MFA Catalogue

our beginnings never know our ends

Ever the aware equator; .....things rotation, the turning, these combination, that cook, the a know know, he diamond, and door.It is clear that the world is purely parodic, in other words that each thing seen is the paro-dy of another, or is the same thing in a decep-tive form. It is clear that art is purely parodic, in other words that each thing seen is the parody of another, or is the same thing in a deceptive form. A doll defaced with laughter, a painting of a black man, a blinking chair, a shelf shud-dering under the weight of the dead, of books, an amateur golfer, a mouse giving birth on a discarded canvas, corporate fetishism (specif-ically Ford), the scratched back of Felicity. The angry words of actors, the lost words of actors, the smell of meat left to rot on doormats, the clanging of a conveyor belt dragging bodies backwards into hell. A frightened pig, a paint-ers platform, a car door, the smell of green grass scorched in daytime experiments with creation, are, to desire what testimony is to dis-aster. We hover, flickering, always on the edge. Ever since sentences started to circulate in brains devoted to reflection, an effort at total identification has been made, because with the aid of a copula each sentence ties one thing to another; all things would be visibly connected if one could discover at a single glance and in its totality the tracings of Ariadnes thread lead-ing thought into its own labyrinth. But the cop-ula of terms is no less irritating than the copula-tion of bodies. And when I scream I AM GREEN an integral erection results, because the verb to be is the vehicle of amorous frenzy. To be me in the body of a cat, to awake on a Friday as a robot, to act out the turning over of a mo-tor engine, to scrape the skies and sway whilst greedily devouring our wreckage of a future, sweltering beneath lower city humidity and smog as ice bites simultaneously at my spiral-ling head are, all of these, visions of a body in want. An artist who finds herself among others is irritated because she does not know why she is not one of the others. An artist in bed with another artist dreams of wearing them like a glove whilst remaining I/my self. Such are the mechanics of desire, as we see historically in the flattening out of objects by urgent swells of image-makers. Like the sea these images liquify under the excitation of a building in continual mutation where walls open smooth-ly into doors only to be seized and papered/painted over almost as before; such is birth.I get up as brusquely as a spec-tre in a coffin and fall in the same way.I get up a few hours later and then I fall again, and the same thing happens every day; this great co-itus with the celestial atmosphere is regulated by the terrestrial rotation around the building.TH

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And if the origin of things is not like the ground of the building that seems to be the base, but like the circular movement that the artist describes around a mobile centre, then a car, a camera, or a sewing machine could equally be accept-ed as the generative principle. The two primary motions are rota-tion and sexual movement, whose combination is expressed by the locomotives wheels and pistons. These two motions are reciprocally transformed, the one into the oth-er. Thus one notes that the build-ing, by turning, makes animals and men have coitus, and (because the result is as much the cause as that which provokes it) that animals and men make the building turn by having coitus. It is the mechan-ical combination or transforma-tion of these movements that the professors sought as the philoso-phers stone. It is through the use of this magically valued combina-tion that one can determine the present position of us in the midst of the elements. Movement is a figure of love, incapable of stop-ping at a particular being, and rap-idly passing from one to another. I know in advance of myself - seek-ing not deceptive satisfaction but desire itself. I imagine always. I think always that I have it. Blind-ed by belief in direct consequence through action, I forget myself im-mediately and repeat; an infinite hunt exposing haunted corridors.

l o i t e r i n g

When my face is flushed with blood, it becomes red and obscene.It betrays at the same time, through morbid reflexes, a bloody erection and a demanding thirst for inde-cency and criminal debauchery.For that reason I am not afraid to affirm that my face is a scan-dal and that my passions are ex-pressed only by the JESUVE.The building is covered with art-ists, which serve as its anus. Al-though this building eats nothing, it often violently ejects the con-tents of its entrails. Those contents shoot out with a racket and fall back, streaming down the sides of the Jesuve, spreading death and terror everywhere. In fact, the erot-ic movements of the building are not fertile like those of the water, but they are far more rapid. The building sometimes jerks off in a frenzy, and everything collapses on its surface. Artists only leave to return, in the manner of phal-luses that leave bodies in order to enter them. The Jesuve is thus the image of an erotic movement that burglarizes the ideas con-tained in the mind, giving them the force of a scandalous erup-tion. This eruptive force accumu-lates in those who are necessarily situated within. The erotic revolu-tionary and volcanic deflagrations antagonize the heavens. Love then screams in my own throat; I am the Jesuve, the filthy paro-dy of the torrid and blinding sun.

In opposition to celestial fertility there are terrestrial disasters, the image of terrestrial love without condition, erection without escape and without rule, scandal, and terror.The Sun exclusively loves the Night and directs its luminous violence, its ignoble shaft, toward the build-ing, but finds itself incapable of reaching the gaze or the night, even though the nocturnal terrestrial ex-panses head continuously toward the indecency of the solar ray. The green anus is the body of a build-ing at seventy-one years to which nothing sufficiently blinding can be compared except the sun, even though the green anus is night.

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It was a bright cold day in April, and wispy clouds raced passed the early afternoon sun. Cameron Smith pulled his clothing a little tighter to his body. Feeling a chill run down his spine he wondered if it was the cold or what he was about to do. He hated them both. The entrance of TOB1 opened smoothly on his approach and as he slipped inside he was shadowed by the blowing crumbs and splinters of me-chanical debris that had besieged the streets for as long as he could remember.The antechamber avenue smelt of oil and chemical paints. Ancient technological in-nards and their skeletons had been clumsi-ly stacked against one side of the avenue; time had allowed a thick mat of dust and spider webs to creep over them. Against the other wall hovered the energy slab, its green haze glowing and dimming ever so slightly as it breathed to the same rhythm of Camerons soul. He shivered inward-ly and the slab stirred into a momentary purr. Cameron knew that it was precisely 167 paces to cell i1, but who walked these days, only old people and those who had not mastered the new way. Cameron was physically superior to most; his long limbs were lean and muscular and swathed with black shimmering flesh. More than that, he was mentally superior; he was a swell of pure energy and that made him a target. Cameron thought his way into cell i1. Inside an energy slab floated above his head, ex-panding and retracting in the familiar way, its green glow feeding off his dark skin. The cell was still and dejected, a scene of un-touched chaos frozen like an ancient motion picture cut off at the point of action. Tubes of pigment and matted brushes which had been long since abandoned left a messy array of crusty colour across the floor and tables. The metal legs of an upturned chair were buckled and reminded Cameron of the wilting petals of a flower. He could just make out a Made in China sticker frailly clinging to the underside of the seat re-minding him of a world he once knew. He averted his eyes quickly because longing for anything nowadays was dangerous. Stacks of paintings in differing points of decay or destruction littered the cell. Voiceless crum-pled faces peered from broken stretchers and tatty canvas, sad faces, screaming fac-es, familiar faces, but voiceless nonethe-less. Books and papers, and lead sticks, and hundreds of obsolete instruments had been hurled to a violent death and now lay silently and finally across the floor. Outside Cameron could hear the hiss of the pa-trolling point fives. The patrols did not mat-ter, however. Only the green light mattered.

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im with blanchot in rockland where words shatter papers curse every eyeballing starkness of paradox as all my girlfriends stay home typ-ing out new domestic death threats and promiscuous ink continues to splatter my glasses. what blan-chot didnt know is that this paper is already published and a million messages migrate online in every fraction of every single shortening second. there are differences be-tween a speaking language that falls from beds naked filth and intimate and those other words that we carve into tablets. Chocolate Milk, and glasses, tempered by youth, visions of love, the gods, sweat, mouths full of hair and gasping, brain dazed and my crotch heats up with this purring machine fixed upon it. jel-lyfish object unsettled these words are inadequate but glitches are in themselves productive. Celestial Virginity is thus a blank canvas upon which to vomit every word smouldering inside your guts.

Lisa Barnard www.lisabarnard.org

[email protected]

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WE ARE WHAT WE BUY ??

Philip Parbury

These historical documents are examples taken from a research based project where Philip Parbury explores the interface between art and business. He uses the Ford Motor Company as a resource and interprets its visual culture using geometry, pattern, typography, colour and Bauhaus studies. Various points of departure are developed including identity, products and architecture which result in artworks aestheticizing commercial attributes. This points to an irony of post-Fordist immaterial labour being focussed on the previously Fordist industry and reflects the changing nature of international business.

Art + Business

Images opposite: working drawings in crayon on tracing paperDrawing numbers 60, 61, 62, 63, 64 and 65

A race of people is like an individual man; until it uses its own talent, takes pride in its own history, expresses its own culture, affirms its own selfhood,

it can never fulfill itself.

Malcolm X

Sonia Olaniyan e: [email protected]

With thanks to: Alun Rowlands, Susanne Clausen, John Russell, Robert Garnett

Produced with support from:

MFA Catalogue

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