Criptic Critic Conscience and Known for it

Monday, January 23, 2012

There is no Culture in Australia. Forced Fields - group exhibition. Conical Gallery Melbourn 2007

Pamphlet Front
Pamphlet Back

Vacuum cleaner would burn out after an hour, cool off then automatically start up

Vacuum nozzle in the door handle of the Galleries temporarily installed hermetically sealed swing door

Diagram Projection

Projected Diagram

Print Media News Articles on "The Beneficiary's Office". Opinion Piece. 29th of October 2010. Dominion News Paper.

Opinion Piece

Print Media News Articles on "The Beneficiary's Office". 18th of October. Dominion News Paper

Print Media News Articles on "The Beneficiary's Office". 23rd of October 2010. Domino News Paper.

1st of November 2010

Whole page of spin

Print Media News Articles on "The Beneficiary's Office". 16th October. Front Page of the Dominion News Paper. Wellington New Zealand.

Print Media News Articles on "The Beneficiary's Office". October 30, 2010. New Zealands "Listener" Magazine

 A blow to the art

When an artist bites the hand that feeds it, does he deserve that public funding?
Paul Henry, meet your new fellow inmate in the public-opinion dogbox: performance artist Tao Wells. To further bedevil our sense of the balance between free speech and public decency, Wells has accepted public money to create an art installation in which he disparages working people, and exhorts them to ditch their jobs, live off the state and become minimalist consumers. Officials deemed it art for the 37-year-old long-term beneficiary to glorify the notion of slacking and bludging off one’s fellow citizens.
Besides the offence this will cause the many New Zealanders who have lost jobs in this recession, and the majority of workers who struggle to manage on lower wages than their overseas counterparts in large measure because New Zealand has such a welfare burden, Wells’s installation raises two eternally combustible questions: what is art, and what art should the taxpayer fund?
The first is a genie long out of the bottle. Art is what anyone chooses to say it is. Take it or leave it. Talent, creativity and, as Wells clearly demonstrates, profundity of intellect, are no longer prerequisites for art. You may as well try to nail a jelly to the wall as try to define art nowadays. Indeed, if you nailed it to the wall of an art gallery, it might win critical acclaim.
The second question is hardly less ticklish. Great offence has been taken that Creative New Zealand saw fit to fund Wells up to $3500 to carry out what in most people’s estimation is less an artistic endeavour than an act of political advocacy. Like the infamous Piss Christ photograph and the Virgin in a Condom, this, even if you grant it the title art, seemed more calculated to annoy and hurt the audience than do any of the nobler things art can do: challenge, inform, transport, inspire.
Yet British artist Tracy Emin’s outrage-provoking unmade bed installation, bought by art patron Charles Saatchi for £150,000, proved to have a resonance for many Tate Gallery visitors after the initial outcry at its being shortlisted for the world-renowned Turner Prize. It was a documentation of a period in her life when Emin was feeling suicidal, and it is impossible to argue that the squalid, debris-strewn bed does not vividly convey despair. It’s worth remembering that the Turner Prize’s namesake, the great English romantic landscape painter JMW Turner, was widely thought to be having a laugh when his paintings first appeared in the late 1700s.
Still, however strong and noble the artistic tradition for subversion of society’s norms may be, Wells’s effort was puerile. He has been, as art critic TJ McNamara puts it, biting down hard on the hand that feeds him for some time now.
There is no getting around the public sense of affront that anybody, be they artist or barbarian, should insist upon being kept by the taxpayer, and repay that beneficence by insulting those whose efforts pay their bills – let alone getting extra money to do so. Wells’ benefit was stopped when news of his art grant reached Work and Income officials. But actually, our policy framework is legally ambivalent about whether people who choose to be artists should be forced to do another job if they can’t make a living from their art.
The previous Government instituted an artists-on-the-dole system, which allowed artists to refuse other work and still keep their benefit. And although artists might disagree, the arts are well-supported publicly, with funding that was boosted considerably under Labour and not subject to cuts under National. Or not yet, anyway. British arts funding is being cut by 25% and, in a second blow, the BBC, a major patron of the arts in that country, faces a 16% funding cut.
Creative New Zealand must be left to make its decisions free from concerns about politics, but it does not exist in isolation from the current difficult economic climate in which the Government, businesses and householders are examining every dollar they spend. The most common questions of the day are “do we really need this?” and “is it value for money?” Tao Wells’s latest work falls short on both counts. The risk for CNZ if it continues to make similar funding choices is that soon taxpayers may not be asking the question of the artworks, but of CNZ itself.

Thursday, January 12, 2012


Bachelor of Fine Arts Masters of Fine Arts
University of anti transformation
date stamped and titled, occupation
awake to run the steps
bomb strapped balance up the guts

you made me, you're broken
wages of fear
$13 on hour
moral support to model support
you are a model, I am a model
to re-press your packages wait forever

that's a cheese grater
on your arm
that's your flesh on our pizza
hold still,

lives of shelves no
no customers
no point in buying anything
the hungers fake

production collapses the empty theater
into a airless surface
to coat the lungs of the chil who tears one
for a splif, todays main meal

Model doesn't have opinion
model just wears the clothes
and is shot bleeding life
from it's individual accomplishment
into the trough of capital accumulation.
thanks, you'r already boring

how you are how you live
has no worth, means nothing, has no value
you will deliver the product or you do not get paid
we tell you what to wear, what to saay and how to say it
you drive the delivery


Aboriginal Art, White Mans Prison Trinkets

inherent with
private property
Demonstrated by
right, right, right, right, -left
capitalism, capitalism, capitalism, capitalism = Socialism

A Minor History
of Compassion.

Impassioned speeches
of hope in the
midst of complete

How to make money
with art work.

While using her we give her pleasure

the feminist hole
the quicker he comes the sooner we're free, the longer we dont cum the longer the pleasure we are paying for lasts

Old Man splattered
watching the cum of some young man
spasm ejected from the tip of the cock, lying
soft prick against the nights sky, pink tip, purple,
erected against the night skys
eyes, a tent of culture,
the beast is invited in
to set the example, model behavior
to denigh it's nature and behave, or be nature
and punish, try staging the thought, that
the beast charges against the order of your house, not the house,
charges are laid against the way in which you keep house, you are in denial
your beast hates you,

what if the second you meet deaths true nature as a child you form an alchemical crystallization of your life in all it's intricate desires paths and developments, as in that moment you experience all of your life simultaneously as an instant that then is played out over linear time. A conceived Homeric journey or a Freudian fixed myth. This moment of meeting death, and seeing all of your life, is a moment glossed over by culture and any other individual... we are taught to not know.. to forget, to live in ignorance, as if freedom was a chain that you attach yourself.

I like to get fucked in the arse, just out of the shear pleasure
of doing some thing different, to break up the settling into monotony
to throw a spanner into the works
that brings back my attention
brings back my fine tuning
into the others
peoples psyche
screaming and howling
under the influence of touch

the night i fell for a slut
was when she licked my arse hole
something i didnt want my wife to have to do, and given that she was not inclined
the slut with her more aggresive sexuality, licked my arse hole in the course of normal things, her maculine feminity, in that she possessed what men find extremely attractive but in a female body, in a female decesion of touch, this focus on pleasure and all it's boundless decesions of endless boundaries.. the deliberate leadership inspired my to fuck the slut hard and with a caring of a sports men
doing awesome for his team, king or country.. I was in court fucking the pantry, the treausry or what ever bounty was in need of picking, harvesting... missery, happiness alike... amazing

she took two dicks last night, next time it will be a hell of a lot more...
were going to fuck her into a coma than back up again, out into counsciousness then back out again... for a whilt, till she tells us to stop, or we can tell she was us to stop.

and everythign i do makes her harder, wetter, and my dick harder and wetter


two Trees

We speak at a church,
the outside night air, is holy
try walking away from the night sky
yeah , youve entered the church now
there's only preachin
whose the god lord, who'se it gonna be
you praticing your voodoo on me
and I practicing the higher callling
on you, I sell to you later, and you profit now from callin gme a fer, but soon, you'll collapse in to my arms exhausted you ll see how my work
point sout the folooy of your ways,
though your ways pay for my work,

Two Trees
in the night stand above you calling to your dark thoughts
of possibilities, difficult to
scren out, as the darkness of the thoughtpenetrated the desire for another
insight into what is there... that glorious
darkness the one with a billion billion dark suns, pin prick of shivering
extasy down teh diamond crusted skin folicle, ice on the hair of a nipple, glistening
by the pale moon light,
all things bathed in silver
send me away,


let me tell you haw everything is

at this moment
things have fallen apart
a little thrown around
and on top of one antoher
things are a little fallen a part
there is Lauras coat on top of the
rolled up foam rubber, a yellowy green
raw sponge rolled in a spiral
with some clear plastic tape wrapped around it
to hold it from up spirialing
the tape taped against
itself, with it's shiny
noon stick surfaces
to the out side, forming a band
around the foam, with the camel hair
coat drapes, sculpturally on it's peaky
end. there's her purse under my desk chair
that i tried to move away, sitting
down, but the strap trapped
under the wheels i could
move it only to by my feet 90 degrees

wh'd want a degree

then there is the jug of white glue
PVA on my right hand side, like a thirst quencher
red bottle cap, then there's the pringles,
with half filled contents, original flavored
stacked on top of the 400gs of locally made drinking chocolate
both containers are round with soft plastic lips that snap shut over steal like rims
real pleasure.

sofa cushions in the space that is our hall way, all foot and a half of it
still there they stack against the sides, promising a mid night kick, a toe, just slightly
mis kicked crooked, click, sore, bone snapping not really
just that enjoyable click, the soft kick, also, Laura's paintings
of meaty flesh stripped of meaningful skin against the other wall
of our hall way,Painting ! meter but &0cm's on hard board, with a smaller
collage on a thick wooden frame.

a roll of newsprint, thick
luxurious, endless roll
get on get one
stands sentinel, monolithic against the corner of this woobily
desk, science school room bench, cut down to a desk, its formaica egg shell
turquoise, with wooden trim, black square steal legs and frame, a real joy of simplicity. So covered in batteries, rubbers, lighters, paint scissors, cards, books, hats, lamps, pies, wallets, notes, speakers, pens, note books,


Father Spider

You have a nut cracker buried in your abdominam.
the art market is everywhere and
I can see how some couple dont make it through
8 months of no sex and spewing 24/7 and then after birth
stitches and more no sex

If all they had was sex, and that really was great
but with out love, people will run free of that
they miss of course the great re-imagining, the creative act
as a compromise that still pleases base needs.

some see the prostitute as a high class solution to the efficiency
of delivering sperm from source to application, quickly as possible
in an economic space and time.
I think that's an interesting idea

woman washing their babies in pools
down from the brothel, school yards of independent children



Bukowski said a lot of things.
and everyone of them might have been true
that doesn't mean it ends there.
Cause everything he said also was made up

Bukowski made up the shit about shit being to much
cause he measured out shit exactly to right
to much would have killed him, to little would have made him a mediocre writer.
that's not hard to say


if i don't take the money
the whores will abandon me
murder me
have me killed
burnt a live
at the stake
killed like a dog, put down
amongst the rushes
at the end, by the side of the road

There'd be no future for me
with out taking the money
making the money
down the regular mill rd.
down the way of the yungtzze
by the way of the brutal lust
burgers and fries

If I fail to take the money
from the baby, let'm suck on it get a taste for it
then snatch it away and watch im cry, paralyzed stoned
by the appraent cruelty you have in such abundance have stored,
such religious curiosity to the might of brutality that god yourself
is impressed by this wit of daring decision, intellectual pioneering.

So I don't take the money and just as the whores remember to kill me
I'm burned by the pariah martyr sacrifice community of which i had no idea I had belonged. Do you know that word we have for see it coming and decide to run up the guts, hope to head off the pass as the last second drops, save the game, a hero born from the corpse of dead man. Not me, you won't catch me swingin in the trees, no golden cage
no station I won't refuse.

I'm not playing your game and I'm not playing yours.
I'm doing my own thing and you can fuck off if you don't want to play mine.
I will keep trying to attract you to what I am doing by just doing it. With more madness on show than you feel comfortable with, hell I'm not comfortable with
it but that's not the point, I am uncomfortable with your bottle of bent secrets tucked under your touge slipping out all over the room, the way I have to pretend it's not a mile thick over everything. Your refusal to see your self as normal
drowning me in bullshit, you acting normal and taking the high ground.

so if you dont take the money you won't be balanced
the witches on one side the whores on the other...
ok they are both on one side and the men on the other..
or there's the i dont care side and the I care side
and to care means to make money
and to not means to be poor
I don't
there's no leaving your stupid game
so don't talk to me
don't talk to me
don't even look at me

stupid game, why are you so mean.
you don't impress me, you think you beat me
you don't scare me
I know what I am afraid of and it eats you for brekfast
I fuck all of yall, Fuck all of yall.
and you don't even feel it
I slip my steal so far up the pillow lining of your gut
have you opened and spilling like a cut sack of grain
your so easy, don't know what is
wealthy and what's nice
just a sucker
waiting for the baby to replace the candy
you've mistaken for a life.