all measure. Please send flowers when you reach that groundless destination: the sky will then be a green stripe and I will be a series of black wavy lines swarming my way past. Until then, do what you can to regulate and totalize the system. It will eat your brains out regardless. And my hair will always be an extension of my thoughts, just as my fingernails, penis, and eyeshadow simultaneously constitute a holy trinity: the becoming that barfs no shadow.



The Vehicle

by Travis Jeppesen on July 21, 2013




She gets to go all the time.

Lucky her – it’s on their dime.


Eject the future to hasten the ride.

Fehler is(s)t failure,

My whole tone gluttony.

This MP3 cassette should be slipped into the device.

A proper name comes buttholing out,

Savior is saved, mechanism’s deicide.


How can we begin inside?

We are going going

Despite the self-long divide.



Can’t wait to be a me.

That is: to be seen.

Or, not violated, just like

In a scene.

Who where you were

Was scarcely a be.

True to be running

In debt to the sun

Ceilings are lovely

The landscape. Lacks a gun.


Eat you mother and me loving

Glow. This song’s about having

Nowhere to go. Woman waits

At the airport

A man has a gun.

Now we are landing

So the plane becomes a car.

This earth won’t get us very far.



To be horrendous

Is to stare at the sky

And not know why.



History’s abortion funride – oh no!

Sounds can be masterpieces too.

The animals in the zoo.

A token collector on a subway away.

Rollercoaster crash – splat! Sunrise in Hades.


Haiti is a country and an island too.

Then there are places we forgot to go.

Places with names and a heavy throne.

The rulers all got down and disco’d their dismay.

Their subjects wore antlers and rolled in the hay.



To be feared is to go into the sky.

Trace my theatrical, do or I.

Next prevalence it seems out the window

Circumstantial evidence points out the plant’s feeling

Blood runs down the pavement

Art is a body also.


Blast semblance apart

What are you left with

An egg.

Midnight riders in a city

Its name was seems.


I like the drug

When it chases after me

The semblance on the retard trace is too thin.

Humbled mostly by the machine’s indifference,

Thoughts got caught up in the going. Goal.



To live a life of pure chaos, that is true.

To live when there is nothing left to do.

To be raw in opposition to the world’s refinements.

To be ecstatic to fight against the designs of banality.

I don’t know who you are or what else what I am wanting.

All I know is the disease of truth – and how all its escape routes are in fact secret entrapments.


I go.



These vegetables are so sexy do you want one.

The sheep has a penis it stares into the sun.

Its eyeballs turn black and rot in its head.

The sheep keeps on going, alive to be dead.



Going is feeling and went to the store.

Went is the future of the past

Gone is to know more.

Growing on going and glowing is gay

Gone to the wentsburg is feeling okay.

Went there gone to the subjectless verb.

Has been was there and no gone to be yours.

Went had been going to the go-go or not?

Go or goes went down and up the elevator shaft

A bird. Were it is sure.


Cats go differently an animal is so.

Birds bark at elephants their going is no.

Rock stars burnt down the city okay.

No one escaped the going away.

Some went with others, the same were gone.

Growing into going their neighbors felt done.

Cities have gone and villages too.

The countryside stays and makes some shampoo.

Going is wiser than gone in the shed.

Diagonal sideways the going must be led.



I have to take twice as much to feel it now

A motorcycle runs into a cow

The countryside is grim and bleak

We’re driving down a narrow streak

Of road in a village I do not know

I have no desires, fingers, or toes


I am an ant outside of time

Flopping fishlike

Within the gag stream

Mother may I a higher berth?

(Mom’s a device I use to floss.)


Settle in to the vehicle’s girth

Order a pizza, log on to death’s favorite animation.

Circuits abounding – do you know sloth?

She’s a circle I once squared about.

Now Tina is screwing a moth.



We ride past two swans in love alone.

To be a swan is to be alone.

To be in love is to live alone.

Like a swan.

Swans love each other.

I am alone.


They fly through the snow.

The swans.

Lost is yellow.

To be in love.

My sun in the ocean.

A really radical fairy evolves

To show them the way.

Fuck all ideology, let the fucktards hold sway.

Benevolence inside a mushroom? No way!

The dragon inside that masterpiece is gay.

Hold on to the radiator as I pull you away.

Let’s take the heat with us, away and today.


Away and today – these terms are not clear.

The stream stole them away from our ride

Productivities in the world’s oceans collide


Asleep on a mattress, one finds a house.

The settlers more like nomads,

Therapists weren’t allowed.

Diagnostic underarm made for a blatant propaganda poster,

The world’s idols were stools.

A chair in the shape of your favorite dictator: alarm comes free.


Today’s mantel tomorrow’s charm.

Yesterday a louse.

Get wind of that subject, he is lacking all over my time of day.

Sensate grief often a calamity, who knows how.

The mission to be thankful.

Logic’s often a cow.


Vehicle forgot to lick the envelope, now all art’s gone.

Will you miss it when you’re wearing my thong?

Here comes Miss Object bearing symphonic in her bosmatic Bild.

Sunday’s falling

Dot accords quill

To stab out

And quite often!


Shit the shirker and then a house.

Grubbing diagonally through motion’s ex-spouse.

Espouse the funicular till it falls off the rail

Each one dwells in their own private jail.



To wonder to wander.

And can they be combined.

To woander or to waonder.

Wo ander to wound her.

Wound the wand, wo

Ethereal beyond.

What a bad rhyme,

Happens all the time.

Wind in the wound, wo and.

Wanderer wonders deep.

Through which the blood may seep.


Don’t go into the horse this day.

Going, going, the wind is blonde.

American president in helicopters above me.

His hair is blonde, his skin is black.

There will be a terrorist attack.

Bite the ego off the frame.

Artist knows it’s a losing game.


The city sleeps with an artist’s wife.

It causes the whirl so much strife.

Tornado invades to give us shape.

Distance is learning to shadow each maze.



It was a calm day and all were gay.

They were so gay they had nothing to goddamn say.

If they hadn’t been gay would they have it to say?

Will they stay or go away? Will they spray?

Was there another way to play?

Lick the lolly and ride the trolley

Before you roll away.

Each that was gay could really spray

They will always stay

Just to be gay

And not have to say

That they can’t play

Pay to spray

From tubes that are fay

Crime does pay:

A rosebud


An anus gay.


For a day is today and mostly not as well.

Spirals are burning, he wants to smell me.

The smile came detached from the vehicle’s face.

The name game that he played was vague.

The answer came too late.

There were already swirls of diffidence

Haunting the interior of that lake.


Why does nature always put one in a bad mood.

To another, it is an abortionist’s joy.

Three-necked girls and a golden-toed boy.

Snotty eagles threw up on the farm.

The time had come to set off the dictator alarm.


Napoleon ran down the hill, gave everyone grapes.

The children ran off to go make some wine.

The adults chose to consume the children instead.

Napoleon has long been dead.



I once ate an entire circus when out riding about.

You can’t understand the extent to which I spent my spout.

Bathing underwater in a statued fount

The girl ate a sugar cookie as she learned to count.


Days of rage give shape to our fears.

One is a hexagon

Another’s arrears.

Eat the foundational logic of a city’s sins

Find her in the bathroom choking

On scented fins.


It is a shark that controls my fears you see

She just had a teenage tracheotomy

Now she smells but cannot speak

Her veins are open to the slightest squeak.


I love a man teenage as I

Who once dug a dagger in my thigh

I struck back with a metal rope

Who fucked Alexander Pope?


He wanted to eat and he wanted to die.

He wanted to see a screwdriver fly through the sky.

He was too young to drink his fill

And thus he was forced to take a pill

All sorts of colors appeared to him there

He saw a fellow vehicle with pineapple hair

The sun fell into her robotic guise

Skizzy like an android with room for large fries.



You are so repulsive the world goes by too fast.

Lines delineate a time when word wars were not enough.

A landscape bisects the factory’s waste.

An entire century contained in that space.


I was a flatland once too,

I must admit before I became a zoo.

The animals inside me

All have different numbers assigned

Most of the species

Designed with grind in mind

One but kin can never go in

The mother is a factory with a willing grin.



Body is something cannot be forgiven.

Body is something we give up when looking at.

The sea is poison, I don’t know a body.

The years limit what we can do with it.

The years limit where we can grow with it.


Riding past, we think:



It must be hard to be a sea.

All those mountains to brush up against,

Kingdoms to drink your way through.


The sea has its own vegetables very very pretty.

Grasses and weeds and other things with salt.

Some silver fishes and the things they deserve.

Were the sea to be a verb, it would have sparkly hair.



We ride past a mountain and glare at its peak.

(We ride past a past that plays hide-and-go-seek.)

Where did that mountain come from I was only an eye.


Silver truth is so satisfying when you’re falling right off of a gain.

Mountains are satisfied for feeling the same.


Once there was this landscape it had lots of sand.

A tree took root to give it a shade of blame.

Never a flower – no, that would be therapeutic.

The beetles still have something to remain in.



My name is sometime.



If I were yet brave to give that dish its name.

A diameter of truth is real bad I’m shaming.

I want Sunday to matter so bad.

A green shade of noodle just blew past my solar.


Nighttime comes I wanna get away.

My shirt becomes a delicate spray.

We drive so fast I have nowhere to go.

Summer yearns to melt in the snow.



Can the sequel equal the golden ant?



It was a year’s worth of microphones all stacked in the office

All horny and anxious

All waiting for their amps

No one knew which

Channel’s enamel

The war got wasted

Synths had an oligarchy!

And guess what got decided also.



Metal urgy is a feeling experienced by the ride at times

We had better not own.

Go outside to zone

The upended throne

Where exhaust is bright

Es tut mir leid


For there to there

A uniform share.

Bastard shat on his own prayer

Now Allah won’t climb the stair.

There is no hair

And so no reason to stare.

Don’t share. Don’t care. Don’t form a pair. Don’t pay your fare.

The world’s scheduled to end softer than this announcement’s red blare.


Walden, reel 3 (Jonas Mekas, 1964)

by Travis Jeppesen on July 18, 2013

Diaries, Notes, and Sketches – none of these are complete. Deep of winter, Velvet Underground grinds something out, a cat. This will noble to be blessed with the rest. He falls in love with a madwoman. Oh get more flow. The ethereal disaster. One theory of the cinema was/escape a bog. Wrapped in an American fag, there is no autumn. Only stairs. The machine joined this guild, soil owned hands (I think, believe.) He went all into the snow – glowing with hands. I thought his hands were on fire and I couldn’t much believe it. There was no precedent for that illusion. Or else it proceeds as though a dream. A patchwork. He remembers (reel 3) the women for peace, 42nd St. Nobody stopped, they were passing by. What the winter does in New York when it begins to break up, the street. Yet this pond does warrant a mention…Walden. My own private. A privacy trace. Film Culture gets mailed out Amy stops for coffee. From whence a beginning could be begged, down and diamond brite, the sentience like a strobe, peace and marching. Police violence for peace, I am marching. Blue jean legs the wrong direction. Night flow bravely exacter. Black power the construction site. Leslie sees it all through the coop window, red squirrels turned into hot dogs for fifty cent. Child’s foot massages glazed wood on chinese new year; become my favorite bastard. All the babies of filmmakers please. Benefits of democracy displaced dreams from a specific dreamer. What do I think sunwindslush. I love that ceiling. Dump the droll, enthusiastic boogiewoogie dimensionality, the cab driver’s breath. Jean Cocteau had a dream. Grown fuckers in the snow. I don’t care the love affair, tree. Sinful skipping bird moves so slow the sled slush. Whirrr. DON’T WALK. She doesn’t know how to. Stay. Don’t film the windshield. The city as seen from a boat. The city as seen from a moving vehicle. Jonas. People moving through the brushwork. Splaying with light. Could it be a funeral. For a man forgot to die. He went into midnight instead the rooftops. A man to breathe as the people crawl. Myriad impossibilities, this maggot being. Were a footprint in snow to be a lock. All fail the echoey considerations of this tumult. Still we climb, seeking a higher landscape. Hold on to this red sweater before the view slides by too fast; explosion. He smiles yes as it all explodes.

Maria Lassnig

by Travis Jeppesen on July 16, 2013

On Maria Lassnig, at Art in America.

I read aloud

by Travis Jeppesen on July 12, 2013

….tomorrow night at Exile in Berlin.

Will you be there?

Irregular Readings
July 13, 7 – 9pm

Irregular Readings is an end of (gallery) season and early evening of short readings and vocal actions by artists and writers Travis Jeppesen, Amy Patton with Erik Niedling, Hanne Lippard, Nisaar Ulama, Marcus Knupp, and Tove El.
The evening is hosted by artist Katharina Marszewski whose already de-installed exhibition CV CE LA VIE will have closed just one hour before the beginning of this event.

Travis Jeppesen is a novelist, poet, and art critic based in Berlin and London, where he teaches at the Royal College of Art. His writings on art, literature, and film regularly appear in Artforum, Bookforum, Upon Paper, and Art in America. He is a contributing editor to 3ammagazine.com. Jeppesen’s new novel, The Suiciders, will be published by Semiotext(e)/MIT Press in October. Since it’s summertime, he will read a poem.

Amy Patton reads from the diary of Erik Niedling. The artist would like to be buried in Pyramid Mountain, the largest tomb of all time, conceived by writer Ingo Niermann. To make this goal a reality, Niedling lived one year as though it were his last. The Future of Art: A Diary recounts the joys and horrors of that year. Niedling will further give latest information about the current state, and future plans of Pyramid Mountain.

Hanne Lippard uses language in all its forms in an effort to create an original aesthetic of the word. Nuances of No, the first comprehensive collection of the artist’s text work was published in June by Broken Dimanche Press BDP.
Her contribution to the event reads as follows: Stretched neck, the mouth remains the end point of the spinal column. Spoken word is our tonal brainpower. Spelling remains trivial. Re-composed through the pointed ears of others. Comma. Coma. Karma.

Nisaar Ulama is a philosopher, interested in how societies form themselves through knowledge and images. He will give a short lecture about our actual political paralysis, which, he thinks, is founded by a broken concept of »reality«, an addiction to knowledge, and a collapsing relation between subjectivity and space-time. If there is still time, Ulama will explain how artists and philosophers can solve these problems.

Marcus Knupp offers a form of communication that passes through the membrane of implied meaning and into the meaning of a new meaninglessness. From his vantage point within the media and marketing industry his gaze is cast upon a wide range of cultural sectors, topics and forms of mainstream incorporation.
He will read from one of his new short stories that either deals with the event-culture obsessed lifestyleartworld we find ourselves trapped in or about his recent experiences in some unnamed dark Berlin basement.

Tove El‘s performances take their starting point in the situation and environment in which they are to take place. They raise questions about social codes, status, dreams and the struggle to pursue an artistic career.

Exile is located at Skalitzer Str 104, 10997 Berlin

China in Venice

by Travis Jeppesen on July 10, 2013


A review of Chinese art at this year’s Venice Biennale, at Randian.

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