so what you what you what you want

FOUND by Dan Miller in Chicago, Illinois, 2002

Closer, 2009

upcoming group project

magic mountain is not the same thing as haunted castle

Cory Arcangel. 2005

00:01

Sin embargo, no hay estado del alma, por simple que sea, que no cambie a cada instante, pues no hay conciencia sin memoria, ni continuación de un estado sin la adición del recuerdo de los momentos pasados al sentimiento del presente. En esto consiste la duración. La duración interior es la vida continua de una memoria que prolonga el pasado en el presente, sea que el presente contenga distintamente la imagen siempre creciente del pasado, sea, más bien, que, por su cambio continuo de calidad, atestigüe la carga cada vez más pesada que uno arrastra tras sí a medida que envejece. Sin esta supervivencia del pasado en el presente, no habría duración, sino solamente instantaneidad.

Introducción a la Metafísica. Henry Bergson, 1903.

Wor_ds of Pain

thinking about expectation, mainly about the lack of it.

Killerball, 2002. Fabric stuffed with soft synthetic materials

"...but sooner or later there will be hell to pay."

portable networks graphic images

Yes, everything can start all over again

Case #5BB02B || January 2009

Jose,

We have completed the diagnosis and recovery research of your hard drive. Your drive was evaluated in our lab where we were unable to read any data from the drive surface. There was a internal mechanical alignment problem which partially contributed to the seizing of the motor. This occurs when a device is dropped or constantly run. The motor of the drive does not allow the platters to spin, thus not allowing the read and write heads to read the information off of the drive. Unfortunately due to the type and extent of this damage the data is unrecoverable.

Please contact to have the drive shipped back. If arrangements are not made within 10 business days of this notice it will be environmentally safely disposed or recycled.

Jeff Borges

SALVAGE DATA
Salvage The Unrecoverable
Hard Drives, RAID Servers, SQL Databases, Exchange and more
www.SalvageData.com

76 Progress Drive
Corporate Park,
Stamford, CT. USA 06902

Charles Mingus Decides to Wait

Charles Mingus || 1935: Watts

At thirteen, my boy Charles arrived at the conclusion that there was more to life than people have time for. Important things came in such rapid succession that he’d hardly begun to solve a problem before another arose and each day burning questions were crowded out by new ones and disappeared into the past unanswered.

He began to realize he had some sort of mystic powers. He felt he was able to touch people, to contact certain souls in the next room or miles away or even those who had died. In later years he had this special kind of empathy with Farwell Taylor, an artist friend of his in Mill Valley, and they often experienced a mysterious awareness of each other while in different parts of the world.

Ever since Elsinore and the afternoon at Mr. Rodia’s Charles had felt a telepathic communication with Lee-Marie. He was sure they were having the same dreams and thoughts and feelings at the same moments in time. So he wasn’t at all surprised when he boldly asked for her number and she answered herself and said immediately, “Oh, Charles, I knew it was you!”

As if it were the most natural thing in the world and they saw each other all the time, he invited her to go to the show at the Largo in Watts on Saturday afternoon. He knew she’d say yes and she did. The rest of my boy’s week was full of anxious calculations. He’d already spent a nickel of his twenty-five-cent weekly allowance and he knew better than to ask for an advance. Admission price, a dime apiece. Ice cream sodas, fifteen each. He rummaged in Daddy’s vest pocket, stuffed with Chinese lottery tickets and poker chips, found an extra quarter and copped it without a qualm. Total, forty-five cents. Five cents short can be as big a problem as five hundred dollars short, depending on circumstances. He knew he had to cut-rate his way in somehow. The kids told him Stewart Harrington, the Largo Theatre doorman and ticket taker, was beyond bribery, but you could get an usher to sneak you in the back door for a nickel. Then you’d go out front, ask for a return pass, meet your girl at the candy store, pay for the sodas, take her back to the theater and buy her a real ticket and you’re both safe inside. Total, forty-five cents.
All goes well. In the dark theater they sit side by side, full of the love they’ve saved so long, dying to kiss and touch and hold each other but scared of being noticed by Lee-Marie’s sister Patricia sitting close by with their little brother. They think she must be aware of their wandering hands and uncontrollable deep breathing and fraudulent concentration on the movie screen they’re staring at but neither of them really sees. Charles’ hand, loving carefully, perfectly, slips into her sleeve to touch her naked little breast. Timid fingers feel around her nipple’s areola as it swells, hardens and throbs. His hand slides down and tugs and finally her blouse is pulled free of her skirt. She covers her lap and naked stomach with her coat as her slip is pulled away. His fingers crawl down the edge of her elastic panty band and press pleadingly. Her skin tightens to his touch, she bites her lips together with her teeth. Her stockinged foot caresses his leg. She spreads her thighs. Pains of delight crawl and squirm. Beads of warm perspiration seep into his palm as his fingers smooth the soft, fine little fuzz that grows from her navel down to her damp, hot pubis where a few scattered long hairs roll and twist around his fingers. This child, this woman, this wife! He holds her wrist as it slides inside his unbuttoned fly and his jacket covers her innocent, kneading hand. At last in a single thought together with little or no movement both reach a climax and turn to look into each other’s eyes, slowly nodding their heads as the gradual letdown comes. Their moist fingers untangle. They rise. Lee-Marie leans toward her sister and whispers, “Stay here. I’ll be back.” Together they go out to the unromantic theater parking lot. Without a word they open their mouths to each other, drink each other’s love taste, swallow, and in their magic oneness say at the same time, “I was you!”

“Is that what love is—being one, Charles?”

“I don’t know. But I felt your thoughts. I read your mind.”

“I did too!”

“We’ve always been like this, Lee-Marie.” Charles takes her little hands. “But we can’t do this again until we’re grown and old enough to be married. We’re going to wait.” And she cries, “But I love you, I love you! I’m yours and you’re mine now, tomorrow, forever!”

He buttons her blouse beneath the coat draped over her shoulders and they look deep into each other’s eyes, living for a brief moment on an isle of thought that exists until this very day.

Funny thing about love. My boy was thirteen years old and he understood that in the eyes of the world they were only two small children and their passion was against every rule of God and man. “Man” was the powerful and dangerous adults surrounding them.

He stayed away from her for five long years after this happened. Sometimes he’d ring her on the phone, listen to her voice and hang up quickly, or go all the way to Southgate to walk past her house hoping to see her moving about inside the imprisoning walls. Sometimes she waved from a window and he could see her smile and he wondered if there were tears in her eyes, for there sometimes were in his. But he felt she knew his love and it was only a question of time before her family would consent to their courting.



From Beneath the Underdog. In elementary school Mingus played in the Los Angeles Junior Philharmonic, but listening to Duke Ellington on the radio shifted his focus from Claude Debussy to jazz. His improvisation on the double bass made him the forerunner of the modern jazz movement; he regarded his music as a form of self-liberation, "the only place I can be free."

Source: Lapham's Quarterly, Volume II, No.I. Eros. Winter 2009

untitled

It ain't easy

Those few folks who have survived a jump from the Golden Gate Bridge report that it takes about four seconds to hit the water, which is plenty of time to re-think and regret the decision.
(Source: The Amazing Fact Generator)

Relational Gunpowder

How was Baudelaire defining the modern artist for example? He was defining (the artist) as an idle man. An idle person, idleness must be eliminated, excluded from the working process. It has really to be excluded from people's daily life and it is something that deserves the least salary. For Henry Ford, every gesture that is done by a worker during his daily life, should produce something, in order words, it has to be equivalent of salary. The history of modern art is really a quarrel between the idleness and virtues of freedom and the rationalization, evaluation of time lived. The artist is always the person who struggles against this separation in work time. For this reason, many works of art have concentrated on idleness starting with the beginning of 20th century. Artists like Langert, Jack Lang and conceptual artists like Stanley Brown. Their works of art consist of idleness. For example, in 50's, 60's Thiery Moens was a member of the realists; he was also talking about a big idleness between signs. And we see how these two worlds are opposite to each other. Both of these two worlds are big and the quarrel between these two worlds will also constitute the history of modern art in 21st century.

On one hand there is an inclination for the realization of the gestures that should be done in the factory, the rationalization of mass production and the creation of consumption objects, and on the other hand, in spite this, we see the trends that try to decrease the importance of the objects against the gesture. In other words, on one hand gesture disappears in the name of object, on the other hand the object disappears in the name of gesture. At the same time, after the evaluation of this gesture, the prevention of any kind of waste, for example the prevention of energy and time waste, which is really a basic waste. In this case we can say this: There was a period in history, where those two worlds were not opposite to each other and the art was mostly included in the society. The society also was not in opposition , the producers were not contrary to their society. However that is not the case any more. In this regard, there are more interesting activities, applications and works in the shared area between these two parts.

From NICOLAS BOURRIAUD's lecture 'TODAY'S ART PRACTICE' - 21.09.2001

In between two years

⌛

To forget

(Image published in The ONION. 2008)

Deleuze sobre Herzog en Fitzcarraldo o "¿qué tanto es tantito?"

“En cuanto Ideas, lo Pequeño y lo Grande designan a la vez dos formas y dos concepciones distintas pero capaces también de pasar la una a la otra. (…) Y aunque esto sea aplicable a todos los autores que estamos estudiando, querríamos considerar el cine de acción de Herzog como un caso extremo. Porque esta obra se distribuye según dos temas obsesivos que constituyen una suerte de motivos visuales y musicales. En uno, el hombre de la desmesura frecuenta un medio también desmesurado, y concibe una acción tan grande como el medio. Es una forma SAS’, pero muy particular: en efecto, la acción no es requerida por la situación, es una empresa alocada, nacida en la cabeza de un iluminado y que parece ser la única que puede igualar al medio entero. O más bien la acción se desdobla: está la acción sublime, siempre más allá, pero ella misma engendra una acción diferente, una acción heroica, que por su cuenta se enfrenta con el medio, penetrando lo impenetrable, franqueando lo infranqueable. Hay, por tanto, a la vez una dimensión hipnótica alucinatoria en que el espíritu actuante se eleva hasta lo ilimitado en la Naturaleza, y una dimensión hipnótica en que el espíritu afronta los límites que la Naturaleza le opone. Y las dos son diferentes, tienen una relación figural. (…) en Fitzcarraldo, lo heroico (la travesía de la montaña por el pesado barco) es aún más directamente el medio de lo sublime: que la selva virgen entera se convierta en el templo de la Opera de Verdi y de la voz de Caruso” (Deleuze, La imagen movimiento: 259)

(Dziga Lovechild on Tim Davis)

Some day, the press releases of art exhibitions will be giggled over by stoned archaeology grad students as if they were myths about hippo-headed deities. The idea that Davis might connect this enormous crucifixless Piss Christ with our various gulf wars is as outlandish as much of the Book of Mormon. I feel safe saying that referentiality is the new good. Part of our successful adaptation to the information overload we were once so worried about is the flattening out of the value of information. For artists, if it references something, from politics to popular culture (and ideally Art History) it has value.

Excerpt from Cabinet Magazine, Issue 26, “Magic.” (Summer 2007)
http://www.davistim.com/writing/olive.html

Coleus blumei is the new invisible (2005)