Criptic Critic Conscience and Known for it

Monday, November 3, 2008

Chrisfist gleaming like a day in LA, although a heard of Ents have set up camp, waiting for the insects to step out of line, a miss placed coloradoian day with the Rockies tearing down the sky in tsunami like wall blocking the horizon. Snowy peaks are lifted above a line of grey smog to be their slightly blue selves, only an orange glow is lightly reflected in hue. I from my million dollar satellite permanently orbiting grid city, scramble all fighter planes to attack the dull ness of to many thc tablets in my system. Awkward fights with lovve ones over money over unemployment have me stretched out and disjointed. I ‘m in need of a new rhythm, a cock sure fired way of getting off into the zone of no return to return with the bag of goods and all is forgiven the bacon provider. Though that’s not me, lostin obscurity, let me tell you about my act, my travelling act here in the rockies the LA the Colorado ChristFist, Apollos gladwrap appearances has sprung a stinking leak.

Today is the last day of the shows four week run. I feel sad. There is no relief. Maybe a publication is not likely to eventuate I’m obscure I don’t make art but wait let me telly you what I do know. I called the first show, of which there were 3 during this time, Art Aristocracy after the audience I was appealing to and my own beliefs about my work, being that poor art is the inheritor of liberated ideas democratic equal justified and common, that all that walk with the spirit of generosity are Aristocratic, those that wish to step off the tred mill and bestow time on the people These are Aristoricatic, whose Mansions lie within whose wealth has no equal. I presented a single drawing done ten times. A face, skinless, looking over it’s shoulder, a turning around to an argument whose gonna have consequences, will you mess with the bull who has horns when the horns speak and say “sharp watch out”. The first painting has some colour, muddy green and off crimson a dark patch pyramid like a Hitler moustache under the nose. Each head’s paint is scraped thinly over the surface a dry brush filling in the patches where the white background come through, a vague screen like white square with a faded rounded edge acts as frame. A high tech projector screen painted on giant sheets of newsprint, butchers paper, faded and crinkeled only the thin build up of paint holds the sheet together as the tissue thin membrane strains under the weight of pigment wall hung. These skinless monsters are pinned to the wall in a counter clockwise motion from first made to past, around the galleries cavernous walls, each failing to look directly back at the viewer, each suggesting the focal point off camera, out of frame, creating the effect of a mute witness, a silent vigil for their own discovery, as their skin is removed the possibility for recognition impossible they are suspended in suspicion. “Self portraits” was the accusation, how could I defend, no they are heads, consciousness of painting this moment. Paintings that will never be accepted as paintings because they are too poor. A critical moment, when recognition knows it has failed to change anything. These are not heads they are painting. And that in failure though they burn they will also alight new knowledge. A special burning then. Taste drips as we proceed around the room, in order, watching the developments of the painters decisions, we can see that the many mistakes add up to new areas of discovery, vocabulary overlooked or even forgotten,. What seemed like simply a feature of design of fulfilling the terms of the agreement, now steady themselves under scrutiny as issues in their own right, voyages of potential where terms of bad and good are left discarded on the shore, like shoes at the beach. Walking up this way we find paths and shelters of old thought threatening us with the spiders un invited habitation, Abandoned or waiting for use we will not decide on this trip as we are moving to fast towards the end. Curiously on the feature wall where the last three heads bring to climax the fourth on this side of the room, offers a super dampening effect, all notions of painterly turned down, the smallest of all the works suddenly Mickey mouse looks out at us, a logo of immense ingratitude, indifferent to the role or use of it self it seeks to cover you lunch books your wall paper car life, bleed into your solar system and colour your irises. A simple enough shape no invention yet invented, the bogey mans shadow just yours with a bump or tow more, a limb from a passing cat tree or bat. Here this painting has no soul nothing but processed cheese. The last three, the portraits as they have a passing resemblance to my profile, having got bored with my constraints I moved to realism, to a depiction of skill in depicting the three dimensional look likeness of a thing that was not here not on this paper, having mapped the others who logo, and anti logo, child like , and novice, mystic, and cultural warrior, innocent, sympathetic political and al conscious, records of time able to be. Stoped before the desire to finish improve or perfect over came the poor makers will to just be… The skinless face, a red blob a jaw and outline of forehead and neck, the muscles of the face pulling the expression conveying the signs, raw as Maori Carving, in pine, wet, un kind. Chunks of raw red strained by brush and sinew under the skin here exposed raw now another skin, raw here open for the inspection, I’ll carve me a warrior, a spirit that can find me, fight for me, find a bridge, I’ll cast this kite into the boiling waters, fish for an eel who likes me. I’ll cry wind like into the heavens that know darkness, send my moko out around town. To talk to the ladies the woman in black dresses, how do I please thee, dancer that I do. Run your tours through me, drive your van over my skull, feel the bump of my mana as I dislodge your paka paka, sneak you my soul. There’s more liquids on the floor,

Three monitors and a projection. I’ve always been told that the avant gare was dead, because it said things that turned out not to be true. I couldn’t find anything that it said that wasn’t true , so I chose not to pay any attention to those that said the avant garde was dead, instead I watched as they picked over the living body as if it was dead to fire rubberbands at oncoming beasts, standing in the middle of motorways claiming pasture all around. The avant garde as in the end game pronounced by modernisms so called event and demise, postmodernims event and decline, left avant garde alone in the pockets of individual minds that were not consumers were not producers. Each of us from the the perspective of the great artists that have gone before us have been painted, Leonardo said beware of her nature she is your master, Goya Man is a Machine, Beuys Everone is an artist, Pollock I am nature, Warhol I want to be a machine, Duchamps silent full stop in the sentence of art.. who now says anything.. Hurst “fear death’s spectacle” McCarthy, I am sex. Seem like kids relatively in their paly pit of excremental truths. What about klee, Burroghs says that a picture or a line of words is just the attempt to see, that it is a market of attempts to see, most are good at the machinery of it’s design, some have new content and threaten the existing masters of the market. Gained entry is not paid with out a price, paid by who is the wonder, casue if it’s not obvious then it’s effect is probably on the sould of people. We are heeping on the sould the prices of our own acceptance into the inner guild of knowing that it is not the seeing but the knowing that the thing represents. “I knew this then , I know that now” this marker board through the little bubbles trverse across the apex of the glass domed ceiling is the out point where all others can come in. INCLUDE THE UNIVERSE (A WAY AROUND THE END GAME)

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