Here we are, now, entertain us.
In a comment to my last post, Matka wrote: Please, add a new piece soon! My internet explorer opens with your page and this work makes me seek [sick?] for a couple of hours.

Independent on whether this particular request should be executed or not, a serious issue creeps up behind: can we speak of a more or less bloggable material? Should we?
At first, there seems to be no doubt: a blog is personal by definition, right? The author decides what to put on it, and that’s it?
Not quite.
1) Any reader of art blogs will notice blogs have formulas and tend to stick to them (this is not just the case of art blogs, obviously). So there is a topic, an approach, a way of writing and really, a “strategy”. This can be a personal strategy, but it remains one.
2) In the case of art blogs, strong images work. That is, if you’re looking for an audience, don’t spend so much time writing: find attractive images. They can be shocking, but they have to be instantly rewarding for the spectator. And that’s disgusting, dear Matka.
There’s the rub: A blog is like a light version of a magazine. You drop by, take a glance, and in case of picture-filled blogs, if the image is not appealing, you move along. I see it in the stats, I know it (mea culpa) from autopsy. An art blog is, to a great extent, a mini-gallery. To a neophyte observer it might seem like people only take a glance and then leave. But after all, isn’t it about those few that stay a while and dwelve deeper?

It’s nice to be visited. And appreciated. And the more popular you are, the more, humm, popular you are.
The point is, it influences the choices you make. And all of a sudden, you know what sort of images work on the blog. And those are the ones you choose. Fast art consumption. It’s nice, it’s clean, we get it. Good, effective art.
Then the next step might be thinking about not offending Matka’s tastes. And that’s scary if you write a blog, (a personal page). But then, even if you don’t go that far, the blog, the site, gains a life of its own. And thenyou start listening in on what it wants.

Come to think of it, it’s not necessarily horrible. After all, it’s also the wonderful feeling of an object coming to life, gaining an identity. Indeed, in the case of this blog this life has been continuing even during my absences. And that’s a beautiful sight.
Yet it is still mine. Heheh…
And hopefuly, the lapse in Matka’s text did make sense: beyond making her sick, the image also makes her seek for a couple of hours.
And in case it doesn’t, here are a couple of replacement images. If anyone here can handle Japanese, please go here or here and let me know who is the artist, and what is going on, these sites seem creepy as hell…

O, that this too too solid flesh would melt
Thaw and resolve itself into a dew!

Not fit. (As if fit actually still meant fit for something). Too much body in the body. Too much flesh in the flesh. Too little shape. Too little containment. The form is amorphic. It isn’t even interesting in its lack of shape.
Someone once told me he kept surprizing himself by how profoundly average he was.
What argument against it? Self-awareness? That’s pitiful. I say, tie him up with a thin red line. Make him dance like a ham. Make him squeek, make him laugh. Now, cut the line.
And see how the marks fade away.
Ever so slowly.

The charming picture is by Alison Brady.

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I must admit I had no idea Polish design (well, design-related sculpture would be the more correct term I suppose) can be anything like this.
While I’m at it, I must also admit that the moment of becoming a little less ignorant, this moment of moving from a state of nothingness to the sudden illumination by something of this caliber is something delightful.

Last Supper (2003)

Porcelain Carpet (2002)

from the Hygiene series (1995)

from the Hygiene series (1995)

from the Eroticism series (2005)

from the Scatology series (1993)

It does not necessarily make sense. It does not necessarily say something, as in, a thing, as in, a message. It prefers to wink at us, like someone sitting in a waiting room winks at us, right after we finally managed to get our eyes of a gorgeous neighbor. Is that the “I know how you feel” wink? Or is it showing you he knows something both of you know he shouldn’t and yet both of you know he certainly does? Is this something you share? A common interest? A common feeling of guilt? A feeling of risk, maybe? This winking, the one I feel when seeing Cecu?a’s works (not touching them, unfortunately, although that seems a perverse desire), is one of recognition, but also one of daring sensitivity, if not always sensuality. Touching is key? No, come to think of it, the not-touching, here, is what drives the senses right to the matter.
More on Marek Cecu?a at his site.

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…there is enough machine within our eyes
to fill a thousand junkyards full
to make the stone break into plastic clouds
of colored dust
and happy play

…there are enough straight lines that bound a shape
to make us speak right to the point
to get us thinking we are right or wrong
beneath the clouds

See more of Jan Vormann’s Dispatchwork here.

At times it seems the smaller the intervention, the better.
No, I do not mean to follow a minimalistic path, at least not now.
Minimalism, to me, has a lot to do with purity, that is, starting from a point of nothingness and adding just the right touch.
What I’m thinking is more along the lines of accepting the impurity – starting from a point of overwhelming reality and accepting it. Then, the right touch is really just a point of focus, a frame. Was it Oiticica who walked around with his admirers and made art by simply pointing at objects, thus giving them their artness? Still, even this gesture seems like too aggressive, too intrusive. Is it the art-element that makes all tools (all ways of dealing with what appears to us) seem bulky and outdated? Or is it the over-confidence we have when pointing? Isn’t this the pleasure of all the YouTubes and darling amateurs? The certainty of some basic form of humbleness?

At times it seems the smaller the intervention, the better.
Yet, I often wonder where does this leave me as an artist. Once I admit a view of some apparently insignificant piece of reality can be a more enriching experience than any work of art, how can I claim anything about my own work, other than the “need” to do it? Doesn’t that reveal the horribly narcissistic character of art? But what if I do not want that? If I actually wish to be in harmony with my own tastes? Where does that leave me?
All the above pictures are by Will Simpson at Loshadka, and are part of the You Are Healed series.

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