March 1, 2015

Filed under: art,nikhil singh — ABRAXAS @ 7:12 pm


Filed under: art,nikhil singh — ABRAXAS @ 6:47 pm


February 25, 2015

albert eckhout

Filed under: art — ABRAXAS @ 3:54 pm


February 15, 2015

Filed under: art,caelan — ABRAXAS @ 9:05 am


February 10, 2015

stephen hobbs – permanent culture

Filed under: art,stephen hobbs — ABRAXAS @ 10:53 am


February 8, 2015

in/flux 2: media trips from the african world

Filed under: art,film as subversive art — ABRAXAS @ 9:07 am


January 31, 2015

helgé janssen answers six questions about art in south africa after marikana

Filed under: art,helgé janssen,politics,six questions — ABRAXAS @ 4:22 pm


1. Do you think art can be didactic in a good way?

Perhaps being/becoming didactical could be seen as the artist’s (those that try to make a real difference at any rate) last stand without becoming fascist? I think the left has failed because it has shied away from a fascists’ determined energy.

Animal Farm springs to mind.

However, I am at a point now where I am seeing that the suppression of art globally (through any channels – parents, teachers, governments, religions, mainstream media) has been entirely and supremely successful. In spite a plethora of anti war art/films/novels/poems/plays/dances/documentaries/photographs/articles/exposures etc etc etc WAR still proliferates, the warmongers still have willing fodder, fascism constantly morphs into a new guise. Capitalism continues to be the modus aperandi. How did we end up with these shameful world leaders? We have no leaders of conscience. The one’s that have get taken out.

Thomas Sankara springs to mind.

The left has not learnt to recognise the underlying immutable truths of fascism, or if they do, the message is suppressed. Incredibly dark forces are determined to befuddle logical thinking, rational deductions, and sound values.

This has lead me to the conclusion that no matter what political machinations humans are presented with, we are all at different stages of consciousness and hence perception. Without knowledge, information, mankind is manipulable. The majority of people do not know how to make their own decisions and the ballot box has effectively been reduced to an illusion of ownership. Being able to discern a lie from the truth seems to be impossible to learn in a society that has been conditioned to abdicate their responsibility of thinking for themselves. The primary role of ALL education should be about addressing these issues. We have regressed and education has failed the free world.

It is a vicious cycle……

There is sufficient proof in history that man (collectively) cannot learn from his mistakes, has failed to remember the past in any constructive way. This is either a built-in trait of humanity…..or humanity has become so punch drunk with mind manipulation, relentless financial onslaught that binds them to the grindstone, that they have become willing participants of their own destruction. Nobody in any effective political position seems able to learn that violence breeds violence. Politicians get into power and then seek revenge. Deeply negative traits of human nature constantly triumph….

Perhaps this is all very simple really: the world is overpopulated.

While there is evidence (?) via FB that the world is waking up, how much of that is just a smoke screen to make the left think ‘something is happening’ whereas in fact its business as usual? I don’t think we should ignore this aspect. I am thinking of those memes where we see “Happening in New York right now!” and we see an image of 1000’s of people marching through the streets? If these things were true, why do we not see EFFECTIVE CHANGE? Look at the hypocrisy of “je suis Charlie”.

I think it is beyond the 11th hour.


2. What is this need to document? Of what use is it?

I think that the NEED to document is driven by a creative urge to make sense of, to ‘order’, to understand aspects of ones existence. To extract the light from the dark. I think it is a fallacy in psychological terms to say that light BANISHES the dark.

The mere act of thought (stemming from self knowledge) and writing it down becomes revolutionary.

Documenting is a statement against invisibility.

Documenting is participatory, an affirmation.

As a child, all my creative endeavours were given no credit to the extent that I was ‘frowned upon’. My father was mostly absent and my mother gave absolutely no encouragement. I suppose I can blame them for me becoming ‘multi-talented’ as no matter in what direction (singing, making dolls dresses, creating a ‘nature book’, making up plays, getting high marks at school) my creative endeavours unfolded, they were simply not impressed…..hence I kept exploring. I therefore took my creativity for granted (which I still do) and generally need to galvanize myself into creation. I always face an inner panic. In that sense I am a reluctant artist/performer/creator. Strangely, I feel this has helped me survive apartheid – where my drive to create was not matched with a drive for recognition. In 1998 my solo play The Come-Uppance of Punch came up against a total onslaught at the Grahamstown Festival.

Even with ‘Faces’ and my 15 year career as an ‘alternative’ dj I have very little, if any, personal photographs of that time. All the photographs I have (for example) are those that were given to me.

Of the Body of Despondent Artists (1984-87) the photography (mostly by Peter Hart-Davis and Andrew Yates) was done for press release, rather than for the purpose of documentation. It never struck me that any of this should be ‘documented’.

However, I kept diaries for many years – from around 1980 up to 2000 at which time I acquired a computer. I thus had a lot of material for the writing of my five plays – three with the Body of Despondent Artists: I HAVE NO! (1984), MASTERS OF CEREMONY (1985), DARK CORNERS OF A NEW MIND (1986). And then of course my two solo plays BLOOD (1988 -1990) and THE COME-UPPANCE OF PUNCH (1995-1999). Today I cannot read those diaries – they are filled with utter pain, excessive compulsive repetitions, insanity.

I have only recently acquired some photographs of my parents and I do not have a single photograph of my maternal grandmother who parented us (sister and brother) over a five-year period. I have very little knowledge of my maternal and paternal grandparents. Males did not feature in my family set-up. I have very little sense of ‘ancestry’ via conventional family ties. Given that my fellow black South Africans in particular live THROUGH ancestry I struggle to understand the import of ancestry to one’s existence. I feel that IF I have any ancestry it is the link through other artists. I respect my parents deeply, but they were totally dysfunctional as parents.

I was immensely disturbed by the apartheid mindset to the point of a manic and morbidly obsessive interest and had little idea at the time of the universality of my understanding (and hence depiction) of fascism. Looking back at those times (and particularly since writing Tell Tale – Pine Slopes Publications 2005 ISBN 978-0-9584874-1-2) I have realised I was psychically out of control and painting/writing/djing/fashion prevented me from spinning out completely. My oil painting “Beyond Good and Evil” is a particular example of this depiction/survival: an attempt to gain distance and rationality from the turmoil and the ever conjoined dynamic of the ‘opposites’ merry-go-round.

It was from 1990 that I felt a need to begin documentation of my performances and thus have videos of my solo play BLOOD filmed at the Natal Playhouse, a fashion show at 330 (1992) (https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ogkT67B34Fs&spfreload=10)

and the ‘Come Uppance of Punch’ filmed at the Bat Centre 1999 amongst others.

In 2007, the ONLY person with whom I shared the most intimate moments of my life for eight years (Brain Vincent de Kock) was killed in a horrific motorbike accident. I have spent the last eight years writing a novel of these times set against the decline of our Education system: I returned to teaching in 1997 and it struck me that the classroom was the ‘coal-face of change’ and I felt intensely privileged to be in this space during this time. Bearing in mind that in 1997 there was a strong sense of euphoria in education….and I was dealing with a generation of South Africans that had, for the first time in their lives, access to a quality education. Yet by 2001 things began to get hectic. Changes that swept through grade 8 and 9 Natural Science syllabus were disastrous where content became a dirty word: it was all about process. For eg. it was not WHAT the graph depicted it was the UNDERSTANDING of the graph that was important. Not a single educator at any of the workshops understood this concept. There were no standardised textbooks for any of the years that I taught Natural Science. As a result the CASS assessment tasks were meant to be set so as not to favour any one school. Many schools could not complete the tasks causing the assessments to be meaningless. Initially, the over zealous Education Department in Natural Science created assessments that took about an hour to mark a single script – and with 300 Grade 9’s? Compare that with other subjects like Home Economics (for eg.) that took about 5 minutes to mark! The irony of those same children needing CONTENT for the Matric exam escaped them completely. Changes that swept through grade 10 to 12 Life Science syllabi were mostly phenomenal and headed in the right direction but were too fast, too uncoordinated, badly delivered. Adding to the confusion, between 2006 to 2009 Biology was changed to Life Science and the syllabus was changed three times. And, by introducing Evolution and Environmental studies (two fantastic moves which represented half the year’s work) the Education department blithely ignored the fact that they had just rendered all Life Science educators under qualified. What this says about the Education Departments contempt for educators is alarming – without so much as a murmur from the press or parents. To me, this was the REAL reason why the pass mark was lowered: Educators had to get up to speed while floundering with new content…….and a high failure rate would have made them (the Ed. Dept.) look like idiots.

Stepping into a matric classroom in May 2009 (after 3 ½ years at a deaf school) was a shocker of note. That coalface had become one-dimensional, immature, unknowledgeable. I was facing a form of xenophobia and began to believe that the pupils thought they had stumbled upon the very person who had master-minded apartheid. Malema was in full cry taking private spats with the white right into the public arena. There was constant pandemonium in the school: learners wondering around corridors during lessons free to interrupt at will, strikes, sit-ins by pupils and parents to have the headmaster re-instated. He was suspended pending an investigation regarding him caning a pupil. These strikes and sit-ins were arranged by the ‘illegitimate’ GB. Added to this it was utterly impossible to have a class discussion on evolution, to discuss the dynamic of abortion being seen as a method of birth control, to discuss the effects that alcohol and drugs have on the nervous and muscular system….all standard discussion topics…..to mention but a few! And, if you realise that discussion is a time to exercise knowledge, broaden one’s perspective and plumb some ‘commonaltiy’ of perception, you may get some idea of how dysfunctional that school was.

Attempts to document the court procedure (2010 to the present) of ‘unfair dismissal’ from the Ed. Dept. has become a major 5-year ‘installation’ artwork. I found support structures ineffective, out of touch and dismissive. I have had to constantly wade through mounds of paternalistic presumptive attitudes and formulative responses from presumably intelligent people. No lawyer was able to engage contextually with the matter at hand. I had to laugh when, three weeks before my court date (19th November 2014 – the judge ruled that my case be sent back for arbitration!) I had a two-hour interview with a top Durban advocate (who was white, by the way). I told him that I found that the notion of CONSEQUENCE to be a virtually non-existent concept amongst lawyers when he said, not without some pique: “The legal system is about consequence.” In spite of an extremely positive meeting, three days later he backed off from this case.

The court papers, all of which have been done by myself, serves as a LEGAL account of this insanity. This procedure has pushed me beyond the limits of endurance. I have had to look to Mandela’s statement: “It is you who must take the defence of your rights, your aspirations in your own hands.” – and to take control of my understanding of the constitution. Mandela’s message has become alarmingly cryptic in the light of the bizarre twists and the perturbing failure of leadership in the ANC. I have been driven by the fact that I would not die in peace if I did not follow through with this abuse until justice has been served. While this procedure has been understandably fraught, it has been empowering….and I am supremely happy with this work. The more I researched, the more I delved, the more ‘truths’ came to light. I am currently awaiting a second arbitration hearing and I have already been subjected to collusion in this new setting. The impunity is shattering…..and seemingly endless.

I would like to add that I feel that change has dragged out so because people do not/have not taken personal responsibility for change and have absolved themselves through a collective amnesia and collective bargaining which has smothered the real issues we as a nation need to face.


3. Can art be a means of historical elucidation, an apparatus for constructing truth?

My paintings/plays/writings are a direct application of this statement. ‘Art’ has to be an apparatus for constructing truth: it has no choice. But, as in my opening statement, it has struck me that art has been successfully suppressed by the corporate states globally. We have become blinded by the big bling billboard. The Ray Bans on Cape Towns Waterfront? We are also at an extremely dangerous juncture in terms of global mind control and manipulation. The vilification of Muslims which began almost forty years ago and which has gone unchecked, has lead to the ardent drone annihilation of the Palestinians and the bizarre wars in the Middle East.

And, since the demise of apartheid, I constantly encounter the vilification of the LIBERAL where there is a determination to confuse liberals with closet racists. It is all coming very close to home.

If there is ONE immutable truth that apartheid has taught me it is t his:

“A lie is a lie,

no matter how much you try

and look at it with fresh eyes.”

What does this mean? Apartheid was premised on a lie. The Apartheid Regime bent over backwards trying to prove the lie to be NOT A LIE and all they did was poke more holes into their own façade. It is bizarre, now, 20 years later to even have to say this!


4. Is South Africa a productive field for art today? In what way? How would you describe the art scene here?

There is creativity taking place in SA today……inevitably so….but very little of it is taking place in mainstream circles.

Twenty years into our new dispensation silly people with silly agendas are still muddling to control art. The art market (as in any country I suppose) is determined by curators who need to make money out of artists. This has lead art astray and has undermined the deeper power (in the short term at least) of what art is about.

The art scene hence lacks risk and is thus anything but vibrant. There is a huge lack of viable critics who carry any effective weight in their perception of art i.e. the gap between artists and public is a gaping chasm.

In Durban in particular I am seeing too much predictability when it comes to people getting ‘important’ appointments where they have no sense of the past, let alone the present, let alone a ‘radar’ for what is needed. They might have once HAD a radar: but that radar has become tainted with compromise of the wrong sort. They are simply being paid to maintain the status quo within the realm of appearing new and different.

Instead there is a DEEP sense of everything that is OPPOSED to art: amnesia, selective memories, closed circles, ideological miss-wiring….middlemen muddling the way…..

Political events seem to pointing me in the direction of once more becoming a ‘performance terrorist’….of which the image of the RED BULL 1983-2005 (representing the blindness and fear mongering of apartheid) and the APARTHEID DEMON (1988 – 1998) have become the most iconic.

Art has proven that it is too dangerous to be left in the hands of artists.


5. What is the role of music in film?

Music to film is like walls to architecture.


6. What can art tell us about Marikana? What can art do with Marikana? With “democracy’ after Marikana?

I think your film “Night is coming” – a threnody for the victims of Marikana, expertly answers all aspects of this question and for which I wrote the following review:


What has struck me most deeply these last 20 years is that for democracy to function there is a desperate need for people to be well informed, open minded, able to debate, to be transparent so that you are not driven by a need to hide information, to be honest and not corrupt, to not be threatened by differing view-points. How did the ANC get this so wrong?

I don’t think anybody understood the concept of democracy. The first thing the ANC should have done was set up task teams knowledgeable in the hands-on functionality (i.e. import) of democracy and these should have been sent to schools to educate educators, to pupils, to parents in an onslaught of dissemination, consistently, over a five year period. Instead all we had were (for eg.) seminars on ‘conflict management’…..and a misguided/mishandled policy to get ‘old school’ educators to remove themselves from the system by taking huge severance packages laughing all the way to the bank. Who thinks these things up? Well it’s way too late now to be bothered!

January 28, 2015

Matthew Barney interviewed by Aryan Kaganof

Filed under: art,kaganof short films — ABRAXAS @ 2:29 pm

the interview took place a few days after the opening of Matthew’s first retrospective exhibition which took place at the Booyman van Beuningen Museum in Rotterdam, 1995. The interview was conducted as part of a documentary film about Matthew that Aryan was commissioned to make by the VPRO (a Dutch tv station). The film was shot on 16mm colour stock by Joost van Gelder and Wiro Felix and broadcast under the title “Matthew Barney in the Emperor’s New Clothes”. a Japanese art distributor released the film as a vhs called “Three Art Documentaries”. The other two artists portraited on the tape are Ron Athey and Baby Kain.

matthew barney in the emperor’s new clothes

Aryan Kaganof: I’m going to jump around. I want to do that to try to keep the train of thought fresh, but also because I’m very scatty. So there I’ve developed a theory too…, to accommodate my own scattiness. I’d like to start off with a point we spoke about last week. Your movement towards narrative and I’m particularly concerned about the development your work is making to Hollywood cinema and to narrative cinema.

Matthew Barney: Yes, what I said was that, at this point at least, I’m much more interested in thinking about these projects as sculpture… I believe that Cremaster 4 and Cremaster 1 are both sculptures and I think that they’re starting to take on some of the language of film in a more conscious way, but I guess that the threshold lies in some kind of character development and in some kind of value system of what it means to make a sculpture or to make a form that doesn’t have that kind of pressure to resolve itself and in fact, when it does it dies, as a form. In that way the characters and the videos aren’t about…, in a typically narrative fashion. I think that they stop themselves, they’re doing their jobs, basically, within the world today, they have a job to do and they execute it. Certain characters have more will than others. But in a certain case, none of them have any will at all. They simply do, and… Yeah, on the other hand, narrative interests me, in a way that it pulls me further and further away from the limitations of making sculpture. In terms of feeling free to lie versus constantly dealing with gravity, and always having to tell the truth, and somehow allowing the work to become more narrative, and thinking more about storytelling is in that way really liberating.

I think the characters are aspects of a larger organism that’s been in a kind of a growth process for probably about eight years, and in that way, those certain characters are constantly in conflict with one another. Yet they describe the same organism. I mean, they’re from piece to piece as well as within a single project. This was one of the reasons for making an exhibition like this and making a pageant like we did and this notion of bringing together unlikely combinations of characters which are really likely in terms of the body of work being the single organism.

The character Goodyear (Cremaster 1, red.) was in the state of the reproductive track before the point of differentiation and the opening of the piece has the two blimps hovering over the top of the goal post at the end of the football stadium. In that way define the drawing of the reproductive track that hadn’t differentiated itself yet. The air hostesses within the blimps and the blimps themselves were obligated to do their jobs, which was to descend and to define themselves, and to grow. In that way, Goodyear was in conflict with the blimps that she inhabited, so she was in way kind of a regressive, almost a regressive virus inside this organism. But very much a part of it. So Goodyear’s projection becomes the field of choir, who execute the choreography of Goodyear, which again ends in the drawing of the reproductive track before the point of differentiation.

Well, I suppose that if the narrative is pared down and distilled down to its purest form I think what we’re really talking about are very simple notions of equilibrium, or more specifically, the impossibility for equilibrium and pure freedom. So in that way yes, as representations no, they’re not. I don’t consider them representational.

MATTHEW BARNEY CREATING STORIES from Stephanus Muller on Vimeo.

AK: Are you infatuated with glamour?

MB: No, no. I think the different aspects of several of the projects really that have taken on, have taken on different codes of fashion or glamour or Hollywood cinema. Have really taken it on in the same way that they’ve taken on Jim Otto, for instance. A personality in American sports, who’s not particularly glamorous really. I think that the narrative ends up inhabiting these forms. Not to say that the form is completely empty, but within the language of the work it exists as a form that can be inhabited. So in that way it has nothing to do with Jim Otto. He’s a carrier in a certain way. But with athletics I think it was something that I was involved with. And in that way, it gives a kind of foundation for the work, that kind of behaviour of athletics and this notion of capturing potential within this organism and how this builds itself and perpetuates itself through training and a kind of a discipline and loses its energy and spends it all really in the field of competition. Those ideas were the ideas that developed the first narratives in these videos in terms of creating a division between something that existed more as potential and something that existed as a kind of a release and how characters were then assigned to these different zones.

AK:I’d like to use this rule to get slightly more anecdotal. What really impressed me on Saturday, what I found unusual, was the care and deliberation and precision of your team. I wondered whether this reflects your process in terms of setting an example to them and then they taking up on that, or have you deliberately chosen a group of people who are as precise and detailed as you are in your working?

MB: Yeah, I would say the latter. I would say, neurotics attract neurotics, something like that. I think that they are all extremely good at what they do and they are very obsessive in their own way. So much about these project, particularly a video projects have to do with…, they can’t operate really without a focus on detail which… everybody has. That’s for sure.

…to the sculptures, to the video projects, to the characters themselves, that I think that it’s almost like talking about the openings in the body or something like that. I kind of…, always think that if those details are correct that it provides some kind of a valve. Whether it’s for receiving energy or letting energy escape. I think about those details that way, that if they’re not right, then energy is either trapped or can’t be accepted, you know, by the form whatever the form happens to be at that given moment.

I think that there’s certainly, certain artists that deal with a kind of cosmology, a certain kind, but there are probably far more film makers that work that way. In that way, I’ve always looked at a film, but I guess it’s sort of recent that I really feel like eh… It’s been fairly recent that I feel that film’s become really essential in the way that I think about developing form. I guess in the past I’ve always sort of considered myself a horror film junkie or something, and I’ve have taken certain aspects of particularly that genre and kinetic movie making. People like Sam Raimee. And really, probably more in a sort of sculptural way that, framing like somebody like Berkeley, things like that. But I guess more recently I’ve been feeling…, in terms of this idea about storytelling and relieving a situation of its gravity and learning to lie, really. I mean film has become a lot more important for me.

I suppose I got interested in that for a variety of reasons, but eh… I think that the aerial view or the overhead perspective on action has been something that I’ve been thinking about for a while really, and how scale leaps from a diagrammatic situation to a… whether human scale is still recognised, to something that starts to become really more microscopic and how this happens a lot in the perfectly… kind of ninety degree overhead. And this is something of course Berkeley used a lot and used really beautifully. In that way thinking about the Goodyear blimp as really a camera dolly that changed the way athletic events are viewed and understood really again as a diagram for action and as a dynamic camera dolly. But further with Berkeley I guess I… a couple of things…, I really started feeling like maybe this was one of those moments in cinema where somebody got really close to being free in a certain way. And he really went for it. He was doing incredible things with the camera and with his subjects. And of course these days, looking at these things and thinking of course all of this could be done by computer, and looking at those films and seeing the wire carrying one of these show girls up in the cameras swinging them across the room or seeing the irregularity in the car turn, you know, which brings up the portrait of F.D.R., or listings were all manual. In that way the error in them was I think really beautiful, particularly when they were attempting to make organic forms that of course can’t be perfect. In the same you look toward a person…, they keep promising you that they’re symmetrical, but they never are. Yeah, I thought a lot about that, and it changed the way that I would look to Leni Riefenstahl for instance and of course the grid of Olympia, the Berlin stadium and how much more beautiful that made the flower of Busby Berkeley, somehow more honest, more free.

AK: It seemed to me that there were different sets of parallel tensions going on in different rooms on the day (21 October, red.), and you were physically moving from space to space, and sort of overseeing too much, in a way. I wondered, do you deliberately pose yourself impossible challenges in order to not quite meet them, because you need to be stretched to the extent to realise yourself. Or is it just a miscalculation on my part that it seemed just beyond reach in a way?

MB: No, I think that…, well this isn’t at all an answer to the question, but I think that it’s relevant, … I think that really one of the exciting things about having… these projects move more towards a cinematic language and that more and more people are involved and that the ego of the project starts to get distributed among a group of people and in that way, and particularly that moment, when it’s recognised that that’s happened I feel a real release, and I think that is really nice. And I think that that is a little bit like a drug I suppose, you know that the projects keep getting larger really, and more complex. I suppose in a way that it’s some kind of insurance that that moment of release will continue to happen really. And also there’s the fact that nothing can really be pure, or nothing can really be perfect. I mean this is always a battle I think with object making and with working on something that is very distilled, the way that sculpture is. That somehow opening things up and making them very very difficult to pull off, sort of releases that… It doesn’t remove that kind of drive toward that problem and really butting your head up against that problem, but it somehow makes it easier to deal with. And it’s more clear, it’s easier to understand that kind of, just that fact that things can’t be perfectly symmetrical, things can’t be perfect, you know. And thank God. You know, why would we keep doing what we’re doing, you know?

AK: In that sense the work almost implicitly needs to be unfinished?

MB: Well, I think that the work implicitly needs resistance. And that is really one of the foundations of these narratives as well really. Without resistance a form can’t grow. And so much of the kind of trials in the work, even, whether it’s the image of that kind of effort or the effort, you know as well as I do, of actually making a film really all has that same kind of meaning for me, that it’s really much less interesting to think about a finished form than it is to continue to impose resistance on this growing form and to try not to, you know, look too long into the toilet, you know, you just gotta kind of keep moving, and not really look at what you’ve done so much. There’s time for reflection in everything but I really, it’s like, ideal at stasis is death, you know, the form has to keep moving, it has to keep growing, and it has to have resistance.

AK: Matthew, could you tell me about horror films?

MB: Horror films… I suppose I’m interested in the way that a horror film creates a landscape out of the inside of the body, or effectively turns the body inside out in certain cases. Cronenberg works that way sometimes.

AK: Are your installations scripts for horror films that are waiting to be realised?

MB: No, no. I actually don’t eh… well, waiting to be realised by somebody else? Or by eh… I mean, is that a literal question?

I think that they operate in a lot of similar ways to the way that horror operates. In to that sense of place, that some of the classical horror films have to the summer camp, the Friday 13th movies, to The Lodge, or The Shining, to The Cabin in the Woods, The Evil Dead movies, and that kind of restriction to site that those films depend on really. So that this architectural situation becomes organic and injected with behaviour really. And I think the same kind of ideas go into some of these installations, particularly in their primary site, which we are not standing in here. Obviously, The Shining, you know the lodge becomes really a part of the behaviour of Nicholson’s character. And that conflict with his wife, really, and child and it gets…, those aspects of this character really become part of that architecture.


AK: I wasn’t quite clear about the definitions between the idea of a pageant, a fashion show, a liturgical event, Catholic event. Lots of images came through my head, but at the end of the day, I didn’t feel any clarity. Is that okay?

MB: Eh, I think that happened on Saturday was really… It felt to me very similar to the way I feel when I finish filming something. Immediately finish filming something. You have moments that you know are strong and certain far less clear moments in between those things. And some of the ideas that went into it in terms of letting the procession happen, letting each of these characters come out, letting the stage be emptied and playing one song and having there be an interval really which functions like editing does, and that if it works, the viewers would then edit the piece themselves in a certain way. And I think that there are a multitude of different ways that that event could be edited a certain way.

No, I think it was, that this space functioned much more clearly with a load of people in it, it also would have been nice with nobody there at all, but eh… beyond that, it isn’t really something that interests me. I was very happy to see a lot of children there.

AK: I heard from a number of people after the event had closed and they had looked through the installation was that they felt they needed to get to terms with the ground rules. They wanted a set, you know, of ten points of how to participate or observe this event. But it struck me that that is precisely what’s interesting about the work…

MB: well, I suppose eh… One has to keep working really and I think that eh… I just think it’s important to feel free enough to do something like that parade really. To continue to develop hybrids of things that are really understood as, you know, isolated events or single projects or even single stories. And it’s certainly a way that I’ve always felt about them, but probably very important to continue to make more visible experimentation with that. ‘Cause I think that’s really important for people to understand if they’re interested in approaching the work from a kind of narrative way, which I think in the end is very important.

AK: … the relationship with narrative and place, a set of relationships with meaning. I guess that’s where I feel a drift in your work is that constantly ascribing meaning to surfaces and textures but I have no confidence that my set of ascribed meanings as actually anything to do with your intentions or your work at all.

MB: Well, I guess I kind of feel like, I mean, that’s the nature of eh… of a sculptural language, that’s trying to drag with it a kind of a narrative or a story that eh… It moves very slowly. In that way I feel very confident that that story will make sense, but I think it’s gonna take years and years and years to build.

…So I’ve no choice really.

AK: You mentioned the word neurotic, and on the day I heard the phrase control freak used a lot.

MB: Did you?

AK: Do you feel comfortable with those descriptions?

MB: Well, I suppose it depends on who’s saying them. I feel very comfortable with something like that coming from the people that are working with me. It’s definitely something we joke about all the time. It’s like that other question you asked me, really, which is, you know, without allowing a process to become a piece of therapy, I think that there are a lot of things that can happen within the creative process that can actually deal with real problems that way. And then there’s the notion of dealing with problems that are bigger and bigger and you know, projects that are bigger and bigger. Sort of building something into the project that starts to take on some of these other problems of control or problems of fetish, or problems of, some of these things that potentially could really kill off the work I think, and… I mean if it were allowed to be focused on, you know what I mean?

AK: I sometimes, but perhaps it’s my hearing, I sometimes find your talking about your work seem very removed from your work. Perhaps that is your dispassionate way of talking. But I do also get a feeling that there really is a Matthew Barney, a construct, in the fields of art, in the fields of media. And there’s you, this sort of guy sitting here with green hair, you know, blue eyes and a smile. Is there a space between those two things, or is the work aware of that space, or is Matthew aware of that space?

MB: Well, I think there’s certainly a… You know, again there’s that kind of distance from the ego that I think is really critical. I don’t feel like the work can function without being able to step outside, you know, also some more to the notion of turning yourself inside out, you know, I think there is a purpose for it, it’s not just about creating viscera, metaphorically, I think it’s, that’s important. Especially with the faith that the envelope can be turned back. But it is one of the things that I like also about good models, the same thing happens, probably with actors as well, but I don’t really know actors so well, this idea of being able to evacuate your body, leave, look back, and understand it is a form. That is I think really important with these projects, that I feel I really have to leave.

AK: Matthew Barney is a mutant form? A constantly changing construct. It has nothing to do with you anymore?

MB: Well, I think it has everything to do with me at the same time. I think you have to feel free to come and go.

AK: What really struck me, as the two (Barney and Helena Christensen during the parade, red.) of you walked together away from the camera, I thought, it filled me with the idea of the Emperor’s new clothes. Literally, as the audience was gushing. Am I being cynical? Was there any reference to that at all in the mythology?

MB: Keep going. Other question

AK: There you were, walking, covered in an enormous amount of work of make-up, but you were also nude. Helena was walking next to you, escorting as if you weren’t nude, as if you were wearing a lot of make-up. But the creature that you had been made up to be was nude. I saw as a kind of envelope, an invisible envelope, and it made me think of the Emperor’s new clothes. And I thought for a second, he’s duping us all. And it’s great. And we’re loving it. And then I wondered whether that’s got anything to do with what you’re doing at all?

MB: No, I don’t think so. Other than the notion of the prosthetic being flexible, in terms of being architectural, sort of in the world of costume, or wardrobe, or the internal world of the body or eh…

AK: The quality of your work. It seemed so much fun. It seems to me very relaxed, very uncynical, and yet at the same time it is not totally integrated into a kind of…, you mentioned viscerality earlier, but it is visceral and yet distanced, it’s through the media that the viscerality comes to us. That fun quality, that knowing quality. Is that a reflection of your personality? Or is that something you work to?

MB: I think humour ends up being one of the valves in the work. (…) Yeah, I suppose that’s the kind of humour that I like, really. That kind of laughter that you have when you’re not quite sure if you’re supposed to laugh.

AK: That probably is the sentence you’ve said today that most clearly connects me with the feelings I had on Saturday. Because very often I looked around me and I saw various states…, various hybrid states of confusion and a lot of people were not daring to allow their instincts to go into laughter. I enjoyed that. I wondered if you enjoyed that?

MB: Well, I wasn’t there. You have to remember. I was in the back room. So eh… I just saw the tape this morning for the first time. And I did enjoy it. I enjoyed the gaps and those moments of awkwardness.

AK: …in the wheelchair, downstairs watching the pageant through the sort of plastic curtains. I wondered if you were contorting the kind of agony, or you had absolved yourself from the space and you were just given up to whatever the dynamics of the space were. I couldn’t find either or in what I saw but it could have been either of it, you could put captions on the two photographs, and it could be any one of them.

MB: Yeah, I think at that point I was much more about letting it go. What else could you do really.

AK: …end at the exhibition. Or is there a residue, a spill off, that you take back with you to America?

MB: I definitely bring things back with me. I’ll probably bring back with me the walls in between each of the rooms. In a certain way that’s what I kind of think this exhibition is about. Or those walls. Just the walls that divide each of the rooms in the exhibition. And I think those are the things that I take with me from this. More than anything else. And the children.

AK: …What I see as a problem in terms of critical reception. At least, as I’ve been reading. It seems to me that art critics can’t give up being moralists. And that can be kind of inhibiting I guess as an artist. Trying to investigate new mutant forms.

MB: Yeah, I think it’s a real barrier. I guess you just continue to believe in abstraction, and to believe in transformation, that the most loaded image in the world has the ability to be transformed into and accepted into another language.

AK: …American artist?

MB: Sure. I think eh… If I understand your question, I think that, I grew up in America. America is the place where I started to understand… how forms can be developed and how forms can be invented. I think I learned about those things on the football field, an American football field. In that way I feel very connected to those spaces, still. And they are very specifically American.

AK: In terms of sort of autobiographical anecdotal material, I have been told by various prominent art critics that your mother is of inestimable importance to your work. Would that be true, and if so, could you clarify that to some extent?

MB: I suppose that to the extent that she introduced me to art. You know, in that way she remains one of the more inspiring artists that I’ve looked at. As a painter, that is.

AK: Is your development in the future going to be more and more towards cinematic narratives? Storytelling, perhaps even working on film?

MB: I really have no idea at this point.

AK: The parade on Saturday reminded me a great deal of film making. I recognised it from large sets I’ve been on. Although it had a more volatile field. There was lots of control and organisation, but also a genuine volatility, that I sometimes find quite dangerous. Do you need elements of danger to keep you going? Sort of challenges to set yourself?

MB: Certainly. I find, you know, arguing with camera men a very invigorating conflict. yes, I suppose it’s in the end maybe it is the same as, you know, as jumping thirty or forty feet off of a pier. The same kind of push.

AK: …that you put your body through, I guess involved a certain amount of physical pain. Is pain important to you in terms of breaking thresholds? In terms of the mutant quality of the art form?

MB: I guess I never really think about it in terms of pain. As much as I do, some terms of that notion of resistance. I mean, pain is a relative. I’m very interested in resistance. And particularly in a kind of a self imposed resistance. And that I think is essential.

AK: The testicles with the kind of steel rings through them. Has that got anything to do with contemporary fashion? Piercing, scarification? Or is that a pre-Christian mythology that you’ve unearthed?

MB: Maybe neither. It’s the anatomy that I character. At that given moment.

AK: …that the clothes or garments that the characters wore were absolutely essential in terms of determining the states of mind of the characters. To that extent, what fabric and textile be of extreme importance in terms of the narrative?

MB: It could be, sure. What else did you say?

AK: I found it very interesting for you (revealing), ’cause I see a great attention to texture. And obviously I imagined in the editing as well. A kind of textural editing.

MB: Yeah, well there’s certainly types of fabric that dress couldn’t be out of. It’s something I enjoy very much actually, the costume making.

AK: There’s a level of aesthetic enjoyment in costume, make-up, and that preparation, which is actually outside of the experience of the work itself.

MB: Well, I don’t think that any aspect of the work excludes itself from just joy, or the joy of making something. I don’t think there is really any difference between that. You know, between the picking of fabrics for the dress or editing that way.

AK: On Saturday there were times watching you when you looked to me like a kid who’d been given three wishes and the first wish was to have a lovely costume party and invite all his friends around, and celebrate. Does that make any sense to you?

MB: It sounds slightly to the left of where I would hope that piece ended up. That sounds a little decadent to me, which it may well could have been. But I kind of feel like that the project is a little more interested in, well in celebrating in a certain way. You know, but once again, not really allowing itself to reach a state of resolve. I suppose more than anything that I’ve ever done or put out. I think, I don’t know, I feel that the piece was kind of gestural. It had to do with that kind of, with celebration.

AK: If Matthew Barney was a mutant kid, and if the camera was a genie, what would his three wishes be?

MB: Boy, I don’t know. I suppose I have, you know, the same wish as anyone else, really. And that’s just, to get closer to feeling free, really. It hasn’t anything to do with a genie or a camera, but it certainly has to do with why, you know, we all bust out ass doing what we do, you know? Makes sense?

Thank you very much.

the interview was originally published by the vpro laat op de avond

January 26, 2015

mary corrigall’s best of 2014

Filed under: art,mary corrigall — ABRAXAS @ 10:23 pm

first published here: http://corrigall.blogspot.com/2015/01/best-of-2014.html

January 22, 2015

welcome back to school card for Mrs Theron (grade 2 teacher)

Filed under: art,caelan — ABRAXAS @ 9:28 am

koki on shiny coated paper
21 january 2014

January 10, 2015

carina venter answers six questions about art in south africa after marikana

Filed under: art,Carina Venter,politics,six questions — ABRAXAS @ 9:36 am


1. Do you think art can be didactic in a good way?

The answer is yes, not because the answer is yes, but because the answer has to be yes. Partly delusional, partly idealised, partly corrupted, and partly sheer faith in a belief that I might be wrong about the afore-mentioned conditions in a sovereign sense. At least for the present, I have no other way of thinking about the possibility of aesthetics as a didactic force.

2. What is this “need to document”? Of what use is it?

This need to document, indeed the incessant need to catalogue, review, reconstruct, catalogue our reconstructions, review our catalogued reconstructions, reconstruct our review of the catalogued reconstruction: this need to archive is both cumulative and productive, but not linear in an ontological sense. Which leads me to the conclusion that the need to archive is a sign that the present of linear time (understood as always following what came before and opening onto what comes after) is mutilated, so much so that we must go somewhere other to warm our shivering lives. We return to the past, to the archive, at times to seek consolation, to enunciate our present as a reconstruction of the documented past or to respond to something other than the linear present. Psychoanalysis is, I think, one way to understand the immense psychic need to archive: it is only when we have understood our most intimate archives, or rather, when we have reassembled those archives into something with which we can live — albeit momentarily — that depression (the experience of the present, not as fleeting and finite but as what is irrevocable and infinite) yields to the warmth of a moment in which we feel able to be present. This also means that the archive and its modern derivatives are abstractions that mostly exclude those monitory subjects without money. In other words, it is a space for those of us who have been fed, clad, rested, cared for, and then find that there is still time left.


3. Can art be a means of historical elucidation, a means of constructing truth?

The day that a consensus is reached on this question will be the day that art becomes nothing other than what we think it is. Art can be anything it wishes to be. And perhaps herein resides its only hope. Art is ephemeral in the sense that its total undoing is always still possible. It is the only realm in which it is possible to dream new beginnings, even if those dreams are themselves never untainted.

4. Is South Africa a productive field for art today? In what way? How would you describe the art scene here?

I am not qualified to answer this question. I am too young, I haven’t lived very much, I have seen too little of art, and I have lived apart from art for the first 18 years of my life. In my own writing, South Africa is a principle, the intensity of which—often violently—refuses distance. For me, writing has become a threshold, a bulwark against my own falling silent. I write about what resists writing, in order not to fall silent. There is another type of art-making in which I choose to partake, whilst convincing myself that participation is not a matter of choice but of coercion. This type of art-making is akin to a game of Monopoly: through hard work, good luck and a bit of bluffing, I buy houses, streets and sometimes entire cities, individuals, traditions, nations, histories, with the sole aim of playing the game, inasmuch as it is possible, on my own terms.0

5. What is the role of music in film?

I honestly don’t know, but I would like you to put the same question to me ten years hence.

Night is Coming – a threnody for the victims of Marikana from Stephanus Muller on Vimeo.

6. What can art tell us about Marikana? What can art do with Marikana? With “democracy” after Marikana?

This question, too, is beyond what I feel I am able to answer. Or rather, I think that you have yourself proffered one answer which is what occupies my mind and body at the time of responding to your questions. Allow me, then, to quote (almost verbatim) something you wrote:

The title of this film is inspired by the geography of the physical landscape in which a massacre that forms its backbone, is set. It is a new South African fable featuring two “characters”, a Massacre and a Blind Musicologist, played by Gertrude Magrietjie in her haunting debut role. And it recounts their adventures, or rather misadventures in the arid parts of Marikana. Having teamed up, our protagonists, a Massacre and a Blind Musicologist Bible Thumper, set out on a journey to secure spiritual food in order to sustain themselves during a period of spiritual drought. They arrive at red and green pastures, and the Massacre, knowing that these belong to a moody Lonmin, encourages his Blind colleague to gaze. Retribution is inevitable and it takes the form of a Massacre that leaves 34 dead, many of them shot in the back by Police Tactical Response Team members. The Blind Musicologist, unable to swim, drowns.
Night Is Coming: A Threnody for the Victims of Marikana is a fugue in four voices. Two of the voices relate to foreground material (comprising fingers, hands and faces in extreme closeups) and background material (consisting of landscape spaces and plans sequence which both frame space – plastically and architectonically – as well as to operate within the landscape’s frame.
The other two “voices” of the fugue are sound and speech respectively. Particularly Billie Whitelaw’s performance of Samuel Beckett’s text Rockaby lends itself to a fugal setting. Sound design is a crucial part of the success of the fugal approach, and this is already built in to the film from the opening salvo that heralds the Tactical Response Team’s not very tactical response to the striking miners being herded by large armoured vehicles to their own massacre.
The sound of this salvo of bullets is used like a goema drum as a warning, a memory from the Chthonic subconscious built into the DNA, the cellular structure, of generations of people derived from slavery but denied their memory of self by hundreds of years of forced forgetting under colonialism and apartheid.

January 7, 2015

Filed under: art,caelan — ABRAXAS @ 10:22 am


January 6, 2015


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January 1, 2015

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December 30, 2014


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December 28, 2014

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December 26, 2014

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December 21, 2014

stacy hardy answers six questions about art in south africa after marikana

Filed under: art,literature,politics,six questions,stacy hardy — ABRAXAS @ 3:59 pm


1. Do you think art can be didactic in a good way?

I guess the kind of art I like, the books I like to read, the music I like to listen, feels like it has something at stake to it, that there’s some necessity to its having been written rather than it being a replication of patterns or traditions that have come before or brain fodder.

I think there’s a growing urgency for art and writing that shakes us out of our complacency, reminding us that we are alive, really alive and that things don’t have to be the way they are, reminding us that anything is possible, that everything is possible, despite the fact that we routinely convince ourselves that things are just as they are—the way we’ve inherited them.

So yes, I’m interested in art and music and fiction that works against society’s indifference. That challenges the world we live in, the world we have inherited. I love work that shakes up our stable view of the world, work that trips us up or surprises us, that forces us to see the world differently. I love work that grapples with the self as a transient gossamer thing, easily obliterated and readily rebuilt. I’m interested in sex, in desire and the body, an art that champions the vulnerable, the fractured, the disenfranchised, the fucked-up.


2. What is this “need to document”? Of what use is it?

Well I think there’s a real sense that our that language has failed us, is failing us – that we no longer have the tools or even the words, the sentence structures to give voice to our present realities, that all too often the language we use has been compromised by history or co-opted and emptied out of meaning by our late capitalist reality.

So it’s about how we document and how we speak about our reality that’s the pressing concern. How do we capture the complexity, the beauty, the horror, the inventiveness of life here and now now?

I have little interest in documenting unless that document subverts or challenges accepted views of reality or allows us to really see not simply to recognise. Recognition occurs when we look at things without seeing them—when racism in Cape Town has become so familiar, we tune it out. Seeing, in contrast, happens when something makes us to look again, and regard a thing as though we’re encountering it for the first time.

When it comes to the documentary impulse I gravitate towards work that defamiliarises reality. Work that plays with is disastrous commingling of fact and fiction, blur the borders between artists/ viewer, author/ character in order to disparage authenticity where self is put at risk by naming names, becoming naked, making the irreversible happen. The writer/artist becomes exposed and vulnerable: you risk being foolish, silly, pathetic, wrong. The writing comes too close to reality, to the body, to the bone. This challenges the safe distance between the text and the world, the writer and the reader.


3. Can art be a means of historical elucidation, an apparatus for constructing truth?

I’m always wary of grand ideals of truth. Maybe I’ve just been poisoned by the homoglossic realism I’m encountering in so much writing today – a mode that privileges the power of language to reveal truth, the essential fullness and continuity and coherence of a self by which is built, rather than destroyed, by conflict. Much of this work assumes a position not too close, not too far away, a narrative structure which seems to me to covertly mirrors SA white suburbs where everything is contained and segregated, neatly walled off. It wants to offer us the authentic story of a self. But is this really what having a self feels like? Is it really the closest model we have to our condition? Or simply the bedtime story that comforts us most?

At the same time, yes, art can definitely operate as an apparatus for constructing personal truth. The best art is often its own adventure, a way characterized most definitely with error yet also with discovery and potential originality, which in time may well prove significant.


4. Is South Africa a productive field for art today? In what way? How would you describe the art scene here?

I’m kind of wary of categorisations like South African art or a South African art scene. Having grown up in South Africa under the Afrikaner Nationalist government and then lived through the rainbow national mythology of the present government, I’d rather not embrace any prescribed national identities. I have no interest in the South African art scene… I think part of the fuck up was how readily we adopted the existing prescribed models. This was a colossal fuck up in politics. It’s a colossal fuck up in art. So many fantastic brave subversive improvised models and strategies were developed during the apartheid years – both to resist the system of oppression and to challenge the horror of apartheid, but also to simply get by, to get work out there, to communicate. Artist, writers and musicians worked together; artists showed work on book covers and album covers; the pages of literary magazines became impromptu galleries; private book collections became public libraries; writing collectives were formed; improvised spaces became concert halls. Now it seems we’re all fighting to be part of or to be charge of the very same oppressive system that was resisted for so long. This is not a nostalgia for the apartheid era – god forbid! But more a call to recognise that the oppression hasn’t ended; a call to embrace and build on those strategies we have already developed and to develop new strategies that allow us to act and think, to be and yes, to breathe differently.

I’m humbled and grateful to be able to work with incredible, talented, smart, beautiful people right here in Cape Town who are doing that, who are creating a fantastically productive field to work in.


5. What is the role of music in film?

I think it’s a very powerful tool to perform precisely the kind of defamiliarisation I was talking about… so it can be used to provoke us to see differently, to see images differently and maybe even anew. Of course it might also allow us to dance or at least dance in our seats.


6. What can art tell us about Marikana? What can art do with Marikana? With “democracy” after Marikana?

I don’t really know if I can answer this.. I don’t really see Marikana as some kind of turning point, some kind of cataclysmic moment or disaster or event or “accident” to quote Paul Virilio. It seems to me that happened long before Marikana, that Marikana is but one of many terrible tragedies that happen in the aftermath.. or maybe its more that we’re at a tipping point, an event horizon, an ongoing accident?

I’ve just been reading Connie Willis’ fantastic science fiction short story, “Schwarzschild Radius.” I hope you will indulge me if I quote a long passage?

“When a star collapses, it sort of falls in on itself.” Travers curved his hand into a semicircle and then brought the fingers in. “And sometimes it reaches a kind of point of no return where the gravity pulling in on it is stronger than the nuclear and electric forces, and when it reaches that point, nothing can stop it from collapsing and it becomes a black hole.” He closed his hand into a fist. “And that critical diameter, that point where there’s no turning back, is called the Schwarzschild radius.”

Travers paused, waiting for me to say something.

He had come to see me every day for a week, sitting stiffly on one of my chairs in an

unaccustomed shirt and tie, and talked to me about black holes and relativity, even though I taught biology at the university before my retirement, not physics. Someone had told him I knew Schwarzschild, of course.

“The Schwarzschild radius?” I said in my quavery, old man’s voice, as if I could not remember ever hearing the phrase before, and Travers looked disgusted. He wanted me to say, “The Schwarzschild radius! Ah, yes, I served with Karl Schwarzschild on the Russian front in World War I!” and tell him all about how he had formulated his theory of black “holes while serving with the artillery, but I had not decided yet what to tell him.

“The event horizon,” I said.

“Yeah. It was named after Schwarzschild because he was the one who worked out the theory,” Travers said. He reminded me of Müller with his talk of theories. He was the same age as Müller, with the same shock of stiff yellow hair and the same insatiable curiosity, and perhaps that was why I let him come every day to talk to me, though it was dangerous to let him get so close.

“I have drawn up a theory of the stars,” Müller says while we warm our hands over the Primus stove so that they will get enough feeling in them to be able to hold the liquid barretter without dropping it. “They are not balls of fire, as the scientists say. They are frozen.”

“How can we see them if they are frozen?” I say. Müller is insulted if I do not argue with him. The arguing is part of the theory.

“Look at the wireless!” he says, pointing to it sitting disemboweled on the table. We have the back off the wireless again, and in the barretter’s glass tube is a red reflection of the stove’s flame.

“The light is a reflection off the ice of the star.”

“A reflection of what?”

“Of the shells, of course.”

I do not say that there were stars before there was this war, because Müller will not have an answer to this, and I have no desire to destroy his theory, and besides, I do not really believe there was a time when this war did not exist. The star shells have always exploded over the snow-covered craters of No Man’s Land, shattering in a spray of white and red, and perhaps Müller’s theory is true.

“At that point,” Travers said, “at the event horizon, no more information can be transmitted out of the black hole because gravity has become so strong, and so the collapse appears frozen at the Schwarzschild radius.”

“Frozen,” I said, thinking of Müller.

“Yeah. As a matter of fact, the Russians call black holes ‘frozen stars.’ You were at the Russian front, weren’t you?”


“In World War I.”

“But the star doesn’t really freeze,” I said. “It goes on collapsing.”

“Yeah, sure,” Travers said. “It keeps collapsing in on itself until even the atoms are stripped of their electrons and there’s nothing left except what they call a naked singularity, but we can’t see past the Schwarzschild radius, and nobody inside a black hole can tell us what it’s like in there because they can’t get messages out, so nobody can ever know what it’s like inside a black hole.”

“I know,” I said, but he didn’t hear me.

December 17, 2014

athi mongezeleli joja on the role of white artists and critics in the new south africa

Filed under: art,athi mongezeleli joja,politics — ABRAXAS @ 6:35 pm

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December 11, 2014

little miss muffet sat on a tuffet eating her curds and whey…

Filed under: art,caelan — ABRAXAS @ 5:19 pm


georges bataille on the impersonal fullness of life itself

Filed under: art,Georges Bataille,nicola deane,philosophy — ABRAXAS @ 9:03 am

“The blood and the organs brimful of life were not what modern anatomy would see, the feeling of the men of old can only be recaptured by an inner experience, not by science. We may presume that they saw in the fullness of the blood-swollen organs, the impersonal fullness of life itself.”

Georges Bataille
Erotism: Death and Sensuality

December 10, 2014

Filed under: art,nicola deane — ABRAXAS @ 3:59 pm


Filed under: art,nicola deane — ABRAXAS @ 9:53 am


percy mabandu interviews lefifi tladi

Filed under: 2005 - giant steps,art,chimurenga library,percy mabandu,politics — ABRAXAS @ 7:40 am

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first published here: http://chimurengachronic.co.za/propaganda-politics-art-activism-south-africa/

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