The end of art is art as art

The beginning in art is not the beginning.
Creation in art is not creation.
Nature in art is not nature.
Art in nature is not nature.
The nature of art is not nature.
Art in life is not life.
Life in art is not life.

The picture of art is not a picture.
A work of art is not work.
Working in art is not working.
Work in art is work.
Not working in art is working.
Play in art is not play.
Business in art is business.
Art in business is business.
The business of art is not business.

The matter of art is not matter.
The subject of art is not the subject.
The object of art is not the object.
The manner of art is not the manner.

People in art are not people.
Dogs in art are dogs.
Grass in art is not grass.
A sky in art is a sky.
Things in art are not things.
Words in art are words.
Messages in art are not messages.

Explanation in art is no explanation.
Knowledge in art is not knowledge.
Learning in art is not learning.
Ignorance in art is ignorance.

Unlearning in art is learning.
Wisdom in art is not wisdom.
Foolishness in art is foolishness.

Order in art is not order.
Chaos in art is chaos.
Symmetry in art is not symmetry.
Asymmetry in art is asymmetry.

A square in art is not a square.
A circle in art is a circle.
A triangle in art is a triangle.
A trisection in art is not a trisection.

A color in art is not a color.
Blue in art is blue.
Red in art is red.
Yellow in art is yellow.
Dark gray in art is not dark gray.
Matte black in art is not matte black.
White in art is white.

The formlessness of art is not formlessness.
Imagelessness in art is imagelessness.
Non-imagelessness in art is non-imagelessness.

Limits in art are not limits.
No limits in art are limits.
Discipline in art is discipline.

Sameness in art is not sameness.
Variety in art is not variety.
Monotony in art is not monotony.
Balance in art is not balance.
Freedom in art is freedom.

Simplicity in art is not simplicity.
Less in art is not less.
More in art is not more.
Too little in art is not too little.
Too large in art is too large.
Too much in art is too much.
Junk in art is junk.

Informal art is informal.
Brute art is brute.
Tachist art is Tachist.
Action art is action.
Chance in art is not chance.

Accident in art is not accident.
Spontaneity in art is not spontaneity.
Heroism in art is not heroism.
Hankering in art is hankering.
Hungering in art is hungering.

The perfection of art is not perfection.
The purity of art is not purity.
The idealism of art is not idealism.
The realism of art is not realism.
The corruption of art is corruption.

Paint in art is not paint.
Brushwork in art is brushwork.
Sand, string, plaster in art is sand, string, plaster.
Sculpture in art is sculpture.
Architecture in art is not architecture.
Literature in art is literature.
Poetry in art is poetry.
Music in art is not music.
Poetry in art is not poetry.
Sublimity in art is not sublimity.
Rusticity in art is rusticity.

A sign in art is a sign.
A symbol in art is a symbol.

The symbol of art is not a symbol.

The sign of art is not a sign.

The image of art is not an image.

Vision in art is not vision.
The visible in art is visible.
The invisible in art is invisible.
The visibility of art is visible.

The invisibility of art is visible.
The mystery of art is not a mystery.
The unfathomable in art is not unfathomable.
The unknown in art is not the unknown.
The beyond in art is not beyond.
The immediate in art is not the immediate.

The psychology of art is not psychology.
The philosophy of art is not philosophy.
The history of art is not history.
Art in history is not history.
The meaning of art is not meaning.

The morality of art is not morality.
The religion of art is not religion.
The spirituality of art is not spirituality.
Humanism in art is not humanism.
Dehumanism in art is not dehumanism.
Bumpkin-Dionysianism in art is Bumpkin-Dionysianism.
The iconoclasm of art is iconoclasm.

Darkness in art is not darkness.
Light in art is not light.
Space in art is space.
Time in art is not time.
Evolution in art is not evolution.
Progress in art is not progress.

The beginning of art is not the beginning.
The finishing of art is not the finishing.
The furnishing of art is furnishing.
The nothingness of art is not nothingness.
Negation in art is not negation.
The absolute in art is absolute.

Art in art is art.
The end of art is art as art.
The end of art is not the end.

May 6th New York hour

I’ve been back in the city for less than a week, and the weather’s been swampy with memory. Rain thickens the air like grief, humid and unspecific. Everything feels damp—concrete, clothes, thoughts, sex. The sky’s been leaking since I landed, as if New York itself has something it can’t say directly. In the gauze of springtime I’m reminded how much can happen in a week—no matter the coast. Time swells here. Something close to seven days is enough to ruin or rebuild a life. 

In the past year I have felt little control over the way things happen to me. Luck is what luck does. I originally went to Los Angeles for much needed reprieve. And now Leaving Los Angeles wrecked me more than I let on. I went there seeking balm—a soft fog to muffle the psychic clang of New York. The social walls here had begun to close in, thick with the breath of everyone who thought they knew what had happened to me. What should count as pain, I could hear them thinking while looking at me. Everyone knew about what ex did to me, strangers formed their own opinions on my pain or what should constitute my pain. My heart was broken, the scar on my forehead still pink. I needed Los Angeles to feel like a warm bath. I needed it to be calm womb to climb into, unriddled with hard questions. It was a little bit of that until I started to love it. I was not prepared to love again. I was unarmed for the West Coast’s grinning optimism, slouched beside its mid-century ruins. The desert scares. The valley scares me. People who smile without showing their teeth scare me. That was a kind of darkness you could lean against. That was a darkness you could fold yourself in and hide. Something about my time in LA felt like cultural differance dressed in the drag of reverence. I’ll write more about what I mean once I’ve settled into some distance. Vivian Gornick writes that one can only start to write about their own life once they've stepped away from it for a bit of time. 

I'm ripping a page off of Mason's inspired diary entries. The way he remembers his days are so crystalline. I forget that I can have it, too. I need to figure out what the oldest part of my eye is and how to access it. The one that still knows how to witness without wanting. Contemplation means having to enter the temple that is your minds eye. I met Mason far too late in my Los Angeles residency. I wonder of the kind of intimacies we could have afforded each other had the clock been in our favor. I wonder about a lot of the choices I make. That's why I've decided to unearth this old pandemic blog, where my thoughts can land on my screen's lifeline. 

My Move wouldn't have been My Move without a snag. Alaska Airlines lost my hot pink 85 pound bag that was missing two wheels. In it I had over 15 years worth of clothes, shoes, mementos from Limo and Max, japanese garbage I deemed precious. Today I finally received a phone call from LAX stating that my hot pink 85 pound bag is in a holding cell in Newark. My whole life in a fluorescent purgatory off the New Jersey Turnpike.

Meanwhile, the ants in this Bushwick apartment are savage and philosophical. One crawled across my face last night while I was ignoring incoming text messages. I wonder if any of them have made my ear canal a comfortable home. 

Do we all need the company of hard property to feel the unknown facets of ourselves? 

I love you May 6th New York hour 

who let you call all the shots?

healing is a pervasive force.

if we are going there, then can we at least take the scenic route, I would prefer it.

        it is the light in things that makes them last. 

same light that is tearing up the sky is coming for us.

i'll take pictures as if I can easily forget what I've seen.

made from the pressure of dirt, i'm a gem.

i saw my little sister in the city and i felt like the little sister (i always have)

in two different occasions she said to me "some things never change" while grinning,

smiling, i remember when i used to make fun of her crooked teeth.

now they are pristine and straight. it's funny the things we remember. 

there are no new ways of understanding the world

only new days to set our understanding against.

apperception

the mantel changes into a cut, jump

on the brow where hair and time

have formed a new skin, the bird

changes into a pane of glass,

a new object to be desired changes into the bird

once again. things


seem to be improving: the flightless


curiosity of ground ridden birds

are few, the sky formerly resting,

now becomes the landscape seen through panes of glass.


words can't be paragraphs but the movement of sentences do tell us otherwise:


to call something magic is unfair. places where my eyes were.

we ought not to be watched over so closely. we need the freedom


of monotony. only then

can monotony magically happen.

 An Excursion 

A flash of anger floods after the door slams, body posture like pulling teeth on the drive, silence draping the last words said fill the car, equally talkative double rail bridge across the way, an attempt of peace making babytalk through comedic relief during the walk on the path, skipping stones pries justification, refusal by the bend on the rocks, guilt and I almost fell in the water, cry of anger in the clearing, a weeping next to a nameless flowering shrub.

 Alan Davies 

 

S. Howe says that poetry is redemption from pessimism. 

i felt perma stoned all day yesterday and i suspect it's the allergies given that i slept 9 hours the night before.

Last night I had a dream that myene and I were sharing a huge room, there was a sliding wooden door in between us. a buffer if you will. we were both in our respective beds when I swung it open (the wooden door). my cat, basket ventured on her side of the room. 

Every 8 months or so I have a dream where myene makes a guest appearance. I wonder what my analyst will make of this dream. 

Maybe I dreamt of her last night because Katie annoyed me yesterday. She demands a lot of attention and gets prideful when she doesn't get it. I hope she didn't take me sending her that agnes martin essay on pride and failure the wrong way...

When we wake up in the morning we are inspired to do some certain thing and we do do it. The difficulty lies in the fact that it may turn out well or it may not turn out well. If it turns out well we have a tendency to think that we have successfully followed our inspiration and if it does not turn out well we have a tendency to think that we have lost our inspiration. But that is not true. There is successful work and work that fails but all of it is inspired

"The function of art work is the stimulation of sensibilities, the renewal of memories of moments of perfection."

During my walk home I called Brian and for the 4th time I told him I can't see him. I've been consistently flaking on our plans and he doesn't deserve it but I don't deserve this pressure either. He let slip: "I fell in love with you so fast." 

That pissesd me off...the comment felt manipulative and I ignored him via text.

I'm going to manifest a dream instead. 

polymathic foray into the elemental connectedness of all things

 “Books are weird. You just sit on the couch in your apartment and feel things - these unreasonably deep, cavernous things - and then you look up and it’s the same stupid world. Nothing’s changed, not even you.”

http://www.artandpopularculture.com/Celestial_Emporium_of_Benevolent_Knowledge

borges the analytical language of john wilkins pdf

 our solipsistic cultural cohort

there’s an angel at my table

systemic system synergy 

i have not stopped searching for paradise 

on the cartons of Oatly ads 

a more intrepid talker would have shouted ideas

dimwitted, the ones who insists on cures through notes

all the own’s body mind is time 

the documentary dormitory

how complicated the simple life can be

conceived of each other, conceived each other in a darkness

which I remember was drenched in light

actions of others didn’t define you

people will ultimately do what they are going to do 

it is the body’s self-lessness which is its ardor 

delusion needs a home too–

it matters what we call things

A big error comes when you believe that a form, name or position in which the subject is viewed is the only way that the subject can be viewed

https://www.asu.edu/pipercwcenter/how2journal/archive/online_archive/v1_1_1999/fhbewild.html

conceived of each other, conceived each other in a darkness

which I remember was drenched in light