Category: critical writing

Bad, Boring Writing about Magenta

1
Using magenta with neutrals opens up smaller spaces like this nursery soft and pink and social. Rough tones of sorbet blend 20% gentle, maybe some dust, fine for a room that’s perfect for you. Or your little pinks. Inviting biological blends can transform the mood of any room without transforming the mood. Perhaps a redundant berry? A muted neutral such as soft stone contrasts with a feature wall for a gorgeous way to pervert woodwork. It keeps things clean and simple and is softer on the living room. Try babe in contrast to a Greek shimmer, anything dextrous for a rich lift. A little calm is forgivable, it’s only Tuesday and the yellows are out. Light pinks and similar April bushes are very likely. It shows well in this quiet and reasonable room. It’s all over 1930s sexy. Clash a tone on this table, make it a raspberry perfect for you. Saturated, regular or dusky.
One quarter violets will bring a seasonal and necessary change – think oyster, think coma.
Come the season for circles in irregular spaces. Dirty as grapes. You want a change like fondant goo and the rest. This furniture deserves the site of cream, something to send it into 60%. You could frame it in shiny lilacs and really get the angles you deserve. Try to separate the brights from the bolds, it could win you 5 minutes to a week of free-time with your dirties. Blossom rash?

2
No one wants to see a bashed berry yogurt in the morning. On occasion it’s forgivable to tone two neutrals together. Soap and sack, rough water holidays. This fest is an ideal time to try some new samples – plucked skin is hot but to be daring is to risk a sterile ruby. Minus a shade or two for a proper century carpet, and now you’re really staining! A good fantasy fetcher is ¾ pig ink, a must-have for this corner space.
Feather the brick wash. You won’t regret putting blush before you’re 40. Make space, make time, the cherries are groaning. The crack of a new month is the perfect excuse for some fresh acid thinking. Why not update your alcoves with something musty. Your home is a mood-farm and worth every lick. If the dappled long coats get you down, sprinkle some fizz and relive the era of the mantle-piece. Something for sitting and driving: it should always make you roomy, a bit like a garden.

3
People of the watermelon, listen to the new sound coming from the angry red planet. Peach-wash or milk crust? This is contemporary California style. The new motors have a wonderful aroma and a mildness that agrees with your red-eye. Liner. So do yourselves a flavour and complete the decking in meat planks. Do it for your family, or just for the sheer fat of it. Life is certainly pleasurable now. It’s made of pure foam – Don’t ever forget that. Fact.

In the olden days a wife was a spread of bacteria. She knew the smack of pink wafer biscuit. Spray, spray, spray away the crinkles. Lip is the stick smart women should wear – says Andy McDowell, the glut agent. Today the trend in telephones is certainly to colour – in both home and the office. So why not update your talking shades? You’re a smoker, so American. Not a baby washer after all.
This bathroom is synonymous with the gracious living of Beverly Hills. It’s mulberry blush, it’s sandalwood and it won’t harm your pets. Want to know Paris’s secret to beauty in the morning? Cry a little. And there’s no need to plug it in, or even shake. To keep your decor in trend, you must follow the Johnson Plan. Step one is a Barbarella diet with two-tone salmon trays. Step two to three becomes available on Boxing Day. The most recent devotee has inched herself into 3 flesh sizes her previous. It could be you, so why not update your talking shades?

4
Feeling low? Blow away the brown air with a new internal wall. You’ve seen them in the showrooms; they leak real-life hormones. Halleluiah Jimmy. Now award yourself a twin-pack and really begin the neo year. It really really really will make your mornings bigger. It’s what every contempo doll is looking for. What is? This is! And you thought the bag-hogs had the last sample stitch. We all care about your lounge, Ronda. Believe it.
R-O-T spells luxury rug.

5
Monroes welcomes Baglics, the most recent member of the Vanity family. They insist on surfaces being bright and clear. Keeping up bright and across clear, ensuring a bright and clear sphere that’s bright and clear. The portals are bright and clear. The bays are bright and clear. They’ve customized bright to enhance clear, really bringing out the shine in the furnishings. The focus is on bringing out the bright, it’s clear. The design shanks are aren’t just clear, they’re brighter than clear, they’re bright and clear. And the rest. Bag-a-lics say, Come Alive! You’re in the coochie purse generation. That’s bright; that’s clearer than clear. Pimp your basement room ready for some grade A action. Hang up the stuff! Match faux fur with jaundice stones. And always make sure there’s plenty of peach on the blankets.

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Alison Knowles Workshop

Photos by Marsha Bradfield

Alison Knowles Workshop Report: Intermedia and the Archive

Talk given at Translated Acts 2, Southampton University, 08.06.09

On April 3rd and 4th I was one of 10(ish) artists and researchers invited to take part in a practice-based workshop with the ‘exemplar’ artist Alison Knowles. It was an opportunity that promised a healthy shot of dynamism into my working as a poet and text artist; granting the freedom to experiment away from didactics. Knowles’ diverse practice is a great influence to me through its commitment to the Fluxus experience and its occupying of modalities between sculpture, performance, poetry and music. She is currently exploring sound making and sculpture with performance, continuing to develop the potential of Intermedia.

The workshop took place over two days in the October Gallery, London in two different spaces. On the Friday we were in a grand conference room, discussing and sharing ideas, and on Saturday we took over the next door theatre space for our Fluxus concert (with multiple interventions outside in the park). Day one opened with a tutorial of sorts on the concerns of Alison Knowles’ practice, and the continuing Fluxus project. These were introduced to us via a list of meditative questions of of which I can remember were,
“is the work exemplative or definitive?”
“is there something of the artist’s temperament in the work?”
“do you agree with what the work, successful or not, is ultimately saying/doing?”

We were taken on a tour of the history of ‘Event Score’, looking at footage of their premières at the 1963 Fluxus Festival at Staatliche Kunstakademie, Dusseldorf, and of recent re-stagings like the Tate Modern’s Long Weekend May 2008, where Knowles’ exemplary piece Make a Salad (a score consisting of that single proposition) was performed for an audience of 3000.

On day 2 we held our own Fluxus concert with every member of the group (including Alison) being both performer and audience. The concert was prepared and executed in the prescribed Fluxus style with a detailed order of proceedings, black n’ white clothing etc. and featured both re-stagings of original Alison Knowles Event Scores; ‘Shoes of your choice’; ‘Song of your choice’; ‘The Colour Red’, and short (capsule) performance pieces that some of us devised especially as homage or adaptations of Fluxus works; ‘Reading Gertrude Stein’ and ‘Photo of Your Choice’.

It was clear that every work shown during our concert was considered (by Alison) as much an extension of, a supplement to or as much a realisation of the scores as every enactment of them that has ever taken place. The vast index of scores devised and published by the Fluxus group is just one fragment of the living archive of their performances and re-performances; the printed ephemera can be considered the index while the continuing activations of the scores through their performances world-wide, is the expanding archive.It’s the Event Score; its functionality as works of art and as an archive that every artist is granted access to, that I want to focus on in relation to my work and contemporary poetic practice.

In terms of the artist’s temperament, every Knowles Event Score has an assured focus. Each one is an instruction for the process of researching an act, an object, or a concept from everyday reality. It removes the functionality of this act and reveals a poiesis. ‘Make a Salad’ takes a commonplace activity and reveals an aesthetic in the physical movements, sounds and colours of the production. ‘Shoes of Your Choice’ (in my reading) reveals the phenomenology in impromptu speech and description.

Alison Knowles stressed how important it is, when transposing everyday reality into artwork, to have and maintain focus. She said ‘know your ingredients’. You must have clearly defined parameters of investigation and let the results be guided by chance. Be aware of the act, revel in it, and notice what it is doing outside reality. Notice how it feeds back into reality and in what ways the transmission continues beyond the performance.

The Event Score de-familiarises an activity; it is an algorithm on making a salad, walking in the street, talking about your shoes, reading a book; in it’s reframing it weirds it. The algorithm, the affecting code, is to estrange the act from our understanding and re-codify it.

There is no artefact, only an act. It’s the identity of the act that is the focus for viewing, reading, and it is an unbreakable self-same product over 30 years later. It activates the ideal of making a salad and locates a point of Intermedia between everyday reality and art.

This original Fluxus notion of Intermedia and the resistance of artefact is what drives my work in speech and sound poetry. Intermedia is the Fluxus legacy of the interchange between multiple modes of production, often with the affect of relieving the authority from an ‘established’ media by internally and conceptually transposing it through another, thus engendering new practices. In the 1960s the Fluxus project de-stabilised the authority of painting and sculpture through a conceptual interchange with performance; the authority of classical music composition through an encounter with visual poetry and performance.

In my work I am trying to think about Intermedia from this starting point and apart from the institutionalised term. I would like my poetics to occupy sites of medium counterchange as a poetic act. And so in my research I ask the question;

How is Intermedia useful when thinking about the reveling-in-the-act-ness of an event score, and the revelling in the cross-over between functionality and de-familiarisation?

Is my voice-driven poetics a revelling in the cross-over between language and speech-sound? When I store and exchange sound or image texts through digital networks am I revelling in the cross-over between databasing and exposition?
In Benjamin’s terms Intermedia signals a functional transformation in the production of writing or art making. Mediums are re-functioned to channel artistic production – rather than save or package them. In my sound-poetry practice, an digital archive that’s intended to store sound files, or snippets of text – can becomes the facilitator of the creative act. The interface which is designed to interrogate the archive, is used to create an index-composition (howzat for an intermedia?) of texts and recordings, documentation and discourse. For the practitioner the processing, exhibiting, exchanging and archiving of works is all as much a part of the artistic production. The space of the archive internally and conceptually relates the practice and the criticism; the writer and reader; the data and the database.

I’m not an expert in New Media but I am interested in how this new relationship to the database feeds my poetics and also my reading of artists who have a history of creative archive practices. Sound artist Henri Chopin’s publishing enterprise was precisely this. His magazines Cinquième Saison and OU creatively indexed new and old works into an original system of poetics. And I have already mentioned the Fluxus ephemera and the compedium of Event Scores as being part of an creative archive.

The archive is not static nor permanent. Poetics can move through an internal or external system. In my work I engage in found, sourced or generated speech material by breaking it down into sound elements and de-familiarising myself to it. It follows Alison Knowles’ code for ‘sampling’ every-day life, and re-coding it as something alien. With outlined algorithmic parameters the poetry-object is an ideal model for re-enactments and re-versions to occur. The medium workshops the text into being just as the medium of a workshop (the Alison Knowles workshop!) both archives and generates texts.

An intermedia artist is active through technique not style – they are operating not informing, creating new apparatus for different kinds of production. The task, my task, is to re-function spaces and mediums for new artistic production. Perhaps the intermedia between art and everyday reality of Alison Knowles’s Event Scores is a way of protecting the act of intervening on the world as an artist; interventions like taking pictures of public buildings, and refusing imposed ‘speech-acts’ to qualify being present in the street or park. Liberties are more and more compromised.

My poetry is in the act, the saying doing and sound making; and then the storing, exchanging and showing. My ingredients are the sounds and the shape of everyday language; the toungue and the mouth, as is the translation and the workshopping between them.

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The Ventriloquy of Artists’ Interviews

Start the tape.

“I always felt the need to bring a new objectivity to” ladders.

Who’s speaking? Every interview is a junkyard of voices; you believe, I insist, we all think. Allow me to explain. I am the partial interviewer, veiled in script. I am the interviewee that spoke and the one that was written later in my absence. We are all various understandings of the Work, and the work’s value. But which one of us is interested in forklift trucks?

What do you want to say about interviews? That we’re too in love with them? That they fill in narratives of how and why art works? How and why does your art work. I can’t tell you now that you’ve asked me. How do you understand it? If you enjoy it you must understand it. There’s no need to say ‘What about your lines? What about your materials? “Being intelligible is not what it seems.” What’s interesting about this interview is the rhetorical skill, it’s so dependent on an unambiguous persona. Only he could answer a question like that. Somebody said something impulsive at a point in time, somebody wrote something rational and that moment is now a monument. Ask her about her plan. The question is always the answer is always a statement about your current project. That’s not a question. But do you agree or disagree. With what? With whether the question or answer is the making of criticism.

It’s probably more like an exercise in understanding a journalist. The golden egg is a recording of someone’s meltdown. The best way to achieve this is to cause someone to have a meltdown. Tell us about the moment of your public failure and if you can’t please be silent. You mustn’t insult me by understanding me. My way of being critical is my way of showing you that I care. I care enough to ask what you think about how logos have changed? And how did the move to go all white come about? It was my brief. People must be so bored of decision making. Explain your strategies for escaping phallocentricism? Silence. I had my first exhibition in Warsaw, with photographs of my actions. Untitled (November 1976) was in it, as was Untitled (18 November 1976) and other things I had done.

Is an apologia even necessary, and what’s the difference between what you decided and what you can’t decide? Decision making. I am interested in the initial impulse that led to your ‘actions’, what did you do before this? I was doing drawings in a notepad then I did collage. What have you heard others say about your work? What they say is true. How did you end up in Poland? It was for my second exhibition. Could you explain the train journey in detail, including the coffee and the sandwich and the book you read. Maybe that’s when I had the idea. What have you heard others say about your work? What they say is wrong.

It’s a shame this interview is too circumscribed for you to say anything surprising. Was that your intention? If you enjoy it you understand it. Everyone talks about what a wonderful structure Number 32 has. (What I mean is) if they only knew how arbitrary that decision was. Now the biographers are calling and I can’t remember what is true and what isn’t. Why are you using forklift trucks? I’m fascinated by them. You are not fascinated by them. I can’t talk about intention, everything I do is a surprise.

(This article can be found in next month’s Vacuum magazine)

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Is

This essay operates over three stratums, incorporating the minefields and complexities inherent to determining artwork. In this particular case the defining, describing and situating of the work must all be told in first person. It seems necessary to dismantle this “I” that will be talking to “you” the reader, who can remain homogeneous if you like.
Allow me to introduce you to the three “I”s of this essay. There is the “I” within the writing process. This is the artist’s I who speaks with the ‘authority’ of ‘experience’, if not intention. The statement-making voice elucidating artistic decisions that would ideally, were it not for this essay, be laid to rest in the appropriate poststructualist manner. This is the I that is accumulating a critical praxis, quantifying and qualifying choices for the text, drawing influence from established practitioners, locating the text in theory.
The second “I” is the I that is part of a narrative. The subjective I that retells an event with an interpretive voice and with itself at the centre. This is the I that happened .
The third discursive “I” is the I that is a stranger to the text. The analytical voice that imagines critical contexts for the body of work and for the direction of the practice. This is the voice of criticism that applies poetics as a science of thought over the text.
This I thinks in historical, formalistic terms, it appropriates –ism frameworks and individual thinkers. It isolates departures and affiliations with historicised cannons. This is the I whose task it is to weave a trajectory of logic through each of the texts, imagining a cohesive body, themed and knowing of one another.
The three “I”s need not appear linearly nor distinctly but as nomadic counterparts within the multiplicity of ‘creative’ criticism.

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Collaborations and Impositions

When I make some writing out of someone else’s work
When writing a response to a work by another writer I have to enter the world of that work or poem or text. I like to step into the language of that poem or piece of text and turn it against itself. This does not simply mean reconstituting fragmented elements into a configuration that by luck or by mischievousness reflect a negative space of the original ‘meaning’. Though this can be an element of the process. It is a submissive process that requires entering the logic of that other writer and the logic of that particular piece of writing or poem. This language of the writing can be extended but can never be completely relied on to know itself completely. The poetics that happens to be currently at my fingertips has a contaminating effect and turns the original logic into the call and also the response to my imposed extension of the language. And this is both call and also response to the other writer’s work. This for me is collaboration. It is an imposed collaboration of texts that assigns the roles of caller and responder to the writings.

For a magazine called Attack!!!! I contributed a response text to a sentimental Dutch poem called ‘I Call’, narrating a child’s sleepless night and a mother’s comfort. The response was performed as a multimedia piece at Attack’s live-event on the 22nd of July. (Arguably) the name of the ‘zine encouraged a ruthless engagement with the poem and I produced what I initially explained as a twisting of the ‘original’ innocent voice into darker id material creeping into waking life. After performing the piece – with the dialogical addition of projected text, my reading of it has changed. I now read my ‘(awake and lie)’ as meta-text on the processes of interacting with another writer’s text. (awake and lie) is composed of cut-ups and manipulated lines from ‘I Call’ incorporating the writer’s name, Johanna van Fessem. There is an activity taking place in the text that not only signifies my writerly-self interacting with Johanna’s, but something of this dangerous autonomy in the voice with which I transmit the piece. The ‘Call’ becomes an insistence of authority laying claim on the text rather than a cry for help, concurring with the rebelliousness intrinsic to the cut-up method.
(awake and lie) turns the initial use of the verb of lie, to lie down, into a confession of falsehood; spoken with artificial teeth.
My intercepting voice attacks the text through the very words it provided. There are three characters, an ‘I’, a ‘She’ and a Johanna van Fessem, each competing for textual agency. “She comes out by Johanna” can be legitimately read as the original voice/text giving birth to this new one. Yet yet yet

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statement making

When I write, as I do, line by line, each line is a singular item and enters the page in the sequence it will stay in and is largely unalterable once it is fixed onto the page. I do not own them or have them pre-assigned to a pre-planned structure. I write words not poems and I want to be a stranger to them and their unlikely ways across the page. I have to resist fulfilling expectations of where they should sit and to what degree of positional force. I write them in blocks of either sounds or meanings. The enormity of a finished text never intimidates me because I only negotiate with the present utterance I am writing at the time. Once on the page the items fix to each other like a bacteria that attempts at structural editing will only cause to tighten and beat with the same mood of the moment they were written down. The best I can do is to shave and trim the formation until it operates in tension or harmony with voice.
The vocalised performance breathes a history into the printed text a history that is reoccurring and remembers my aired speech and my animating hands and the rustling paper and the air in the room and the responding noises from the gathered. This can be referred to as the second incarnation of the text one that behaves its history and welcomes shapes of spaces onto the printed page as the shapes of spaces in time and place when and where the text was evented. Calling it the second incarnation also refers to my new relationship to the text as a thing. As a thing that hosted my breathing patterns and my mouth’s movements.
What Gertrude Stein calls the time-sensed within the composition is what I call the remembering of the moment it was vocally aired in the shapes of spaces on the page which re-present the time it took to write it and the time it took to read it out and the time it took to hear it and the time it takes to read it. All of this real time and space punctuation is visually diagrammed to show spaces that are pauses and spaces that are movements and spaces that are respiration and spaces that are a place.
And so the event is permanently marked and is reoccurring as an event and a history and as a shape in space.

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about yows

“It’s really weird that you should have happened across that one. I’ve always felt really weird about it. In fact I think I’ve deleted it from my documents because I can’t find it! I’d always thought it was just ridiculous and I should never show anyone, but I had this weird affection for it and so in the end put it in the appendix as a sort of compromise – to the part of me that wants to be taken seriously and to the other part that of me, that’s a bit nuts. I think I ideally wanted it to be discovered exactly the way you did, for it to be ‘happened upon’ without my shoving it in yours or anyone’s face. Maybe that’s the only way that piece can work…?
Anyway, process? We were set a task by Pete to write an “urban”, concrete-ish piece. It made me want to be a bit sick but I went with it. I think everyone else came up with psychogeographic stuff about the underground – which was probably what he wanted.
I messed about with multi-language genres and then I let myself get sort of sentimental. About London maybe. Then I put it away and forgot about it. Then I started playing with punctuation and using noises and verbal sounds as punctuation instead of pauses and silences. And then I put it all together, only it was less mechanical and considered than that. And all in the space of an afternoon, in case I made it sound like a long seasonal shift.
Editing is weird with me, I write things in a sort of flow, thinking to myself, “I’m going to really work on this, just get something down and then mould it later. But then the text is completely impenetrable, it seems to just lock together. And so I patch over and stitch on – and then that seems to lock together. And the more I try and loosen it the more it seems to resist me interfering. Isn’t that weird? I’ve started talking about it as if it’s alive.
Who knows where it comes from? And I just don’t know how conscious it is. I think the less premeditated it is the more of that “zingy” energy it has. And I really appreciate that description. I think if there’s one thing I can do I think it’s zing.”

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Snowclones in Words and Pictures




I am interested in the rhetoric game of snowclones, the special breed of phrasal templates that constantly  revisit  a culturally established term. “X is the new Y” is now a common to most idioms, and mostly independent of the original “Brown is the new Black”. My interest is not in the discourse of lazy journalism, I know they rely on cliches and I’m pretty sure I know why. I’m excited by the broader significance of snowcloning; cliches, punning, stock piles of linguistic collocations that are knitted into communication. Most speech is littered with  snowclones or other templated orders. What we do is more like like ‘oral writing’ than true speech. My question is, and nearly always is when faced with a linguistic trope, does it occur visually? 

To satisfy the comparison, and to satisfy me, the image would have to be more than a visual pun, to be somewhat detached from its meaning-origin. The template itself would need to have overtaken the referent in some way. I asked a friend for any ideas, after a pained bafflement she suggested the main image of the film Scandal -  Joannne Whalley posing as Christine Keeler, sat naked on a turned-around chair. This works for me. It’s been repeated to such a degree that it’s been adopted by visual culture as a standard format. The language of its use doesn’t necessarily signify the scandalous suggestiveness of the “original”, it doesn’t signify anything apart from the re-use of itself. It is loosing its context, yet instantly recognisable. More examples (all contestable, non absolutely definite) are; 
a Warhol repeated portrait; 
a never ending high-way somewhere in an American dessert; 
a huge crown scene, just distanced enough to obscure any identifiable features of anyone;
a pieta/a crucifixion;
a hand reaching and touching another hand;
three (or more but not too many) people in a circle dancing in a natural setting.

Lawrence Weschler has a new book, Everything That Rises: A Book of Convergences. It catalogues his investigation into the shared images of cultural output in history and the contemporary. Representations of moments, events and personalities follow a pattern. A photograph of the New York city-scape it matched perfectly to a painting of a 18th century harbour; while a ground-zero fire-fighter’s meeting is paired with Rembrandt’s The Night Watch, 1642. The images share more than similar scenarios or narratives, they share a schematic and aesthetic language. The formats and compositions are uncannily married. It poses the question, does visual culture borrow from itself so unconsciously and so often, or is this how we visually interpret the world, in known pre-set compositions. 
Every story told is a re-telling at its heart, we have inbuilt narratives and myths hosting archetypal systems in our psyche. These are made manifest in the novel and cinema, reflected back at us. As we translate chaos into narratives, do we translate the world of infinite colours, angles and  perspectives into framed images? Do we only see in vistas, still-lifes and  compositions, (re)presented, seen and re-seen. Cinema has its own sub-universe of these continuously recycled hieroglyphs. Visual templates of Hollywood cinema feed into our broader library of icons, how we understand the world and ourselves. Different movie snowclones appeal to each of us for different reasons. Some of my favourites are;
close-ups of feet walking along;
a foreboding mansion seen through iron gates;
pan-out shot of a car driving away (always away);
a dog cocking its head or rolling its eyes from the floor – beneath all the action;
legs seen from below the water;
a busy cafe or restaurant;
the orchestra;
the boss sat at a desk in front of a large window;
whirling newspaper headlines;
the outside of a house with lights on*.
*Similarly mentioned in Michael Atkinson’s article ‘Anna Karina and the American Night’ in this months The Believer Magazine.
 
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