Form, Content, and Transformation

larvalsubjects's avatarLarval Subjects .

Mug_and_Torus_morphThe difficulty is that it is the form or structure, not the content, that must be transformed to produce genuine psychodynamic or political transformation.  One might believe that they’ve produced a radical transformation by switching from donuts to coffee, but both are still toruses.  The structure remains the same.  This was the criticism of Soviet style socialism.  At the level of content it had changed the nature of distribution, but structurally, in its reliance on the Fordist factory model, it still had the same structure or form of alienation.  Similarly, one does not undermine patriarchy simply by putting a woman in charge.  Patriarchy is not defined by its content– a particular gender occupying the position of power –but by its structure:  an autarch at the top structuring social relations.  It’s that structure that has to be addressed, not the organ of a person that occupies a particular point in a…

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Vanessa Place — Gone With the Wind

Vanessa Place Gone With the Wind.

In reading her her defense, it’s important to keep in mind that what a work is, and its intended goals, are always divergent: the work is always more than its intentions, or its interpretations. In this case, her stated purposes, however elegantly argued, can never be more than another one of an infinite number of possible interpretations, in this case, these stated goals are stripped of aesthetic insulation (not parody), and meant to participate in the ‘real world.’ There seems to be a not entirely explicit argument that the harm this work might cause is more than counter balanced by the unacknowledged (if not invisible) mastery it exposes… that is, exposes if you substitute her argument for the thing itself.
Many years ago (1971) there was a performance artist, Chris Burden who had a friend shoot him with a 22 rifle, I believe in the hand. His explanation was that shooting someone was ‘as American as apple pie.’
My reaction at the time was to ask how this would have been different had the friend been directed to shoot him in the heart, or had he himself gone out on the street, declaring this to be a performance, the central goal of which, was to erase the distinction between the aesthetic intention and its real world consequences. It seems clear to me, that in erasing the lines between the aesthetic and the real, subsuming the later in the former, we have annihilated human meaning on both levels, pretending to a god-like stance, as something akin to a pure act of nature, like an earthquake or lightning strike. In the face of this, those powerful lawyerly arguments sound to me as nothing more than defense of exactly this, on the grounds that, because the social conditions being appropriated are themselves presented to us as meta-human realities, it is justified to imitate them, even to creating the same kind of harm. Or maybe there is no implied justification, but rather, an assertion of art as pure nihilism.
I read her explanation. I am not convinced.

The Making of Ari Figue’s Cat

I got a notice from Tumblr, congratulating me on Barking Dog Annex being 4 years old. I’d forgotten it, after writing one entry. I’d given up on a novel I’d been working on for the last 8 years–working title, Found Things. It was finding a folder with my last effort to save it, that got me started reworking it from a whole different angle–thinking of it almost as poetry. I finished it in a few weeks… with a new name, putting it away as Ari Figue’s Cat as I set out to join Occupy Philadelphia on Dilworth Plaza.

This is what I found on Tumblr: 2011

Found Things
I spent the morning going over the growing collection of papers, files, notebooks, journal entries—all related this Poem to the End of My Days—thinking how I might organize them for search & retrieval. I found an empty box for hanging folders, but no folders not in use. The things are damnably expensive. Kind of thing I hate to spend money on. What about this novel-in-progress… this 8 year project, which, inspecting my garden earlier, it came to me that I would never finish, that it no longer represented anything I wanted to do? I have boxes of drafts… dozens of Pendleflex forders going to waste. I don’t throw this stuff out… one never knows when something will pop into mind—like a burst bubble…an aneurism of memory, & some passage or chapter written years ago will seem exactly what I need.

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I can stack the file folders of draft chapters in a box, store them in the closet, free the hanging folders & use them to organize the collection of papers & notes multiplying like kudzu. & what do I find in the first folder I open, but something I’d started working on a year ago, April…”Found Things Versed” (“Found Things” being the working title of this novel). I’d had in mind rewriting the whole thing as poetry. There were trial efforts at paragraphs of prose poems interspersed with open & broken line verse, journal entries… the prototype for Poem to the End of my Days… & I’d totally forgotten it. Or rather, put it out of reach of conscious thought, but not at all out of mind. This kind of thing happens so often that it no longer surprises me—but never ceases to wonder & amaze me… at how the mind works. It took me … 9 months… yeah, think of that. Nine months. Before I took this idea up in a more suitable form. No wonder those first 100 pages came so quickly… like pulling them out of storage.

Found Things possess a strangeness that will not easily surrender to the death of ownership. Let go. Let go of owning & more & more of the world will give itself to being found… & what you find, in not being owned, will be more truly yours than any Thing you will ever call ‘mine.’
May 9, from Jacob Russell’s Barking Dog

The Artist’s Eye: Photographs to Inspire

I need a camera so I can take pics of broken concrete, worn street pavement–for the series I’m working on. Theyre not representational, but improvizations of the patterns and tonal variations I see. I have a few pen and inks here on my blog, but no paintings yet (again, no camera). I do three sets: a pen & ink (and maybe watercolor), a woodcut, and an acrylic painting/mixed media. This photo of rocks is the kind of thing that captures my attention and makes me want to linger and explore with my eyes–which is what I hope viewers of my art will want to do with the pieces I make.

debiriley's avatardebi riley

My artist’s eye is quick to see what my friends and family often miss. I imagine you can relate! The artist’s eye never slumbers, never pauses.  Throughout the day, all day long … its constantly searching….  for textures, colours, shapes, lines, patterns and tones.

beach rock photo Esperance, WA debiriley.com Beach Rock Textures, Esperance W.A. debiriley.com

Maybe that explains why some are just a wee bit tired at the day’s end,  we’ve been very busy. Doing double duty!

Texture in Nature Photographs

I love the way the rocks and escarpments create textured craggy faces against the sky, and  how different trees have such unique textures to their bark.  Angophora with their cobalt violet skin and dimples, cedar with their maroon and burgundy scales, scribbly gums with the graffiti written all over their trunks.  My friends and family generally, don’t really notice such things. But I’m always looking for “Painting”  subjects and ideas!

I admit, I can…

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Write a Novel Not for Humans

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What if I want to make art, but not for humans? What would a novel look like? And do I need to have in mind a particular sort of non-human? Cats? Stones? I think I like stones better. Not as companions, but to make art for. A novel for stones.

First off, it wouldn’t have words. That would save the blank first page anxiety. Probably wouldn’t have pages, although it might. Rocks do tend to layer up. You see? Not such a strange idea—when you stop to think about it; I mean, rocks have written the history of our planet, right there for us to read—and they didn’t have us in mind when they were writing it. That’s getting close to what I mean—not having in anything in mind. Except it not being for humans.

How tiresome. All this art and poetry for humans, like we’re the only things in the universe that matter. But maybe that’s what we are… we humans. A novel in progress. A work of art for everything and nothing not-us. A kind of dance, actually. Yes. More like a dance. Or improv theater—one-of-a-kind and never-again. If only we’d stop doing it as though it were only for us. If only we knew how.

Looking at it that way—in the larger picture, removes me from the question, takes it out of my hands. All well and good that this is a project for all human kind, but what about me? That’s where we all end up, isn’t it? What about me? Pretty much sums us up, don’t it? Humanity… one big multi-act circle jerk.

Doesn’t mean we don’t matter, that we’re not important. Every single one of us. Think of the millions and millions and millions of micro-organisms dependent on us. On our staying alive. When we go, they go. Some—someplace else, some, forever. Like us. Every man… and woman… every gendered or genderless human—is an island. A densely inhabited island of things that are not us.

Maybe I could write a novel for them?

Spring in the Cemetery

Marc Taro Holmes's avatarCitizen Sketcher

NotreDame_Cemetery_01

At the time of writing, it’s been a very dry spring. It’s looking more like second fall around here. The Noodler’s Red Black  and Rome Burning I’ve been using lately are really helping with that fall color feeling.

Here’s some sketches from the smaller of our neighborhood cemeteries: Notre-Dame-des-Neiges.

NotreDame_Cemetery_02

These are sketched in a Moleskine Folio Watercolor Album, (11.75 x 8.25″) – which is a beautiful book, with this very wide format. But it is frankly just a little bit too large for every day use. It takes up a lot of room in a bag, and I’d definitely consider a backing board and bulldog clips to hold it open when drawing.  It wants to flop around, fall off my knees, or otherwise behave badly. I’m starting to think that a book bigger than you can easily hold in one hand calls for an easel for sketching. But if I was going to do that I’d just paint…

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