Aurora, falling, fall on paper, wash. A saucer’s frame and slant and hari thins a gradiant ray and smudge. Change the space the work is through the work. The changing plane makes space in second skin. Look how dry the window represents. Can angles in a picture make the viewer take an angle? What’s the right one if the right one can’t be right or mark a body or farewell? La de da di la de dum, ‘tis autumn.
Mirene, if you pause when you read aloud does it make you pause when you write? This is the long itinerary of composition in real time, when you said “where language was only a fool,” held in care of tempo. The rhythm of “A poem will be convincing” is convincing insofar as it’s poetic, that the musics of its sentences speak an active sense of measure, of measure made in speech real time. Then you get a kind of discursive musicality rather than foundering in a kind of recursive forgetfulness of musicality, which produces not the non-musical but bad music. Is detached lingering in but also over a moment specifically a Beirut thing? A poem will be convening.
Ian, angle, how you represent enjoyment? How you make a diptych work? You can’t address it directly. The juxtaposition of shots ain’t the same as the juxtaposition of tracks. Music holds some clues for the diptych’s proper impropriety. Laura, in the theory of the diptych, let them have a thing about their thing you like, that you can say keep doing, so they’ll always do it differently. That’s the general principle of stereo. How you make abstractions out of representations of representational making. Look what you did, then step back a little bit and ask how you did it, then don’t quite do it again.
Jason, photographing public language, does a shot suppress outside the frame? Can you make a photograph out of what’s outside the photograph? New creation is immanent. New reaction is inimical. New recreation in a minute, on the new wall, new suppression call attention. Life is the new wall. Our chalk line velocity. Our hug the plane and open up. Going back like that, along that line, you feel advance and angel.
Tamar, your dominant material is spackle. Artificial sinew for torn ligament art. Crop circle machine scale small. Dial small scale. A press gods use to make crop circles. A ritual decoration machine. Sculptures of crop circle tools. Crop circle tools, please. Stand alone to be together so you can see that. You can touch it but you won’t like it. The cusp of abstraction objects and sod cabins. Let’s throw shit around a six-side frame and take a lot of views. Cube install what kind of fragility?
Artists need to talk amongst themselves; too much time away from the ones who don’t care for the fateful distinction we won’t believe is fatal. The fateful distinction we won’t believe is between. We just believe our animation.
Gust, sirocco is unavoidable good fortune in the name, adorned in our shared piracy. Monks live on the street where you live, in cell-like shards, phrase set in isolation from the rhythm. Was it what you wanted when you let me wander, my attention, just to look at things? How you compose but don’t control the general wandering? Eventually, through the music’s possible sources, there’s some new musical syrup, music that makes you exercise. In looking for the source you keep being discovered by the music. The sonic obstruction of sound is your peculiar anstitution.
Layli, the irreducible sociality of speech can’t be spoken in one voice. Sociality ain’t there so you can come into being. Sociality makes you come out through being. The sociality of friendship in languageness! How does presence, which makes everything unimportant, show up in poems? As social life through single line and cut across the time for the feeling, at least, of it all at once, which you can have ‘cause you can’t see it all, where all still be in it for the feeling.
Dmitri, light, both literally and literally, so you can be up in there with things. Not an absence of girth or content but the massive volume of airy thinness. The difference between what he did (fold) and what just happens (crumple). But why I gotta care about that? Your stuff keeps me on top of my head. Sculpture is ways of arranging air. Can there be a thick description of thin sculpture? Things that bear but don’t contain, things become something to see, until we see nothing at all.
Our story was
of this becoming
Emi, crowns for your eyes curve down curve in spray. I love how you know how to stop, but that’s just me. Why is everybody freaked out by narrative? As long as narrative ain’t there narrative is fine. Women with the terror they bring. There’s a fan angle window circle bulb. No depth yet, huh? they said. The middle air that’s not supposed to fill Dmitri’s bag’s also not missing here but here’s ok as long as it’s not here. Fun and loud, aggressive towards its maker, yay! Why go beyond cartoon aggression if you thought these were beautiful? But, Emi, what you wanna do? The whole in you is recess and black out in the other room, fingers laid in color. That sharp indefinite edge is a new table out of touch. Indiscretion, we are prepared for one another in delicacy, as the savor in your hand.
Anton, irrigation and its discontents are readymade earthwork till afro-buddhism cleans the mechanism. Then, we can sing the riot, g, like g. brooks, djeli, djeli, djeli, our cultivated tangle on down the line.
Alyse, in how she plates her dish, just playing with materials for color, texture, shape and flavor. Delicate paper, she concerned with how you stay. What fragility did you take? Come get. Between sculpture and architecture, which is playing with materials for color, texture, shape, flavor and people, like Bird playing a bar mitzvah in gleeful use of hazardous materials, small scale versions of things that deserve to be bigger, and a knack for how to dim color because culinary is a difficult thing to reach, deliciousness be unleashing fluffy thank you. Between wrap is send’s reminder and the rest of party, parry, sticking to surface and the readymade sense of unmade nuzzling, I’m thinking about razzle dazzle camouflage. I is a message so won’t you slow me down? No? Speed up for slow understanding? Stay on top of your head?
Jessica, a rich subtlety of arc between land as subject and the landowning subject animates the sequence. And between technical language and its hidden lyricisms brought out. It produces sadness in the relation between poet and appraiser. Maintain your sentence, the spacing sometimes diminishes the sentence when it’s too emphatic, and attend to your music. Be precise, rhythmically! Take lyric responsibility for every word. Off that tremendous curve, when the mall comes into view, it all comes into view, as score, until.
Aaron, apertured mismanagement but your speaker box is cool! Time is emphatic and revealed in your titles. Always apart meant managing your capacity to seize. Your sequences are unpredictable. I love your beautiful image technique. Your beautiful images are technical and I’m in love. Ananalog is nonaligned aparture. Anonaligned is another, what it is to be enjoyed, I don’t like everything. The psychology of a manmade device ain’t about how it feels about what it sees, it’s about how it sees about what it feels, like a picture inside the lens of a camera taking a picture, at care, touching itself until we see about departure.
Lia, photography is contact improvisation. These sisters dance us out of town and uncontained in handled materials, handed curve, fold beginning with handgaze, new graphs of graphic sets and crumpled crunk. Is there a musical composition about the musical material? It wouldn’t be recursive. It would exercise movement over the edge of media, out from itself as medium, to approach the essence of making. The beautiful tactility of handedness—fingerprints on a mylar crease, the tornness of the masking tape, fabric incomplete—tears the object as if it were always already more and less than that, which it is, which let’s photography more and less than represent. When the object becomes abstract, in its fragmentation, in its partiality, in the way it’s partial to you, in how it lets itself into your eyes, the object is indiscreet. Photography is a way of more and less than being on the earth with other things that are more and less than that. We regenerate in the general nothingness like degenerates, we so horny, and the acidic caress of the interval still be in motion around the image. Our mutual orientation is shard by air and the rubbed string of the general piano be walking around here, too. That’s still the sweetness of the scene we share.
Jason, graphite on paper, Japanese maple, unfixed coordinates and stones that been dreamt upon. You arranged the room into an invitation with the lightness of a tree above ground. Unrooted and vulnerable, the garden, which is appropriate for rest and study, is made of hazard, arte povera filtered through film noir. The second feature is The Karate Kid, evidently.
Christopher. Furtwängler’s seismographic downbeats refresh our bright exhaustion. Composition is what happens between one thought and the next. Their dueted s-theater and upfretted downstroke let you trust the bell you make, like Andrei Roublev. Your material and what it can do, which comes from knowing it in the experiment. The rich internal differentiation of simultaneity is given in more and less than the simultaneity of the same thing. It’s also given in the simultaneity of different things, the nasty’s unlocked, mismatched pairs, pared and multiplied through duet, which was always more and less than that, as a nice, resonant surprise.
The body shuts down, a freaky club mystery thinks. This is story’s calligraphy, star’s “shitty futures,” so
we make ‘em even shinier for the middle in the bottom. The monolith of my lips
keep skipping lines and dropping things but I like the orange. Just let it fade, a nerd made
out of soap, in the obscene sweetness of our support.
Nina, put your hand on your hip and let your backbone slip for video, wall paper, cursor and interjection. If Lena Dunham were as smart and cute as she thinks she is she would be Nina Yuen, then I could watch her all the time. More punishment, motherfucker. Brightness, motherfucker! There’s just everyday and I stir it up again. People don’t want to enjoy themselves so much, with and by way of so much desperation, but the waterfall made me feel like it was safe to jot down a few notes. The genre of the artist statement against the crit violence it anticipates. The window is a color field and my stride is storyboard blue, in studio, on root, the anarcrits.