I broke the glass.
To get your attention.
I called home just to let them know I wasn’t coming for a while. The first divorce you have to get through is the one from the family. See ya, miss ya. No-one prepares you for that particular hole. But then again, what about the potentiality of possibilities. That essential knowledge that the most influential voice, is the last voice in your life. Your own. And that life begins far later than it should.
We are attempting to rebuild our family. That’s the borderline of our new world. It’s not as brave as you think. This fatal yet vivacious loneliness is accompanied with the knowledge that even in our desire to act out of resistance some form of capital, crushes us all.
What do I want, what is it to want? What is it to not know what you want? Can we drink a drink called desire and find out where the first frontier of fantasy is? Or else we might as well go home and celebrate by standing by the mirror rather than looking into it. This is not much of treatise on how to overcome sadness, but more an acceptance that we are all being assessed by unknown determinisms, otherwise known as other people’s values. Experiential living requires a total analysis of our pleasure zones.
But then again, maybe the fear of owning things is just a memory that it can be, and was taken away. Can be, and was taken away. It only takes one night to instigate the upheaval of a peoples being. Is it designated through history that a desire for things comes not from now, but from when once it was, as in to say the moments of becoming other. The glass must never be broken again. In claiming back our drinking tools, we can claim back our mechanisms for language, and conversation. In claiming the glass as residue, we reupholster and undo every night. In this solitude of the practice of saying that history survives within us, silently, and in maintaining a protection mechanism that glimmers with a darkness, the unbroken glass is ours to own. The only thing we own is appropriated from sitting and drinking with friends. Social life is the life. Routine is a prescription. I break things. I’m working on my memories; I’m trying to start remembering what I tried to forget. I’m trying to find my voice. I’m trying to invent a voice. Lectures over drinks are not lectures, they are hallucinations. Actions are words. Words are values. Values are sayings. Sayings are symbolic. And the symbol is latest in a long line of vessels for our dignity. All the memories are broken, all the glasses are damaged. All my hope was, was a symptom of my progress.
Shall we have another?
What will that do?
Installation of The Social. Seen above and below:
Before moving to another country to become a hermetic poet, 2019
washed fire blanket, pint glass stolen from the Palm Tree whilst drinking with Tim on a Friday night, two half pints taken from the Hermit's Cave, once while drinking alone, the other while sharing a pint with another Josh, newspaper clipping found in a book of essays purchased at Marcus Campbell books, key from Ayala's former flat in Brooklyn, New York, resin.
Nesting is an inverse activity, 2019
washed fire blanket, key from Ayala's flat in Brooklyn, New York, resin, one glass stolen from drinking alone at Peckham Pelican, one glass stolen from the John Snow from drinks with Adam, one glass taken from alone at The Plough, one glass stolen drinks with Max at The Cow.
Precarity as a precursor to the loss of pleasure, 2019
washed fire blanket, one glass stolen from dinner with Helena and Goia at Andrew Edmunds, one glass stolen from dinner with Goia,Tim, Adam, Luana and Rob at Symposium, 2013 Blackberry playing audio piece; 6 speeches within a social setting, paraphrased texts are: The Truce by Primo Levi read by Holly Sonabend, Black Milk by Massive Attack read by Adam Hines-Green; Static by the artist read by Baptiste Vanpouille; Words to that Effect by John Ashbery read by Alex Culshaw, Is this all there is by the artist read by the artist.
The potential of Rescue Remedy as a cure to anxiety, 2019
washed fire blanket, one glass taken from Summerhall Edinburgh during the exhibition The Same Tendency and re-purposed after use, two glasses found during a flat visit in Brockley, Vinyl text.
Economists Ready-made #4
Printed T Shirts, Woolen thread.
Keychains (There where it was I must go) 2019
Keyring, Bike lock key from the artist's stolen bike, ink-jet print on paper.
Are my words scripted or unscripted? The witness is always prepared. Am I apprehending my testimony, and as such, am I always pre-rehearsing my script? More often than not there is another entity anticipating the pre-rehearsing, and preparing, searching for the gaps. How do I define the gaps in our testimony? The gaps in my memory? That which cannot be explained? I must use my emotional sensations to formulate a concept of what has been witnessed. And the formulation of a secondary ‘gap’, which is the gap for my cultural and historical memory. As I move into witnessing, I must consider my habit for building memory, and building memory out of that which I have and have not experienced and that which has already happened.
I must ask, who is the witness? who witnesses the witness?
Hand made wool carpet, vintage found chair, re-purposed coffee table from Northampton, two glasses from drinks with Robert Orr in Summerhall Edinburgh during the installation of The Same Tendency, milk mixed with medicinal charcoal leaking through the table, a stretch of yellow 1hr 23min video on loop, one coffee table passed down by Magda Skupinska and then Goia Mujalli to the artist.
There is no privacy in summer, the streets are full of those of us who wish to glow, and those of us who leave the house waiting for rain. The rain! The rain, which gave birth to us. Here beneath this canopy, you can watch the fly, fly. Expertly avoiding the tremors of the rain. Why am I blue today?
REHEARSING THE REAL
Curated by Tom Lovelace
in collaboration with Erola Arcalis, Ramona Güntert, Steff Jamieson & Emma Backlünd
Peckham 24, Copeland Park, Peckham, London
17 - 19 May 2019
"Rehearsing the Real focuses on contemporary practices that engage the strategies of undoing. One of the boldest acts of undoing in recent art history belongs to Robert Rauschenberg. With Erased de Kooning Drawing (1953) Rauschenberg created an artwork by physically erasing another artist’s work, that of Willem de Kooning. Rauschenberg's gesture of unmaking has been variously interpreted as an act of iconoclasm, provocation, a tribute and a gesture of creative self-assertion. It is also an act of collaboration, with de Kooning above all, but also with Jasper Johns, who devised the title and a presentation scheme that completed the work. Rauschenberg's encounter with John Cage at the Black Mountain College played a crucial role in fomenting his reflection on strategies of undoing and non-representation, leading to collaborative projects with Cage, Merce Cunningham and Trisha Brown. It seems pertinent to highlight this aspect of the work given that curatorial conceit for Rehearsing the Real involves a central element based on a live collaborative event involving artists participating in the exhibition.
But what is left once the work is undone? Distinctions between different media seem no longer certain. Erased de Kooning Drawing can be described as a drawing, a performance, a record of its own creation. Perhaps even more importantly, the gesture of undoing places particular demands on the viewer. Historically and conceptually, Erased de Kooning Drawing belongs together with Rauschenberg’s White Paintings (1951), a series of blank monochromes whose ‘plastic fullness of nothing’ inspired, in turn, Cage’s 4’33”, known as the ‘silent score’ (1952). Erasure, silence, nothing confronts the viewer. And this, I think, changes the way we engage with the artwork: scrutiny gives way to contemplation; the focus relaxes; time flows more slowly. White Paintings have been notoriously described by Cage as ‘airports for the lights, shadows and particles.’ What he meant by this is that we are invited to take time to inspect the mute surfaces of the paintings for subtle reflections of activity in their surroundings. Blank spaces created by the works discussed here invite projections of visualizations. In a similar manner, the act of undoing creates space, which can now be filled with new gestures and interpretations."
Saturday 18th May Script available here
Sunday 19th May Script available here
Aluminium pots, electrical hobs, 2m extension leads, plug adapters, chicken, sweet onion, leeks, carrots, celeriac root, celery, parsnips, salt, pepper, water.
Stoves purchased in Portugal, France, Spain, Austria & England
Standard Measure, 2019
Five glasses (dimensions variable), milk, ink
Stock Release w/ Robert Orr with an extract from The Same Tendency
Something Comes Which Can Go, 2019
Lamp, Vinyl, China Bowl, Spoon, Table, Family Table Cloth, Digital Print on Recycled Paper in Artist frame, Aluminium Pot, Electrical Hob, Extension Lead, Chicken, Sweet Onion, Leeks, Carrots, Celeriac root, Celery, Parsnips, Salt, Pepper, Water.
7m climbing rope, Military Bed.
What is it to be in apprehension of oneself ?
The contours etched in my first sighting of the desert
never desert me, before the dust mystifies
the vision, there in a single distance. Nothing.
Moving, as pylons move when darting through.
I knew you were over there. Or you had been over there.
I knew you too felt lost. I felt it, as I felt that
this was the closest I had been to home. To see it. Not to be in it.
To believe that it exists.
As though here was the birthing point
of the conception of what the word could mean.
Beyond the systems we built to define it,
beyond the construction of my ‘self,
the core of this life,
sprouting from the roots of sand,
carried on ships, and boats, and cars, and feet.
These burnt feet.
These ruined feet.
These feet, full of love for the earth’s hardship.
Untested. Awaiting what is yet to come.
I have no disruption. I feel no anger.
I understand no pains. I feel only fear.
such sadness obstructs the ability to love
sadness is the consequence of love
To submit to defeat, is not a choice,
as the defeat you speak of has already been,
so as to say, there is only a succession of defeats
awaiting us, and this place we feel accustomed to
is nothing more than a list, a sequence of events,
memories, we implanted to increase our resistance
Are we in the apprehension of our home?
I tried to listen to Lizst before I went to sleep.
I had heard in the news that it had healing effects, but I had also heard in the news that there were fires happening in different countries simultaneously, and this unsettled me. What is to become of our geography without any landmarks to register our trajectory.
Lost in another voice,
paid and fuelled,
by the misplaced,
from being displaced.
Danced in the fortune of trade
If this you, was you,
Here we two, become
Something for once, something, dancing in the distance
Dancing to our rhythm,
If I insist, You would pursue,
Lately, the resting space,
Has become the quietest moment,
Silence on silence, awaiting the exuberant expulsion
Let it go, let me go, let me go,
transformations in the transfiguration of the city
As the body,
This body of mine, a body from our time
Backed up in the eyes
My focus wavering on the holes in your walls,
The holes in our pitfalls,
As I fall, you fell,
As we walked, the wind wagered
amongst the pylons of dust and darkness
built in the last age,
but maintained in this age,
Quick, quick, quick,
Descending beyond my voice,
Can you take this voice?
It is not my voice,
These voices, these voices
we, we, floating
Underneath the planets of our solstice,
Blessed in lights
For the evening peoples
Pair to next,
Contemplating the hours
the melodies of us
the cars and the horns and the birds what use do they play today, when we can manufacture their noise? I cannot remember the day I came home to find my mother sitting on the toilet bleeding, when I called the taxi, taking the time to bring a cloth, so as not to spoil the car seats, to the hospital. I do not know if this happened and have only been told the story. there are no images. there is no sensation. the flight strategy’s power was in its ability of erasure.
Performance and Sound Installation
The heart of the stranger was ripped
From his chest, when they wrote his future
in their constitution. His bags were our bags to carry,
we were blind to not see how,
until, he was dead, and misconstrued
relationships returned from depths
to the surface they had tried to feed us.
Do they not see dissonance is love displaced?
one silence becomes a cry of others
behind the closed ceremonies,
hush-hush manoeuvres, the interlaced players
telephone home. Their new-found chairs
a misplaced needle in their voice
I cannot feel the body of this future
performed at Montvalent Festival & Lost Senses, Guest Projects
White painted 3m x 3m square. 1 chair (preferably from French Art Deco style café influence)
Two men enter a 3m x 3m square. One sits on the wooden chair, the other paces. They make eye contact. The one sitting down stands up. They speak. They circle one another as they speak. One speaks in French, the other in English. During any kind of interruption, they shout “CAR!” in their respective languages, step out and then step back into the square. The chair is lifted and moved multiple times.
IN WHICH SILENCE COMMANDS SPACE
Your words are whispers now.
Our words are whispers now.
The memory turns
out of one dream
another is born
out of one life
many were wasted
faltering in fear, I searched for ways to give
as the weather gives us its temper,
and the books give us their feeling,
under this peachy orange hue,
illuminating underneath closed off feelings
I wished to summon, my senses trapped,
one over the other, the other over another,
out of sync, out of self.
Where are we now?
Again, in the escalating wildness of the monolithic state,
searching for the flattened land, the sea and its horizon.
Where do we go when there is nowhere to return to?
When there is nowhere we belong to?
Cradled in youth, our separation comes in pulses,
until bursts of memory treat us to their miss-shaped forms
and retrieve the ritual of care.
I called out to this non-space. And silence returned.
I held my hands to my face. And silence returned.
I watched the water’s stream. And silence returned.
I smelt the orchid’s bloom. And silence returned.
Silence returned, as the walls crumbled into cracks,
allowing new weeds to bloom,
and bring about the first transition we had felt in years,
the first phase of the second movement,
balanced between the thin line that signals
where I am and where you were.
Such that the upheaval of my spirit recalls on you,
in moments that appear too dark to see,
and all the while, a silence returned.
last night was nice