by Travis Jeppesen on March 29, 2014
I wanna eat, fuck, and shit america, and it’s my face the world is sitting on as I write this. The electric guitar spilled all over my tits got sent there for sure cos like a real motherfucker barks like a dog as he wolfs on down the raw egofuck. Mountains of tender pussy finesse scrape the barrel of MY understanding punctuated threats of novel sparse and no deep meaning. Free pussy on the trembling airplane, it crashes into disaster spillage and no more sleep for big money fuckwad whose thorough pagedness frisks my burden electrical outside of giant dickdouche time maze. My real world yr astronomical astonishment closed eyes to the black gulf sentiment that ashes up all yr eyeballs. Sleep gives me drumkit hard-on knock my head on concrete block to smell the real stars striped on my conal ambivalence sphere this is how we goddamn construct the real. NO ONE is safe and no one wants to be, be my enemy and I will celebrate you into the cement, jam a metal pole up my conscience and watch as I spew out a recycled vocabulary of constants. Puke unarmed vigilance into the mourning robe of cerebral violent apathy. The REAL motherfuckers all know perfectly well what they’re doing when they starve the innocents. Isn’t that a nice private sphere of dwelling
until the wrong race invades it and you are suddenly forced to confront all those dark brown fears that have been necessary to keep you going all these wasted years. All the goddamn regurgitated garbage that’s kept you alive swinging corpselike from the flagpole a flaccid trophy called guilt. There is no silence that is a law I can taste. Lost in ethereal abandonment of precepts hounded morale barking fucked hypertrophy at sound of electric saw cutting into metal sheet. I think about fucking a poodle a lot less than ludic conceptions of democracy haunt my intrepid on a hot red night the LA cuff of dawn. Magnets splayed out in the coital hemisphere, politicians’ brainspans display on LCD monitor – direct visions of trapezoidal lemming paths melt backwards right before molten begets explosion. Terror suspects masturbating behind concrete walls, threat of hammer at least gives breathing room to the non-cause of life, laser booby trap pre-elucidates all possible becomings, which’re strings of wire formatting electric hammock. Whore of all death penalty inmates makes important announcement over prison intercom: the time of aridization has arrived. As I compromise this grecious slab of lucidity, name me a single prophet whose corporate interests have raped apart my own. Bald eagle squawking twatless through a sky fall down dead and poisoned the night air maniacal the gallon fart of justice. Drug war czar hermaphrodites rebuke the slowness of today’s meritocracy. Eating
the stockbroker’s cock for breakfast each morning, she started to feel a patriotic fervor that eventually led her home to christ. I am a goddamn hot dog called america, rubber chicken. Justice will only be served by falling down killing yrself in the eye of the tornado, entire waves of fuck trespassing yr being which flips and fleets like pages torn from a glossy fashion mag a catholic bishop in north korea. Athletic pick-me-up and fuck my brains out with a crashed car bumper that folds up inside my dearest membrane luv and circular fries tomorrow like a curious goblin cunt whose hairs lied to the public investigator last friday. Not caring about sleep, loving the paranoia that fries yr brains as memories of the loudness that once deified yr ambitions gutlauded you into chaos breakbreathing down yr backbrace – you became a mummy the moment you started to manipulate. How can one look at the world and call it a culture. Baked yr logic in a thin soup that forgot all about elevation and instead shat you out all the effectuality you once fantasized limiting yr intestines spewed out in a shopping spree cart whose shape rhymed with this most putrid of lights shining in yr diamond dishonesty. Shuddered like the day’s design NO SCATTER pieces like a suicide bomber’s mantelpiece this my god solidify DEATH’S DESIGN. Twitchy folds american faggotry owns no tyrants except locked in stead with outer world’s ambitions, suicide, to fuck and die in america looks tough. A flower bent over like silhouettes last dream’s logic. Dolorous streams of bicentennial fuckery scream “no future” at the public abortion gravesite, no shadows cast mean bloodsuckers constitute the majority today, cock in a light socket seen as final option like a midnight scream ingrained in armchair fabric dead and magnified suicide glamour the radiance of shit lessons in deadness that dematerialize yr brain as you go through it, soft and lost and tenuous to the shatterings of former bone structures, victims’ remains lost to the shame broadcast. Merging loads of fuck with stealth and hyperturbulence. I’m feeling designed today because being alive there’s no other way. Hold on the fence I’m sorry a passive bitchfuck that makes us all insane, toxic, a clown senator bounces on a rifledildo war machine, bitterness table sold to us at discount settlement site forever off-center. Feral kid roaming the streets at night in a city that just ate him. Constancy is shielded and then no one. Shopping redundancy is a snakepit made of silver feudal sparks term cradled intelligent and fucked less, the wicked battery spins. Here comes the last breath of honesty the world in its perennial self-slaughter is willing to take on, all those walking corpses and a neurotic strain of decay waving like a beauty pageant queen at the loyal deserters whose army remains scarred and unpaid. There is NOTHING to be deserving of and no losses only a handsome visual feast that screams with the silence in yr eyes and leaves us trapped intrepid victims of the emotion economy, recycling feces and globular animosity. No mystery and none that can satisfy the metal tube’s craving for melting into lightness, called up by the wreck mirror and serve yr country until you are martyred gruesome, whose greatness is that, the awning is garbage, burn self up and fucked like falling, the tower that watches watching will secure yr ride to the next gatecrash tragedy until there is no more yesterday worth fighting.
by Travis Jeppesen on March 27, 2014
My name is the world’s endlessness, and “world” has no humans in it. The first thing you’ll probably notice about me is my tits. Nice and big and squirty, what a certain type of man likes. But my tits are made for no man. No child, either. They’re big like that because I need something to rest my arms on.
My vag is a slit too small to fit a coin. Women used to hold on to me whenever they wished to get preggers. Twenty five thousand years old and eleven centimeters tall. I jiggle for no one.
I am happy and I belong to no woman now. I cannot tell you the name of the one that used to own me. My ass has a sort of mouth and a lot to say. I am not the first to be carved, only the one unlucky enough to be found. Now behind glass and unable to exercise the magic that is and was my sole function. Now I just have to lay here, a fat bitch for the world to abuse with its eyes.
When I was infested with use value, I liked nothing more than the feeling of a woman’s sweaty palms all over me. No man ever touched me and if ever I were lucky enough to die, that’s one thing I could be proud of. It was dykes who invented porn, and no, I am not something to be moved inside the cunt. My mass is my goddamn victory, which is why so many feel compelled to kneel.
It is not just my navel you are drawn to. A woman’s body has many holes. It is our burden to provide the safety blanket of the entire race. Look closely at mine, you will soon know something. My hole-iness is raw gorgeosity – fat fuck holey for the masses. At times unpleasant in my self-adulation, but it was part of the burden of being buried for so long – I needed something to hold on to!
Oblong my hole, fucker, it is so nothing meant to be inferred. This thing I wear upon my head, the thing that erases all my features – that is pornography also. Stomach and scruffy vag’re better than a face. I was never the thinking woman’s doll. Thoughts came later, and then annihilated my higher power. Look at this little dent above my right breast.
The tiny tiny puncture beneath my headpiece is the one that really gives me hope. Bet you didn’t even see it. Really is fun, to go from hold to behold. And no more competition from those fierce feral girls that used to always grab me! They have something else to learn now, buried as I was. Walk around to get a good view my GORGEOUS heart-shaped ass. It’s just too bad I have to be displayed like this, a metal rod going up it, as though I were a piece of junk on a stick – a corndog.
I don’t want that plinth going up my ass. Who are all these motherfucking people anyway. I once served a real purpose, man. I’m talking the cosmos, alright? If you held me tight enough, you could get pregnant without ever having to touch a man. This is why they had to get rid of me for so long. These tits contain the groundwork of a whole other form of civilization.
What the world wants is more chances to live. I know a lot about this, even though I’m not alive, because I’m a woman. What this means: I have the courage to be held. All that courage, all wrapped up in this hard rocky stone. Come close and be afraid. I’m not moving, but thought has no cadence either. That doesn’t mean it’s not happening. My real joy is fitting in the palm of yr hand. Small like a dick, and the right girth to disappear. If you call me mother, then it’s yr own weakness you are reveling in, bro. I am no one’s sis and I am pre-symbolic. Form happily altered by the sweat of yr yearns.
Look at you, on the other side of the glass, wishing to be “alive.” A man is just a freak with an accidental third leg. All creation is barbaric to a greater or lesser extent, and it is this barbarism I watch you constantly trying to get away from – what use are you aside from this havoc? Munching on platitudes you present to those perceived to be greater. When the truth is my surface matters no less than yrs – it is all matter, this skin of disaster. Whosoforth presents themselves denies the built-in capacity of breaking down. I only suffer from what I am discretely subjected to; my elements are limited.
A man is not a cause. Woman is the site of limitlessness. Beauty aches inside my crags – an entire night of deficiencies: this is what makes a day. No one really wants to marry the spectacle of naming. See inside the black inside. The babies shooting out of you.
Tits need their support also. That is what stomach is there for. I ate and I ate until I became this oddity, all the men around me went hungry so that I could eat, I would not let them gorge themselves, neither on food nor on my body, and so the entire race starved while my women continued to produce more.
For women are production, while the men merely want to consume. The male is the consumption drive my tits are eager to displace. My tits are a throne, this crown that fits on no man’s head. If I had a face then you would try to erase me, instead I have a body which serves as a horny threat. I am lucid and I am scarred by pockmarks. Unlike most fatties, my flesh contains no sleeves. I may be a monument to softness, but I can also be used as a weapon. Deep inside my rocky cove, I harbor waves.
Perforce the earth turned sour. That was before love. There was a way. Form born out of rhythm; the body, also. Through dreams, an ideal was bred. A body-form like my own dwells in ideality. A time when dreams were not the electric burden they now are, but rather foretold things. The secret of being buried, absorbed.
One experiences so much in stone. Hat covers my laughter. Nighttime now in Vienna, everything closes down, and I’m still here – wrapped in the fog, counting the bells to know the time. When viewed from the human perspective, it is but a number. I know what time really is: a container that moves outside of all mathematics. That impossible wooden truth that gives stone, skin their meaning.
Cut into me, I told the woman who picked me up as a rock. She formed me with her tools. And look at me now: all ready and willing to be cannibalized! It is so funny how useless I am I realize this suddenly and laugh inside. Because of me, there will always be more women than men in this world, and that’s exactly how it should be. No one has outlived me so far, and I have absorbed all the poisons that the world has put forth. Grazing on contradictions, I am skin without organs, worth more than diamonds, and yet nothing – female without sheen. The first phallus and the last to bleed. Touch without tactility.
by Travis Jeppesen on March 23, 2014
“Neptune/Antoine Coysevox,” one of the object-oriented text works from 16 Sculptures, is published in the March/April edition of Art Papers.
by Travis Jeppesen on March 20, 2014
16 Sculptures, my book of object-oriented writing published on the occasion of the 2014 Whitney Biennial, can be purchased online at Publication Studio.
16 Sculptures is a book of Travis Jeppesen’s writings for the Whitney Biennial 2014. In his installation 16 Sculptures, visitors—sitting while blindfolded—listen to recordings of Jeppesen reading his object-oriented re-creations of sculptures. Depriving us of our usual faculties for experiencing works of art—sight and visual-spatial reasoning—Jeppesen’s texts instead stage an encounter with objects through language that nonetheless retains the texture of embodied, physical experience, an imaginative realm in which he attempts to summon the autonomous essences and interior lives of objects themselves.
by Travis Jeppesen on March 9, 2014
He wonders how he will ever begin to write about the object. A bit like writing in the dark…The object is there in front of him, and yet isn’t. Both at the same time. How can that be, that state of simultaneity. Oh very simple: it isn’t. He drinks all his thoughts up, visits his feelings. No, not there. Feeling a place to run away from. Objects have no feelings…but could they? A question of investiture. So shitty to be left to wonder. Leave the wonderment at the beginning (i.e. “He wonders how…”), let’s not get back there, not yet at least, too soon. Must move forward. The object contend with it. Let this moment be defined by it. Rather: let the object, its thingness, contaminate this temporal structure, he thinks, and thereby give rise to the formation of a moment. The beauty of a moment is that it passes a delightful turd. The turd is an object, but it is not the object he is now contending with. Contend with the non-turdness of the current object. In the moment. The moment of running away. Running away from feeling. The moment he finds himself facing the object, seated before it, forcing his thoughts to coalesce into something – words. Words the physical manifestation of something: the object. The object’s bluntness. Not a copy, not a simulacrum, for that is not something his words could ever be. His words, he thinks, he knows, are always something else, even when they purport to represent, to critically engage with, the object and its thingness, what it purportedly is outside of all possible and potential representation. And yet he – not subject (for he recognizes the imperative to momentarily suspend his own agency in order to engage with the task to be elucidated henceforth), but another object, another possible thing that things outside its particulate thingness – is not, in a sense, there. Not in the sense in which the object (the originary object, made originary by our writing of his writing of it, naturally) is there. The thing is, the goal he has set himself (his manic delirium, his sense of physicality, his manifestation of doom – his own private version thereof – through his manifestation of time, his awareness of spatio-temporal limitation) is to get beyond both facile representation but also and even mostly that “critical engagement” that the majority dismiss as the only possibility of interacting (he hates this word) with the object, and to enter into a state that would actually enable him to inhabit the object. And this, through writing. And for him, this writing, this striving-for-inhabiting, resonates with his current concern, to get beyond all the materiality – the thingness, the objectness – of writing – to contend with writing’s failed project of transmitting meaning.
How do I write myself into the object? he asks himself.
(Always a failure, then, every instance of writing, and yet how to overcome.)
Describe the object in its thingness.
He goes over, in his mind, all the pathways through which one might approach the object, positioned as it currently is, in the room, on the floor, at the center of the black cloth, not far from where he rests his feet. It is a kind of hunger, this desired transformation, transmutation, transubstantiation, but then no, that’s not it, for then what would the writing be, shit? Is it: to find a way to put the writing inside the object? No, but to make it (the writing) come out of it (the object) – and vice versa.
No eating, no shitting, he says aloud.
To inhabit means some encoding. Break that code to reseal it. That’s what the process will look like. The thing things itself thingingly, he quotes Heidegger. A certain bluntness of proprieties yes that will do. Nietzsche lost his mind, Heidegger found it, gave it back in hideous form: an object of a subject called loss. He steps outside – to get some air, he thinks. Fat man in a wig comes pattering down the cobblestones, waving a book over his head. It is Leibniz. Eat my monads, scum! he screams.
He slams the door in the philosopher’s face, runs back in to the object. Into the object, he would like, but he can’t have. The object wills, for certain, but not beyond itself, that is certain also. My thingness not for you to take, it seems to call out…or was that Leibniz out there, tormenting him. That book he was waving over his head, what was it. Go have a look. A glance through the window…but Leibniz is gone, you’ll never know what book it was now. Perhaps
it is better that way. Can substance be defeated? He knows: Desire to attain a state of total selflessness through the act, and yet this risks reducing writing to a sort of gratuitous masturbation. Cancel the second part of last thought. For this stab at conceptualization here is, admittedly, a means of propping up – propagating – excess.
He initially wanted to call it “object-oriented criticism,” until he realized – not just that he had the terminology wrong – but that his misuse of the word criticism would only serve to confuse this invisible majority for whom he was writing against. For this – this obviating the decision-making process via the thereness of the object – is to be an act of writing: a writing to come. No, criticism, critique, too specific the terminology; he favors the openness, the activeness – the actness – of writing.
He is against control. He remembers reading a blurb on the jacket of the first edition of Barthelme’s novel, The Dead Father. Something like, “Well gee, folks, it might look wild and crazy, but its redemption as a work of art is that it is all actually tightly controlled by the author, that makes him a genius, by my validating authority as a critic…” Why, he remembers thinking, would control ever be regarded as a positive value in writing?
And of course, the answer to that is quite simple: We live in a society of total control, so it is only natural, from a psychological standpoint, that they seek out forms of (what they perceive to be) control in art, and that authorial exercise (as opposed to insane or otherworldly channeling) be the defining characteristic of genius for that invisible majority.
Thus, in writing the object (never writing of the object): Deny all perimeters.
The object and its mysterious anti-nature, he thinks. Object considered as manifestation of mind no that’s wrong.
Object and world, okay: he thinks that’s something he can do. Hesitating to proclaim it in these terms, but since so many mispronouncements have already polluted the stratosphere, perhaps his will serve as a cleansing agent. (Or else risk collapsing the unity of the entire multiverse by further polluting. A risk taken every time one opens one’s mouth and squeaks.) It is
a question of domains.
Treat myself to a fresh shirt, he decides.
When we write the object (and here, the definitionality of what’s being said matters, for we are not channeling classical exchanges of phenomenological wankery) we transiterate the resonant hallway of psychology to verify the made (constructed) status of objectitude (in its pure sense) and effectively emerge from this processual act as producers of a reality. He sees this as a completely viable anarcho-individualism that resists the fetishization of edges that gives the object its definitional status in our limited perceptuo-tactile exchange field therewith, and thus unleashes the animality that resides within the object’s previously controlled essence. And within that animality resides a will…
Once the object is written – and liberated thus – we may begin to speak of objectity, he reasons. Now, objectity goes beyond mere thingness in its necessitude to claim a spectral identity. Identity, in their way of thinking of it, always comes with an I. Expend your shit logic across the evening sky. Objectity neologistically combines the object with identity, but also reality, to lay claim to a scape that evades the perceptual diminutive that typically derogatorizes the object in the field of the major Them. The object, then, is vision, it is a surface filled with ego eyes. Its constructedness matters less than the way it goes about reconceiving our own willed surfaces.
But of course, he reasons, his object thus edified will most certainly clash and cocirculate concurrently with others’ edification of the object. And so the route becomes shortwinded, a show flourish – it is meant to be, in its measureless metonymity. No metaphoricity. Chains of difference overflowing, gather them up if you want into assorted cycles. Play god by defeating yesteryear. The answer, he suddenly conjectures, to Husserl dodging the intersubjectivity bullet: Everyone produces their own reality through their reciprocal arrangement of object-perceiving. Thus, in concept production, each concept is only designated for use by its original creator/inhabitor. Use exhaustibility. There are limits to this applicability: Why I Am So Unpopular. All these different realities clashing into one another. And the sparks caused by the interaction. No more human/nonhuman divisions, a rebirth of agency. All this, through the writing. He closes his eyes and sees thick blobs of text on paper. Pen rolls out of hand. From across the galaxy, the room, the object stares at him and sighs.
by Travis Jeppesen on February 25, 2014
In addition to his work as a novelist, art critic and poet, Travis Jeppesen has developed what he terms “object-oriented writing”—writing that seeks to use language as a site for a subjective, embodied encounter with and response to art objects. Jeppesen’s writing treats objects themselves as inhabitable, in an attempt to write from within the object; this approach intends to counter forms of critical analysis that assume distance from objects in order to speak about them. As he has said, “something that is located within an object can never be ‘about’ that object – aboutness is always external.”
In his installation 16 Sculptures, visitors—sitting while blindfolded—listen to recordings of Jeppesen reading his object-oriented re-creations of sculptures. Depriving us of our usual faculties for experiencing works of art—sight and visual-spatial reasoning—Jeppesen’s texts instead stage an encounter with objects through language that nonetheless retains the texture of embodied, physical experience, an imaginative realm in which he attempts to summon the autonomous essences and interior lives of objects themselves.
On the occasion of the Whitney Biennial, Jeppesen has published a book of his texts for 16 Sculptures; in addition, a marathon reading of his novel The Suiciders, published in 2013 by Semiotext(e), will be held at the Museum on May 9.
1. Les Trois Ombres, Auguste Rodin
2. Venus of Willendorf, Artist Unknown *
3. Walking Figure I (City), Thomas Houseago *
4. Untitled, Robert Morris
5. Incantatoire, Alicia Penalba
6. Spiral Jetty, Robert Smithson *
7. Untitled, Isa Genzken
8. Terrain, Koji Kamoji
9. Femme Assise (Annette), Alberto Giacometti
10. Misc. Spill, Cady Noland *
11. Neptune, Antoine Coysevox *
12. Staple Cheese (A Race), Dieter Roth
13. Relief with the Liberation of a Besieged City, Artist Unknown
14. Light Reign, James Turrell
15. Vierge à l’Enfant, Artist Unknown
16. Milon de Crotone, Pierre Puget
* These works will be included in the installation at the 2014 Whitney Biennial. The full 16 will be featured in the solo exhibition “Travis Jeppesen: 16 Sculptures” at Wilkinson Gallery, London, in July 2014.
Texts/Voice: Travis Jeppesen
Voice: Brian Tennessee Claflin
Audio Production & Sound Design: Paul “Snax” Bonomo
Graphics: Mario Dzurila
Special thanks to Stuart Comer and Amanda Wilkinson.
Published by Publication Studio (Portland, Oregon) in 2014
Copyright © 2014, Travis Jeppesen. All rights reserved.
isbn: 978 1 62462 055 3
717 SW Ankney Street
Portland, Oregon 97205
16 Sculptures is published on the occasion of the 2014 Whitney Biennial and the exhibition “Travis Jeppesen: 16 Sculptures” at Wilkinson Gallery, London.
A project supported by the Creative Capital | Warhol Foundation Arts Writers Grant Program.
Preface: On Object-Oriented Writing
This book is the culmination of a method of writing I have been working with for the past several years, a writing that attempts to inhabit the object. That is, a writing that positions itself within the work of art, while simultaneously including all the contradictions and impossibilities that come embedded within such an approach. Impossible, because of course one can never go inside a solid object. What I’m attempting here is a metaphysics of art writing. If need be, the reader of these texts can evaluate each according to its degree of failure with regards to the original work, though in the spirit of creation – or, to be precise, re-creation, the cyclical nature of art’s generationing – I have opted to exclude reproductions of the original sculptural works from this project in its various iterations, including the present volume.
It could be suggested that the father of object-oriented writing is the Gertrude Stein of Tender Buttons, the mother the Roland Barthes of Mythologies. Though object-oriented writing is more likely their aborted fetus, having been revivified on a UFO by an extra-dimensional alien race that exists on a plane parallel to our own, and returned to this reality in order to contaminate it.
Unlike criticism, which is always necessarily about an object, and unlike poetry, which is inspired by, object-oriented writing takes on the task of being. As such, another writer’s version of these 16 sculptures, selected according to whatever mysterious force drew me to them at various moments in my travels, would and should look very different from my own. This is a vehicle; not a school. I don’t believe in definitive statements and I don’t believe in endings. There is still so much more to be said and done.
– Travis Jeppesen, Berlin, 7 February 2014
by Travis Jeppesen on January 19, 2014
There is a whole other history of cinema out of which Jonas Mekas falls—kicking and screaming, alive and elastic to the necessities and vicissitudes of this thing we call life. One has to be thoroughly drenched in it to attain such a position as Mekas’s, and for evidence, one doesn’t have to look further than the films themselves, which capture a politics of the banal and everyday despite their author’s frequent assurances that he has no overarching plan, no real understanding of what it is he is doing. The films are political precisely because Mekas allows experience to serve as his sole structuring device. His cinematic submersion into total presence has been at the root of all his activities from the beginning—for he knew no other way. This not-knowing is what Mekas might term “beauty”; for the viewer, it is the spiritual impetus that compels us to go along for the ride.
It makes total sense that Mekas, a displaced person, would end up making films from a positionless position. It is also not coincidental that Mekas, after surviving Central Europe’s attempts at civilizational suicide in the Second World War, would wind up a resident of his century’s capital of displacement: New York. Once there, he and his brother Adolfas procured a Bolex camera and immediately began filming their lives in this baffling new world, to which they would both make a massive contribution as artists. Jonas Mekas would soon find himself at the very center of New York’s downtown underground film-making scene.
Just as the Abstract Expressionists required a dose of the old world, which came in the form of the great German painter and teacher Hans Hofmann, in order to come into being as artists, it is hard to imagine how their cinematic counterparts on the Lower East Side in the 1950s and ’60s would have turned out without Mekas’s contribution. The roots of Mekas’s sensibility, more ‘Russian’ than ‘European’, can be traced back to Soviet filmmaker and film theorist Dziga Vertov. Thanks in no small part to Mekas’s influence, as well as that of Maya Deren before him, one could read the downtown New York underground filmmaking scene as Vertovian in many of its aesthetic ambitions.
In The Man with the Movie Camera and his voluminous writings on cinema, Vertov articulated his principle of the “kino-eye,” which considered the cinematic apparatus as a means for revealing the true nature of reality and thus liberating the masses from the bondage of servitude to capital. “From the viewpoint of the ordinary eye,” writes Vertov, “you see untruth. From the viewpoint of the cinematic eye (aided by special cinematic means, in this case, accelerated shooting) you see the truth. If it’s a question of reading someone’s thoughts at a distance (and often what matters to us is not to hear a person’s words but to read his thoughts), then you have that opportunity right here. It has been revealed by the kino-eye.”1 While Vertov took as his grand subject the building of socialism in the USSR, Mekas, beginning his work at a later date, had already seen the tragic failures that such utopian schemes often descend into and the human expense that results. Here is where Mekas’s “kino-eye” departs from Vertov’s. From Walden, his first major accomplishment, onwards, Mekas’s concerns were immediately diaristic, and yet political, albeit in a more subtle way than Vertov’s could ever be. Mekas’s camera became an extension of his being, constantly on-hand to record the peregrinations of a Baudelairean flâneur. In fact, it is probably not much of an overstatement to characterize Mekas as the Charles Baudelaire of New York City. Just as the poet’s wanderings through the capital of the 19th century, Paris, formed the basis of his oeuvre, so did Mekas merge with the camera to become a moving machine, generating audio-visual poems of city life almost as a by-product.
The camera as an extension of the eye, of one’s being. All those who traveled along such a path—among them Stan Brakhage, Jack Smith, and Bruce Conner, to name but a few of Mekas’s fellow travelers—felt it within themselves that film, the vehicle to which they had dedicated themselves, and with which they had merged as they became artist-machines, had the power to do more than merely tell stories. Or else, it compelled them to tell stories in truly different ways, outside of the narrow conceptions of Hollywood. The underground film-makers were far away—geographically, aesthetically, and spiritually—from that model, in which the neurotic fears and banal desires of the middle class are spotlighted and attention spans are capitalized upon in order to generate an endless stream of copies. Instead they assumed the possibility of an entirely different means of cinematic transmission and representation, unthinkable to the mid-century mainstream, which was largely complicit with the McCarthy witch-hunts that had only just recently ravaged American society. Each of these filmmakers had his (or, admittedly less often, her) own individual style, with Mekas’s being the diaristic—which, in cinematic terms, is the home movie.
How, for instance, does one begin to make sense of the first major diary film, the 180-minute-long Walden, described by its author as simply “materials from the years 1965–1969, strung together in chronological order,” interspersed with random reflections, philosophizing, and bursts of music? The film is of course a major archival landmark of the decade, capturing as it does a number of the era’s luminaries, including Andy Warhol, Yoko Ono, John Lennon, and Allen Ginsberg. Besides that, as its title suggests, it serves as Mekas’s own version of Walden, the famous tome by the 19th-century Transcendentalist Henry David Thoreau.
So here we have a Lithuanian poet-filmmaker standing between Thoreau and Vertov—two unlikely figures, the American Transcendentalist and the Soviet Revolutionary. Two radically disparate visions of reality. But are they, really? And is Mekas’s stance between them really so uncanny? What more suitable position could one adapt as an immigrant in New York from a country behind the Iron Curtain? “We loved you, world, but you did lousy things to us,” Mekas reflects in Reminiscences of a Journey to Lithuania. Mekas’s quest has been to locate his own mystical Walden, realizing, unlike Thoreau in his idealization of nature or Vertov in his eulogy to the city, that this Edenic realm is not likely to be found anywhere on Earth, but in the people that surround one and the experiences shared.
The diaristic mode is, from the standpoint of consumption, rife with problems for the viewer. The key to Mekas’s films, perhaps, is not to watch them, but to attempt to drift into them. His films are what those of a conventional bent call “experimental,” because they refuse to do our thinking for us. “This is a political film.” The message flashes across the screen several times, and yet his films are political in no obvious way other than their form, which is often rooted in the seeming senselessness of the collage principle, the anarchy of the chance technique. As Chris Kraus has noted, “Since diary-writing is subjective practice, it’s more fragile, looser, messier. As a transcription of live thought, diary-writing’s destined for confusion because the mind does not stay still for very long. As an art-making practice, it’s incoherent and therefore essentially flawed.”2
Adapting the diaristic mode to cinema has allowed Mekas to be at work virtually all the time, bringing his camera with him everywhere, and thus annihilate the divisions between art and life. One is, in a sense, always at work while never working – just being. His 2001 epic, As I was Moving Ahead Occasionally I Saw Brief Glimpses of Beauty, consists of 320 minutes of film made throughout his life, randomly spliced together and featuring occasional voice-over ruminations from the author. At some point Mekas announces, “By now, you must have realized I am not a film-maker. I am a filmer.” Mekas takes on the role of the amateur, the Sunday painter, not to demean his product, but to assert the viability of a cinematic vehicle that is markedly other in design. He has no other choice; this is the language he has forged out of compromise with the world he was thrust into. “But while we are confined to books,” writes Thoreau, “though the most select and classic, and read only particular written languages, which are themselves but dialects and provincial, we are in danger of forgetting the language which all things and events speak without metaphor, which alone is copious and standard. Much is published, but little printed. The rays which stream through the shutter will be no longer remembered when the shutter is wholly removed. No method or discipline can supersede the necessity of being forever on the alert. What is a course of history, or philosophy, or poetry, no matter how well selected, or the best society, or the most admirable routine of life, compared with the discipline of looking always at what is to be seen? Will you be a reader, a student merely, or a seer? Read your fate, see what is before you, and walk on into futurity.”3 Jonas Mekas made that choice a long time ago. Walking alongside him, we are reminded that vision, an active agent, is nothing less than the life force itself.
1. Dziga Vertov, “Three Songs of Lenin and Kino-Eye,” in Annette Michelson (ed.), Kino-Eye: The Writings of Dziga Vertov (trans. Kevin O’Brien). London: Pluto Press, 1984, p.124.
2. Chris Kraus, “Shit on My Sleepmask,” in Video Green: Los Angeles Art and the Triumph of Nothingness. Los Angeles: Semiotext(e), 2004, p.139.
3. Henry David Thoreau, Walden. Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1997, p.192.
Originally published in Jonas Mekas: The Fluxus Wall, as part of the exhibition at BOZAR in Brussels, 2013.
by Travis Jeppesen on December 8, 2013
If it often feels as though a certain pathological narcissism has become so widespread as to be accepted as the normal mode of 21st century selfhood, then any gesture of generosity – of self-abnegation – warrants serious attention as the disruptive, and hence potentially critical force that it is. Further, in an era in which spirituality has been all but whitewashed by our deluded notions of “progress,” a notion that can never be justified, operating as it does beneath the accelerated entropy of hyper-capitalism, in which salvation sounds like a bad joke; then the affirmation-through-distortion of the One (the Me) into the Everyone serves as a valid and enthralling model for the eradication of those artificial barriers that keep individuals enslaved to the ego.
This is one summation of the path that AA Bronson has traversed since his journey began with General Idea, the artist group he founded with Felix Partz and Jorge Zontal in 1967, and it is the one that he has continued to widen with great integrity and persuasive force in the years since the group’s dissolution in 1994 when Partz and Zontal both succumbed to the plague. It is therefore reductive, and incorrect, to characterize the central impulse in Bronson’s work as “curatorial.” That his current solo exhibition in Rotterdam includes mostly the work of other artists suggests the permeability of that “of” in its title, “The Temptation of AA Bronson”; Bronson’s ‘I’ is many others; therefore, Bronson cannot be reduced to a mere I.
Rather, what the “Temptation” gives us is an expansion of AA Bronson in all his great reflexivity. Bronson the artist and curator, of course. But also: Bronson the shaman. Bronson the healer. Bronson the mentor to a generation of queer artists suffering from a broken lineage resulting from the AIDS years. Bronson the muse….(This is but a mere delineation, as many of these modes are often contained in within a single artwork, such as Reima Hirvonen’s dolls of Bronson and his omnipresent companion Mark Jan Krayenhoff van de Leur, made out of their underwear, reflecting the artist’s involvement with shamanism.) In a word, Bronson’s is the project of collaboration on an epic scale.
I suppose that some, perhaps being confronted head-on with Marina Abramovic’s crystal beds near the entrance of the exhibition, might have begun to ascribe a hippie New Age-ism to Bronson’s enterprise – until they arrived at the realization that sperm is everywhere. The motivating factor is sex – which is also of the spirit, mind you. And so we have, from the General Idea treasure trove, thirty untitled works from a series of tantric drawings dated from 1989 to 1992, taking up an entire room: an orgy of saggy tits and cocks and gaping orifices, barking prayers out from their two-dimensional cells. Sometimes a vag frowns at us, mocking our sense-making attempts at this altar of the body, while frequent uncircumcised elephant dongs dangle over quibbling goblin holes, some of which contain furnaces, promising to incinerate our longing with their flames. This is where the spiritual meets the corporeal. Not far from Abramovic’s healing rocks, we register Matthias Herrmann’s Cum Pieces, a series of photographic collages that all contain the same binding glue. Mike Kelley’s acrylic painting, The Death of the West, 2009, depicts a naked blue tranny with impossibly long tongue sticking out, its body decorated with skulls, shooting an impressively long jet of jizz that nearly reaches that aching tongue. In one hand, s/he holds a scythe, while the other grasps the head of what looks to be Richard Nixon. The whole thing is rendered in a joyous amateurishness, like the best thrift shop paintings, and inferring the influence of serial killer-turned-painter John Wayne Gacy.
But man-batter isn’t the only healing fluid on offer. I was incredibly moved by Sands Murray-Wassink’s Monument to Depression, two glass vitrines containing the artist’s perfume and cologne collection. These scents help him to get through his intense and frequent bouts with depression. I missed the series of performances that opened the exhibition, but apparently Murray-Wassink was there, naked sans for the words “Acceptance Art” scrawled across his chest, where he sweetly spoke to visitors and sprayed perfume on them – perhaps even making them feel better about themselves in the process.
My own personal healing came from an unexpected confrontation with some of the handmade digests waving offensive titles such as Faggo, rendered in black marker above drawings of dicks and pierced nipples, that published some of my earliest callous scribblings. In “Queer Zines,” an exhibition-within-the-exhibition Bronson co-curated with Philip Aarons, you could look (but not touch, as most of the more collectible ones, such as Vaginal Davis’s great ‘80s celebrity gossip rag Fertile LaToyah Jackson and Larry Bob’s queer punk gazette Holy Titclamps, were preserved under glass vitrines) at some of the last three or four decades’ prized emblems of fearless punk faggotry – of queer – a word that we might argue was validated just as much through these zines as in academic discourse. After waving goodbye at my teenage self, I made my way over to a wall display of some of the newer zines, which you are allowed to read and peruse. I discovered a brilliant new one from Japan called Ossu, which seems to be the work of a small group of friends, and is entirely photo-based. More pared-down but equally exciting are the Casual Encounters of Michael Max McLeod, who will, for instance, write “Some Computers and a Hustler” on his cover, and then with four pages give us exactly that: photos of computers, then suddenly a hustler appears. Crude and unrefined, it shows you the sad state of fag culture in the 21st century; now, cruising is only possible with a wifi connection.
A second exhibition within, “Ancestors,” its subject genealogy, lineage – something that young artists nowadays are often accused of forgetting about in their oblivious neomaniacal quests for instant bucks and glory. Here, in another set of glass vitrines, we find totemic entries of those who came before, some of whom brushed elbows with Bronson. Rarities like a Black Sparrow Press edition of Charles Henri Ford’s Flag of Ecstasy are displayed alongside Bronson’s correspondence with William S. Burroughs and a rare manuscript by the author, amended with a hand-written note from his secretary James Grauerholz asking that the manuscript be returned once they were done using it for General Idea’s great magazine FILE – a request that Bronson wisely ignored.
“Ancestors” is housed on the second story exhibition, which is permeated with the scent of rosemary, clumps of which fertilize the gallery floor for reasons I was unable to ascertain. Anyway, combined with the dim lighting and the prominent installation of TM Davy’s romantic painted portrait of Bronson nude in the forest, the exhibition is suddenly endowed with an enchanted aura that contrasts markedly with the more traditional white cube-and-fluorescent lighting of the lower level. The repeated melodies of Dolly Parton’s “I Will Always Love You” came from a video called The Dolly Shot by Mr. and Mrs. Keith Murray (one person, apparently); it is work like this that Bronson seems to favor, just on the verge of being corny or kitsch yet not quite crossing the line – a nude tranny lip-synching to Dolly’s ditty, recorded using a whitening effect that makes the body glow in a way that is pseudo-celestial (okay, camp.) Also, one came across Bronson’s collaboration with Terence Koh, a wooden cell divided by a wall with gloryhole – though sadly no one was on the other side on the day I attempted to use it.
On the publicity materials for the exhibition, Bronson lists the included artists in two categories: living and dead. Of course, in the actual exhibition, this serves as mere background information – it’s like there is no difference between the two. Still, there is something of a communion going on, and it feeds into Bronson’s interest in – his own private summoning of – shamanism. (This is fully articulated by an included photo credited to General Idea of a photo of Bronson-as-shaman dating from 1973.) Death as a happening force: without it, we could never speak of that eternal return or speculate on any means of transcendence. The most potent example in this regard is Bronson’s own sepia photographic triptych of Jorge, February 3, 1994, 2000, which witnesses Zontal’s emaciated, AIDS-wasted body staring out the window, perhaps at that very field we spend our lives trying to comprehend in vain, until in the end, it claims us without ever having reached it.
For those unable to summon the forest nymphs and faeries, the exhibition came with a more ready-at-hand guide in the form of a 43-page book called A more precise distance between the reader and the ultimate visions, a project by Gareth Long. Formally recalling The Divine Comedy, though on a much more complex spiritual level than Dante’s tripartite template, taking in as it does a multitude of spiritual perspectives and traditions, the work combines fictional excerpts from Bronson’s diary and hijacked bits of Flaubert’s The Temptation of Saint Anthony (from whence the exhibition hijacks its title), with a cast of the exhibiting artists alongside several of the gods and prophets from Flaubert’s original work. And really, it’s a fitting means of articulating the deification of both Bronson and the artists he has gathered around him, living and dead: a polytheism of the polyamorous. Amen.
by Travis Jeppesen on November 29, 2013
The sky. Someone’s little sister is trying to eat a cloud. Reach into that perpetuality, feel the sky’s innards. We’re not the kind of boundary-seekers experience once probed to proffer. What’s sad is the roar that proceeds the silence. Can there be any comfort in that roar, ever, it is unthinkable. Slowed down, the sound of the sky vehicle breaking apart can be its own exotic percussion, soundtrack to the wind dance of a long lost desert tribe, sound of bleeding and breaking. The plane is like a body, it can shatter against a cloud just like a skeleton. You got on thinking if anything goes wrong, this will be my chance to really try it out: to go beyond the inevitable into the near-impossible. How many have chanced this feat. The crew had to be trained to get us this far, but how does one train to be a passenger. There is nothing offered in the way of sacrifice training, one can only learn to be a ghoul through experience. The marshals,
Their guns soon to be buried in the sand. Bodies disintegrated, children of a flash-in-the-pan experience, their wives will send floral wreaths to the rescue plot, not worth visiting, nothing to be recovered there. First to go is your sense of smell, best to not sniff the burning, all the membranes in your nostrils having been burnt out to protect you from that coldest slab of knowledge, the defeatist quartet playing their medley in the skyscrape,
Black crackling of disintegration, a meter, a bit of the command post flies right past your head, you could have reached out and grabbed it but you were preoccupied with your own leveling, chores of the desertwind. Bright snatches of light from the burning darkness, it is a Sunday, that much to be remembered, a final thought for one or two perhaps: Oh yeah, Sunday,
Burning, the sky and the swallows swimming past, I love myself the sky, I was a third-rate businessman in this life but I can be something greater in the next, perhaps a parasite,
Filth falling from the sky, tile manufacturing firm’s vice president tumbling through plastic towers and vials of pills, he will never have a chance to evolve past his own fears, terribilities, at this phase. At this phase, forever falling, pills in his eyes, eyelids scrunching over three-inch slit of metal, eyeball juices, the sentient space of no movement, losing control as your liver melts into your spleen, the attitude of silence some of us take when becoming hoarse unbridled,
Love me and forever in the sky falling,
Reverse falling now back up into the heavens,
Skull dried out still encasing brain, frontal lobe frozen in fluids rear lobe aflame, thoughts continue unabated by pain and suffering,
Forever murder the sky,
The aboveness is one angle. You always hated that mirror that fucked you every morning. Upcoming sabbath to be a reunion of sorts among distant relatives, now shall be an occasion to mourn. For them to ask themselves what has really been lost. You, a person they barely know, a person unknown to most, let all your secrets die with you, only this way can you be said to be free. A window has opened on to the scene of your drowning. Straight away you see another body, his fate quite similar to yours. The screams dissipated after the first fifteen seconds when most of them began to die. You didn’t fuck the fire, the fire fucked you. Oh just straining to fucking understand. The suffering of children,
Dim haze renaissance of failure that comes buzzing through the mires. Worried to see that seasonal every day spleen that hits the engulfed brain explodes so lightly. Oh the wires. No babies can swim in the ocean. To talk about sand as you’re falling is really enough sky mutilation. One of them already dead, a soldier, his carcass in the cargo, made his fortune in the war. A land whose capital he couldn’t name, a land he couldn’t situate on a blank map presented to him only a month before, found in the circuitry of death a treasure trove of ancient bronze sculptures, buried in sand long forgotten, buddhas and strange deities long lost to our even stranger customs, sold to rogue collectors of the sacred and unsavory, he met his death before this flight, sentience undilated, it was his massive stupid fucking indifference to the plight of all those buried civilizations that eventually killed him, he became a rebel cockroach fighter in a nebulous guerilla war, the war didn’t belong to any country he had once belonged to, he was only in it for the riches he thought he’d acquire, ambition vomits a certain type and forces it to make out with its own mortality device, the situation of ostriches bred for some deviant psychopath’s neuraesthetic dementia,
The earth is not quaking. That was the sound of the plane breaking apart, a loud crack, like at a shotgun wedding hick flight attendant might have once attended back in her home state of fight more clarity,
The dismality of being a body falling through a cloud is quite purplish and voluble. Head wants to vomit satan, but suddenly it’s so sped up, it’s like the speed of yr agony is rushing through yr head in circles. Transguired. Sneeze and a martian might come out, a serpent alien being that could survive this,
Dying only lasts as long as a sneeze,
From Written in the Sky. Forthcoming in All Fall, a book of two novellas, to be published by Publication Studio in their Fellow Traveler’s Series in 2014.
by Travis Jeppesen on November 28, 2013
Living in Berlin, you become obsessed with light. Throughout most of the year, there is so little of it to go around that one grows heavy with lethargy and despair—it’s all you can do to get out of bed before noon. Imagine how the city’s artists must feel, doomed to create in all that darkness. One year it became so overwhelming that I invested in a full-spectrum sunlamp, the kind that is supposed to brighten your spirits and magically imbue you with summer energy if you just sit before it for half an hour each day. The question I always got was, “Does it really work?” I never knew what to reply. “Well, I haven’t killed myself yet, it must be doing something.”
Sadly, in a later period of financial duress, I had to sell the lamp to my friend Stevie Hanley, an artist I wrote about in my first Atlas column [A.i.A., Dec. ’11]. Stevie will soon leave Berlin to attend the MFA program at the School of the Art Institute of Chicago. But back then, he was very excited by his new purchase. Finally he’d be able to look at the drawings he’d been making all winter in his sun-deprived studio! I haven’t yet asked him what will happen to the sunlamp when he returns home across the Atlantic. I suspect it will pass to another artist comrade, still militant enough to brave the cold and gloom in hopes of spotting a small glimmer through the perpetual gray overhead.
“Friendship,” says writer and freelance curator John Holten in his new novel, The Readymades, “is seeing people you recognize disfigured and mutated again and again, becoming disgusting or loveable in turn.”
As I’ve tried to show in my previous Atlas columns, Berlin is an intense microcosm in which all the components that once made up the art world have been relegated to the fringes, where they fall under the deadening force of a professionalization that now contaminates the entire field. Reflecting this malaise, Holten’s novel is one of the greatest works of art to come out of Berlin in recent years.
Set in a Europe of not too long ago, covering the period that arguably constitutes the formation of our 21st-century milieu (from the 1990s Balkan Wars up to the mid-aughts), The Readymades documents a fictional network of Serbian artists known as the LGB Group (after the surnames of its three core members). Though vaguely reminiscent of real-life collectives from the region such as Irwin/NSK, the OHO Group—and much like an update of fellow Balkanite Tristan Tzara and his Dada cronies—Holten’s artists find themselves caught in the changing tide of history and war.
In defiance of the 21st century’s obsession with the virtual, LGB strives to produce an art of the everyday—having experienced the everyday in its murderous aspect. Their output can take the form of sculptures, performative interventions, drawings or paintings (Holten’s collaborator is the Serbian-born, Berlin-based artist Darko Dragicevic, who created all of the LGB pieces illlustrated in the book), though an argument could be made that the artists’ turbulent relationships with each other are equally important as the work. The bulk of the text is a “reproduction” of an unfinished book by the group’s suicided figurehead, Djordje Bojic (the “B” in LGB). It is less a history of the collective’s activities than an analysis of its members’ varied conditions of estrangement.
Detailing alcoholic and chemical excesses, delirious group orgies, wildly intense interpersonal dynamics, not to mention the alienating effects of a still legible East-West divide on the continent, The Readymades offers an all-too-authentic portrait of the near past, instantly familiar to anyone who has spent time among the decadent elements of the post-Wall Berlin art scene—although the novel is actually set in Paris. (Holten has explained, “Berlin, where I wrote almost all of the book, also fed the details: I’d go out at the weekend to all these bars and clubs and meet people from all over the place. All of that went into the book too; I just changed the setting. Paris is not as exciting as The Readymades probably makes out, whereas Berlin does a passable job.”)
As leader of the group, Bojic becomes the unstable mediator between the opposing impulses of the other two members: the poet Milos Lubarda, whose product is by its nature uncommodifiable, and Aleksandar Gojkovic, whose encounter with the Western art market during the Bush years has corrupted him with dreams of wealth and glamour—which he eventually pursues by becoming an art dealer. (Holten and Dragicevic have gone so far as to create a Gojkovic Gallery website.) The tragedy that haunts all three, of course, is their earlier participation as soldiers in the wars back home. Scars in the collective consciousness of LGB cause the group to shatter before it can fulfill its promise of greatness, despite the international success the artists attain early on.
Berlin, of course, saw its own share of wars in the past century. The Allied bombing and subsequent Cold War paranoia are things of the past, but history, weighing heavily, continues to strike a precarious balance between the Stalinist structures of the former East and the corporate brutalism of the West. For all its many virtues, one always stops short of claiming Berlin is a beautiful city.
Gallerist turned project space director Oliver Koerner von Gustorf suggested in my last column [A.i.A., Mar. ’12] that the only way the art world might change would be if art itself were to change. The Readymades represents one possible scenario: a novelist and artist collaborating to create other artists and their artworks—an entire network, sprung from the mad fantasies of two individuals, infiltrating the world via a novel (which is available from Holten’s own Broken Dimanche Press) and a slew of recent LGB Group exhibitions mounted throughout Europe and at the Armory Show in New York this past March. So you could say that LGB are the Next Big Thing to come out of Berlin: the timely projection of an embattled nexus—East versus West, the Real World versus the Art World, Purity versus Commodification, Literature versus the Visual Arts, Fiction versus Truth.
Thus Belin perpetuates its allure to the young and art-crazed through the gloom of its long winters. By the time you read this, it will be summertime, the city flooded in light. It reaches its zenith at some point in July, when a trace of sun can still be discerned at 11:00 pm, finally disappearing only to reemerge about four hours later. While not as dramatic as the white nights of St. Petersburg or the Nordic lands, Berlin’s lingering summer twilight is strong enough to suggest why so many of us flock to this most nocturnal of cities, and why the streets brim with the energy of reawakening at all hours. As slow-moving as it seems at times, Berlin is a manic beast seething with contradictions. Charting them becomes the task of all artists drawn in by its grace and gravity.