October 2008

Hate to link to YouTube because past posts have turned into mortuaries of dead links as this corporation or that petulant artist has demanded that their crappy grainy minuscule scraps of content be removed, but...

Was talking to a friend last night about Gilbert & George and their start in the '70s as "living sculptures," before they became big gallery-supported purveyors of large multi-pane conceptual photographs.

Found a YouTube excerpt from a documentary about those early years here.

fffound bugs me except when I fffind my work there, then I'm ffflattered

wm gibson joke: "phantom gun syndrome" - right wing spy dude keeps patting waist where his gun would be

"he went from full-blown critical writing to picking apart press releases"

vid festival sent DVD back, post screening, to Mailboxes Etc where I mailed it from--good thing I happened to go back in there

according to R Krauss the grid mediates between the sacred and the secular--kind of a compromise motif

home techno musicians have yet to benefit from substantial critical analysis

i hate the way google suggests shit now as you type

i could cannibalize what's on my hard drive(s) and on paper in my studio and would never need any "new material"

horrible dream where I kept putting my left shoe on my right foot and vice versa while people were waiting for me at a dinner party

2 former manhattanites: "where are you now?" "jersey city--you?" "queens" (both trying to smile)

Recommended video: "Probably How It Will Go Down" by Ricky on Double Happiness.

cf. Don DeLillo's "airborne toxic event" from White Noise:

Through the stark trees we saw it, the immense toxic cloud, lighted now by eighteen choppers--immense almost beyond comprehension, beyond legend and rumor, a roiling bloated slug-shaped mass. It seemed to be generating its own inner storms. There were cracklings and sputterings, flashes of light, long looping streaks of chemical flame. The car horns blared and moaned. The helicopters throbbed like giant appliances. We sat in the car, in the snowy woods, saying nothing. The great cloud, beyond its turbulent core, was silver-tipped in the spotlights. It moved horribly and sluglike through the night, the choppers seeming to putter ineffectually around its edges. In its tremendous size, its dark and bulky menace, its escorting aircraft, the cloud resembled a national promotion for death, a multimillion dollar campaign backed by radio spots, heavy print and billboards.