Category: Image
You. There. You. Here.
A gold, glaring like sunlight, like foil paper,
glints out of the hands, gathered to plead,
like tears with their measure of salt, gleaming
an eye, like the viscous reflecting residue
of pleasure – piss, blood, the living sweats
and leaks, we run, we water the dying.
.
You there. You. There.
Far cries (moans, wails, echoes) from here.
You here. You. Here.
Murmurs, whispers, gasps, and laughter.
Breath upon an ear.
.
Blue radiance from the heart, red running out the vein.
The wheeze that squelches exhale.
Stuttered stumble – each mistake…the trial being
to sketch, to trace, erase.
Once we waved at one another.
Each goodbye a beckon.
And all digress.
.
Too often, once more… for Thucydides…
.
Feathers, flowers, for Filbert,
little donkey he must be,
ass-braying poems – silt and muck of muddle,
collecting stones and eyes and sunsets,
almost any gaze. Almost an acknowledgment.
To be. For. Anyonething. Anywhere.
Once necessary. Once.
.
And then more…
Light, as a feather
How seeing depends… opacity, clarity… foggy horizons between tumultuous sea and sky…
Light, as a feather – the dawn in darkness, or the hoping carrying despair.
What is seen, then? What fore- or back- grounds an image? How? In mist, in motion. In a dream that waking brings.
In which direction, grounding? And wherefore? Lightness limning itself again, again, in midst of darker swells and slighter traces.
How seeing depends… on light, the eye, the stimmung – the stemming of mood – and graver swirls… beg-ins and sets-out from. Within. Without. Finding curious concord. Even when there’s barely there. Either.
Deepens, depends, opens out, away, in deep ends, hollow holing, turbulent tunnels, seeing unseen, a groping for/in light where none. Peering is something, as the closing of the eyes – telescopic blindfold.
Perhaps dawn is down, where despair is rising. Hope precipitating beyond eithers, or… differences imperceptible save the seeing…
How seeing depends… and deepens with what is searched for, what wants, who opens, what feels, within each where-when, becoming there-thens, seeing how.
It begins, then, all seeing, between. Bounding back-forth in light and light and any weighted things, ever shifting seeing-sea and emptied sky, re-membering differences to seamlessness, with opaque clarity, as such your “I.”
Cloud Fragments 1
Within the lip and loom of limbo. Limb lazy, almost unperturbed, but living still, slightly shaken, a subtle stir.
Difference scarcely scored, imperceptible is not worth mention. A canny kind of collude. There (might be) this, (might be) that – too hard to say, and who could do it? Only one driven to be wrong, reductive, defining. Only one agitated or alarmed by the way of things – that there were no way.
Indiscernibles. Indeterminate. Impossible to compute: is how it is. These signs erase, and we are there. As if in front with, as if of face and gaze. As if event. As if participant and become. As if no one might tell apart.
Why tell apart?
Wrangled together in wrestle, why choose? If breath must mingle to say, why delegate, select? Cloud moves over, under and through, toward, into, and away – to no one’s noticeable chagrin. Why we?
Tender spots trace gentle rain, in river, barrel, lake, exempt of rage or reason. Only a sprinkle, a feed and possible weal, so glance and touch, brush and care, a slightly stumble, a cell’s conceive.
Misremembered, but no mind, flavor, sight, the wind through trees. Nothing is without. Nothing alone, should it perchance to be. Mysterious, illogical motive of undoing. Prepositional violence. Pre-positions, a tearing apart.
Muscle, scent, and fur. The various forms of water – cloud, drizzle, flow. Flesh with flesh and whispered angles. Breath with sound and ear. A thought.
Inseparability and subterfuge. Had never been, may not be, unstill it is…the way….questionally unquestioned, sifting in drift, conjunctions of convergence, some impossible begin.
Already Alone – Norway, October, 2016
ALREADY ALONE
Norway, October, 2016
Far from.
As near as I can be, as near as I can tell, I am far.
Far from. And already alone.
So long I dreamt this cabin, this hovel, this cave.
Some safety, a distance – ‘solitary’ space.
*
Who ever would I be – were I alone?
What am I – alone?
Where is one – alone?
*
Silence quickly transforms into noise. One’s ‘self.’
Alone.
These window cubes, cut from concrete.
These thick and stony walls.
Such noisy fire.
*
I am far.
Far from.
So very long – already alone.
And yet I’ve just arrived again.
*
It is cold.
Often, always, winter.
Sheer, spare, space.
Hardened, austere, edges, boundaries, shapes.
We are separated. Blocked. Reaching…
I am. Here. Alone.
Always.
Already.
Alone.
*
But not really quite.
Not really quite – all one.
Alone, never seems to actually equal – all-one.
Even though it’s used as stand-in.
Words.
*
I write.
Here in this far-removed, distance-sequestered solitude.
I AM.
Yet I only AM…
…in relation to.
I am not, not ever, NEVER ‘ALL-ONE,’ ‘AL-ONE,’
‘I’ am all-ways, al-ways, IN-RELATION-TO
in order…to BE…even ONE. Even singular
demands plurality.
And so forth, and so on…
*
I…am UN-ABLE to ‘BE’ without an-Other, another,
TO-BE-IN-RELATION-TO –
a note, a chord, a color…
a line, a shape, a term…
some weather
*
‘Language’ as we’ve come to consider, think, imagine…it…
‘simplified’: NOT ONE BIT W/O THE OTHER.
*
NOT ONE BIT W/O THE OTHER
*
My youngest son (10 years old) has heard
a strange, elaborate, convoluted and contested myth/story/fiction/fantasy (hypothesis)
about the “Origin of the World”
involving particles, waves, heat, light, sub-sub-sub quantum symbols & movement –
all sorts of scientific (& notably human) inventions
from Professor(s) AZIFF…
“as if”
these might declare, or describe, inscribe or explain
SOMEthing, ANYthing
about…EXISTENCE…EXISTING… (EX-is-tence, EX-is-ting…’out of’)
*
I heard stories as well (as-if)
that A god (or many) breathed, touched, loved, crashed
SOMEthings, ANYthings into be-ing…
that there ‘likely’ (or MAY HAVE BEEN – according to human conjure)
a “Big Bang”
another Big Daddy of heat…of particles…of waves…of sub-stance…of light…
or MORE,
or LESS
*
Wavesparticlessomethinginmotionimplosionsexplosions WORDS
InthebeginningasfarasWE’reconcernedwastheWORDlogossymbolmarksign
SOMEthingOTHER-thanwhatIS-AZIFF-asifperhaps
[how might it be ANYthing other than ANYone’s guess, among us, pray tell? WHO or WHAT might qualify – among US – as arbiters or judges, experts or prophets – and by what measures or standards (or WHOSE?) as each of us species-specifically WE?]
inotherWORDSinod,bow,listen…WHOtellsthestorythatMOSTaccordswithME?
andsoitgoes…WORDS
*
and it alters – it changes – the stories – generation to generation
depending on the rulers, the beliefs, the ‘logics,’ the ‘sciences,’ the ‘mathematics,’
the tools, the techniques…
and it alters…from season to season…
depending on the ‘outlook’ or ‘prognosis,’ ‘fellow-feeling’ or ‘concern,’ – survival needs
Some call Physics, others Philosophy, some Religion, others S.T.E.M. or art or politic or publicsocialpolicy…some Business (nearly all)…das capital
Each and every DIFFERENT time
a ‘this is how it is,’ a ‘this is what we know’
i.e., a ‘THIS WE BELIEVE.”
*
Our creedal species.
And I…
I say…
Some say…
“No Matter,”
“No Substance,”
“No Essence”
…”WHATEVER.”
*
Always a begin – always a play of language (nigh-universal) and power (universal). PERHAPS –
And so it goes (or so ‘I’ imagine…or ‘so it seems’ to – ‘ME’) and so forth, and so on…
…the playing field remaining species-equal betwixt athlete and artist, philosopher, scientist, politician and doctor, worker and ruler and indigent intelligent…so far as ‘I’ can tell of it…
*
HERE NOW I. NOWHERE ME. Language – experience – meaning – species: HUMAN.
“All the Same?”
Equalists all, at fundament.
Inequalists all, at experience.
Thus: equations.actions.creations.obstructions.thoughts.languages.behaviors.codes.might.
“Might”…a PERHAPS…a possibility…a WE (species-specifically): DON’T KNOW.
*
It is thus I invent and inscribe.
Posit.
Create.
Detract. Distract. Distrust. Conjure. Conspire.
Attempt a BE-come…becoming…convergence.
Attempting to BE.
And another is able to write “Why the World does not Exist”
And another “Being and Time” and still more “Being and Nothingness” and still more
all kinds of SOMEthings and SOMEones and ANY’s…
with their WORDS.
and mine, and ours, and we
*
I write.
Far from.
As near as I can be, as near as I can tell, I am far.
Far from. And already alone.
Untitled – Fiction for Becoming
Untitled Fiction : Years of Birth, Becomings
Jesse’s working up something, so is Jon. I’ve begun working again. Beckett is still dead. Or dead, still – either way he has not concluded.
There was plenty of talk – banter, chatter, fulminations, really – to the contrary, to the effect that the ‘working up’ had ceased, had dwindled, long since dissipated or been simply forgotten…not so. Now I’ve heard from Jon and Jesse, piecemeal though it be, and my own ‘working-on’ (or UNWORKING, as MB always referred to it) is near to its inception.
Something is going to emerge. Jon repeats and repeats that “Someone is going to come” and Jesse appears to have passed beyond the silence once begun, through all his notes of suicide, toward fire and conflagration and some bewildered youthfulness. Nohow On become a MUST. And all of it inconclusive, i.e. not concluded.
I work in, on, up, and ever forward, toward – ‘toward the what?’ Jon keeps asking while Jesse scrawls on napkins – figures like cartoons, clowns and foxes, masters, slaves, and mysteries – our locations go unmarked, our whereabouts unknown. This is How It Is, according to Beckett and MB. FK in the burrow. Plato in a cave. JD taking apart each domicile, meticulously.
We are looking for a place to work at our unworking, the time and space to be for what is not. Beckett named it The Unnameable.
I took to the books and letters, while apparently the others wrote, made messages and codes, secreted the symbols into texts and silences, plays and fictions full of pause. GWFH, another spell of YHWH, foretold this long ago: “the ends are reached and reached beyond, folding under, folding through, reached again, again, and…”
For years now Jon is melancholy and therefore quite abbreviated, unable to go on, full of stutters, repetitions, and always the questions, questioning, questing, the undone. Jesse through his trials and papered rooms, sometimes near and sometimes foreign, never-know, never-mind, never-where, scraping geography and clouds in search of where No Where and Now Here meet. I’ve thus far been unable to locate him. As for Ivan, Ivan and Enrique both stopped working after the library of loss – assembling detectives, interviewing the dumb and victimized, missals here and there, mostly filled of snow and jungle.
I think: crows spread across the overcast, charred ash sprinkling fields, nothing rooted, nothing grown.
The unworking. Almost a throw of the dice. Half of each sentence erased. The subtle coterie of literate mathematicians. Reports from elsewhere. WG’s layered travelogue… in search of… The work of unworking goes on.
“Splitting on difference,” he said, the passage from mayhem to insight – WG described as “Vertigo,” the verge, the swerve, the swoon. You reach an edge or limit, what cannot be undone, begin unworking. Begin unworking there.
At the grave “I can’t go on. I must go on. I’ll go on,” Beckett decries. It’s not at understanding – “splitting on difference” – but in the going-on, turning over/under, inexhaustibly or ad infinitum – convergences coming undone.
From JD Jesse gets a Post Carte, leaves it somewhere in the margins, but we know. We know we have heard, even if we can’t re-member. All variations of death, Jon thinks, Jon writes, Jon says…assembling the book of questions…the interior distance of this fierce and beautiful world filled with women, fire, and dangerous things…keeping MB in infinite conversation.
Some things don’t make sense yet seem imperative. As if there were a realm of the unsayable, a set of stanzas wedding language and death – signifying nothing – that is to say, a world of unspeakable silence that works like clamor.
Exhausting voice and nothing more. The trouble with pleasure, with suffer, with become. None of us trust ideas and yet we generate and respond.
“He was found lying on the ground. No one had missed him. No one was looking for him… An old woman found him.” (Beckett). We somehow set out to search. “That seems to hang together.” Jon, Jesse, WG, myself, scouring the globe for more – who, what…- “But finally I asked if I knew exactly what the man – what exactly was required of the man, what it was he could or could not say. No, was the answer, after some little hesitation, no, I did not know…” and so we keep on.
“A voice comes to one in the dark. Imagine.” JD post carte. Beckett’s own death, still. GWFH, WG, FK and MB’s left messages, notes, recordings. “Only a small part of what is said can be verified”…if any. We are left, bereft, full of fragments, thoughts concluded, forgotten, ignored, but still unworking – in journeys, in dramas, in fire. Hanging at the limits of ropes. To strangle or drop, and what then? What next? Splitting on difference. It comes apart, what holds together. No one knows. Nowhere, now here, very difficult to say. Meticulous dismantling, decode – recode – Unicode – uncode.
…Jesse’s working up something, as is Jon. I’ve begun working again. Beckett is still dead. Or dead, still – either way he has not concluded. Piecemeal as it may be, we are all working on (or UNWORKING, as MB liked to refer to it)…and nearing some inception.
Signifying Writing, Figure 1
Opicinus De Canistris World Map
*
The map began as a scribble, a doodle. Begins as a failure to write, to “compose.”
In lieu of a word there’s a wiggle of pen wandering aimless in search. Cartography-graphology-psychology – a loitering for logos.
Begins this way – in hope of words, a sort of squiggle. A body desiring a mind. To show up, to take over, provoke or convince – to appear, make a meaning, disclose – to figure toward sign. Some unconcealing.
The signal’s not there, so it moves: the hand, the instrument, the breath and the heart – are they tools? And for what? A cartographer’s dream. Of no training, no knowledge, even reason is lacking.
A pen making marks on a page, mapping none. Tracing nonsense. It begins in this way, and it leads, so he hopes (it hopes, is hope, is desire).
The scrawl travels over the page – given borders and boundaries, arbitrary and set – 6”x9” and lined with a soft viscous grey. He (it) slows down. Just a hand and an arm and a shoulder – in motion – holding a technical device filled with fluid – black, yes, like bile, but less tacky, diluted – it flows, threading lines – it’s con-fusion – yet taking, biting, inscribed. Something happens. Drawings are locked to a medium stock. Incomprehensibles stained on a page.
It crawls on.
*
This mapping begins in a loss. He is lost. It is lost. Doesn’t “know.” Just beginning, because – with desire. It is driven, compelled, WRITER WANTS (for to write) with “nothing to write, and no means to write it” yet constrained to keep writing, to expunge merely SOMEthing, some THING. Which is NO thing, no THING, but to mark. It goes on.
Makes a map, a map-ping, tangled series of lines meaning nothing, no THING, but creating TO-WARD. Ward off absence, off void, ward off death, this is to – .
It (he) is tired. Is forlorn. Is an absence and loss, a re-mission, re-cursion, re-morse. And not even that clear.
Scribbles on. NOT a map. NOT directions. For NO where to go – NOW here, now HERE, no-where. Which begins all the longing, for “he’s” heard it said, found it written – in signs, in-scribed, sign-i-fied: but NOT HERE. Not in him or this body. NOT THIS. No sense. Non-sense. “It’s” not “working.”
Trail dwindles along cross the page. It’s a map. Just of being. NOW here. Now. HERE. Looks like this – some electrocardiomusculoskeletalpsycognilinguadigital-gram. From this angle, this tool, these techniques. As a Ouija. No meaning. Saussurating. Arbitrary. Mediate. Only markings.
It falters.
And so it begins – as a failure to write – as a scribble – an assay – a tribute to write – that cannot, that will not, that does not…quite occur.
Let Me Get This Out of Your Way
Intriguing stumble-upon. Clearing an old flash drive for my daughter I ran across this – texts from my first and only public reading – featuring art by George Ferrandi and Laura Barbuto, which occurred in an interactive reading space with many assistants and much assistance a couple years ago. Seemed like it belonged in this space.
“Getting it Out of the Way: A Response”
(texts by Nathan Filbert; art/images Laura Barbuto/George Ferrandi)
Short essay on Venice Biennale experience – Summer 2015
Glimpse of Lightness : Venice Biennale 2015
Marco Maggi – “Drawing Machine” – Uruguay Pavilion, Venice 2015
How does art “happen”? What is a work of art in an age of reproduction? Who, where, what, and how are we in relation to composition, construction, collage, creation, craft… encountering “art” as a strange “zone of indistinction”, an “undecidable”[1], perhaps an interference, or intervention – at the renowned Venice Biennale 2015? What lightness might we glimpse in such immersion, inundation, veritable floundering and bewilderment among “works of art” – the touted greats within the most prestigious cultural institution in the world.[2]
In a deep cleft of Agamben and Heidegger, physical and mental exhaustion, a set of European Graduate School students (which gratefully included myself) set out to engage “art” in the context of the famed Venice Biennale Exposition, assigned to look for “glimpses of lightness” – something “having little weight…alleviating…demonstrating ease or agility…mirth, levity…and a graceful slenderness”[3] OR – “lit brightly, illuminated, illuminating”.[4] The day began hefty and hot with prospects of 89 national participations, 44 collateral events in the Giardina della Biennale plus an additional “more than 136 artists from 53 countries” at the Arsenale.[5] We set out.
The 2015 Biennale was filled with many ambiguous / ambivalent / open works that, depending on the perspective of the observer, might be engaged with levity, mirth and playfulness or burdened by art-extraneous political, moral and conceptual communiqués and paraphernalia. I found myself wondering if art was happening in such a context – a deluge and glut of politics, morality and economy. I began looking at things curious if messages could be untangled, read past and through, passed by: emotional, commercial, personal, national, site-specific – querying – “what here is ‘being raised, set forth, set up’? (Heidegger). ARTing: can we come to art through artists and artworks and exhibitions?[6]
Considering art as Riss – rift – an outline, sketch, drawing and marking setting into relief a “moment” or “space,” a new relation hard to distinguish, perhaps undecidable, opportunities of encounter with encountering-itself, being – itself – being, in relation to. A passage. Something beyond good and evil (ethics); beyond division, calculation and measure of perception (subject/object, this/that, here/there) (ontology); beyond narcissism (me/you, us/them, him/her) (epistemology); beyond laws and institutions and individuality (ours/theirs, who/what, when/where) and so on… Toward activation – activity + occurrence, an awareness, a-tension at/of/with/in NOW? [ultimate zone of indistinction and undecidability]. Play? Lightness? Resisting the urge to pronounce, proclaim, propose; swerving past strife, through strife – holding open? – Art…as Being…an open question? Some undoing in its doing, some common toggling call to a present, re-present, encounter? Are we able to tear up a world in an activity of mending, assembling and combining it (rift)? To set up a world in an activity of revealing (veiling/unveiling) as a poet might do (oscillating signs) with a semiotic semantic, ex-hibit-ing, exposing, en-light-ening – making lines instead of following them, opening spaces rather than closing, becoming in difference to became? I wondered what might result if we scrambled the sites/sights on some randomizing algorithm of names/nations/pavilions or scrambled the labels and ‘statements’ according to same. To undo in order to Art.
So what rends? What can tear through the amalgams and overlays we bring to each encounter with one another, with the world? What might cause a rift to occur in my own perceptions, predispositions, cares, concerns, propensities? Where do the potentialities lie? What will bring me to the open? Below are a few works I encountered in the heat and dust and exhaustion of 2015’s 56th La Biennale di Venezia that re-oriented me, turned me into at least two sides of a chasm, illuminated a seeing-space, a being-space for me – provided me with glimpses of lightness.
“Blind Spot.”[7] The first work that woke me, intervened, destabilized and shifted my course was Blind Spot by Mykola Ridnyi (Ukraine) located in the Arsenale. Working from the ophthalmologic analysis of scotomas – areas of partial alterations or degenerated acuity in our normal fields of vision that are surrounded by normative and well-preserved views. We all have them, aspects we never see clearly – biologically, culturally, psychologically and personally. Scotoma is not a condition to be overcome, but to be aware of. As I engaged the Biennale, I recognized that artists, nations, participants and audiences all live their existences with “Blind Spots.” The effortful work to account for them only serves to expose further areas where “things disappear on us.”[8] Accompanied by C-prints painted with various exemplars of scotomic affect, Ridnyi’s installation ripped an awareness into me that opened my emotional reactivity to nation-state pavilions and exhibits, artists compromises to culture and fame, my own dear lack of self-critique and clear-sightedness, and the ever open question of how and what we engage in our being-alive, relating, and “reading”/”seeing” the world.
Not far beyond “Blind Spot” resided Ricardo Brey’s “Every life is a fire (2009-ongoing,.”[9] intricate, redolent boxes opening out in glass cases – the layers, complex details and labyrinthine qualities of our coagulating, webbing construction of idiosyncratic interpretations of the world. “The box is our head,” he notes, “the box is the cave… is the attic… is the memory and the world.” The boxes are an attempt to represent the intensifications of internal modes and their relationships in spatial terms; and what results is a “hermeneutics of the soul” that creates “a topography of the mind.” Articulated like a labyrinth or mandala, Brey considers the box-mind compound the “most metaphysical project” he has attempted, nothing less than “a workshop to produce the invisible” or “the countless” that is also “the way out and the jail.”[10] The attempt to articulate the inarticulable, visualize the unseen, expose blind spots through elaborate archiving and representation and obsessive care and attention also ripped into my own desperate strivings for self-awareness, knowledge and authenticity.
And finally, yet in retrospect to my Biennale’d day, an early return…Marco Maggi’s Global Myopia (Pencil + Paper) (Uruguay Pavilion) and, particularly, his piece at the entrance to the show: “Drawing Machine (nine possible starting points)” (image above). Options. Beginnings. Openings. In what direction will the “drawing” move? From what emphases and characteristics? What intricacies of our histories and culture, memories and desires, experiences and imaginations will direct the ensuing mark of us in relation to our world, ourselves, our perception, one another? Maggi reports, powerfully, that “ the only subject of Global Myopia is drawing.”[11] Lines begun – a movement, a glance, a word, a new distinction. Rifts and rendings, gaps and site-specificities, we inscribe – blindly, collectively, collaboratively, actively and in elaborate idiosyncratic ways both laden and illuminating – glimpses of lightness outlining our crossings, traversals and conduct through All the World’s Futures.[12]
References
Agamben, G. (1993). The coming community. Minneapolis : Minneapolis :
Agamben, G. (1998). Homo sacer. Sovereign power and bare life. Stanford, Calif. : Stanford, Calif. :
Agamben, G. (1999a). Potentialities : collected essays in philosophy. Stanford, Calif. : Stanford, Calif. :
Agamben, G. (1999b). The man without content. Stanford, Calif. : Stanford University Press, 1999.
Agamben, G. (2004). The open man and animal. Stanford, Calif. : Stanford, Calif. :
Blind spot – Mykola Ridnyi. (2015). Retrieved August 30, 2015, from http://www.mykolaridnyi.com/works/blind-spot
Every life is a fire. (2015). Retrieved August 30, 2015, from http://www.ricardobrey.com/every-life-is-a-fire.html
Every life is a fire. (n.d.). Retrieved August 30, 2015, from http://www.ricardobrey.com/every-life-is-a-fire.html
Heidegger, M., & Heidegger, M. (1977). Basic writings from Being and time (1927) to The task of thinking (1964) (1st ed). New York: Harper & Row.
Heimo Zobernig at the Austrian Pavilion, Venice Biennale / MOUSSE CONTEMPORARY ART MAGAZINE. (2015, May 13). Retrieved August 30, 2015, from http://moussemagazine.it/zobernig-austrian-venice-2015/
La Biennale di Venezia – Biennale Arte 2015: All The World’s Futures. (2015). Retrieved August 30, 2015, from http://www.labiennale.org/en/art/news/05-03.html
La Biennale di Venezia – History of the Venice Biennale. (2015). Retrieved August 30, 2015, from http://www.labiennale.org/en/biennale/history/
La Biennale di Venezia – Home. (2015). Retrieved August 30, 2015, from http://www.labiennale.org/en/Home.html
lightness, n.1. (2015). OED Online. Oxford University Press. Retrieved from http://www.oed.com.proxy.wichita.edu/view/Entry/108230
lightness, n.2. (2015). OED Online. Oxford University Press. Retrieved from http://www.oed.com.proxy.wichita.edu/view/Entry/108231
Welcome. (2015). Retrieved August 30, 2015, from http://www.marcomaggi.org/welcome/
[1] (Agamben, 1993, 1999a, 1999b)
[2] (“La Biennale di Venezia – History of the Venice Biennale,” 2015)
[3] (“lightness, n.1,” 2015)
[4] (“lightness, n.2,” 2015)
[5] (“La Biennale di Venezia – Biennale Arte 2015: All The World’s Futures,” 2015)
[6] (Heidegger & Heidegger, 1977)
[7] (“Blind spot – Mykola Ridnyi,” 2015)
[8] (“Blind spot – Mykola Ridnyi,” 2015)
[9] (“Welcome,” 2015)
[10] (“Every life is a fire,” 2015)
[11] (“Welcome,” 2015)
[12] (“La Biennale di Venezia – Biennale Arte 2015: All The World’s Futures,” 2015)
Between the Spheres
This is what it looks like, in the one hand
Between the Spheres
I try to wrap my mind around it.
An attempt to connect the two – a keen accomplishment (perhaps unique to all the world of humans) – of right knowing what left is doing, and vice-versa.
Lost along the way.
I describe it as a process – indicating neither beginning nor end-directing goal, but rather recursive procedural motions. Realm of natural orders? Reversible time? Or indifferent to?
Can’t tell one from the other – hypothesize function – track trace with technology. Pretend data. Posit interpretation as theory. Wind up again.
Variously termed reentry. Autopoiesis. Self-organization, containment, production. Ouroborous. Infinite regress.
Middle is muddle. Diversely called. Corpus Callosum. Hermeneutics. Subjective objectivity. The observer effect. Confusion.
Fusion-with. Heads and tails are absent, or amount to the same. Keeping an eye (I) on the eye (I), so to speak. There are no levels of perception, simply additive, truly more of the same. No stacking, just tangle. Alongside, underneath, around, beside, below and through, but ever bound by hemispheres.
Imagine dynamo-balls – activated collectives of interdependent energized cells humming, buzzing or otherwise functioning according to their wired connective wholes-in-part. Betwixt the vibratory masses some buffery twingled transmission zone irrepressibly attempting translation of pulse-sorts, glyph-types, data blips…circuitously globe-to-globe.
I try to wrap my mind around it.
Wrapping, coiling, carrying…sire-wires…another organizational knottage of wattage…behavioral systems, courier-tropes, internal/infernal communications rife with all the residual, syntactical, emergent and scumbling give-and-take, mis-interpretation and noise.
Submarines and warships, encryption and decoding, fuzzily idiosyncratic as love or larger loops. Chaos all the way down or ‘round. Patterning bottom’s-up or through.
This is what it looks like, in the one hand.
Polysemic Stupor 