Wednesday 19 January 2011
Time Theft Agent 2162 ( excerpt of unfinished novel published as part of expanded work at BCN Producció/10
Perhaps my life is nothing but an image of this kind; perhaps I am doomed to retrace my steps under the illusion that I am exploring, doomed to try and learn what I should simply recognize, learning a mere fraction of what I have forgotten.
Here starts my journal , that text that is printed as a memory of a journey ,
a journey to a territoire which I discovered and that travels with me for ever.
El Barrio Chino , in Barcelona is a place where my heart lives , my whole
body is el Xino.
The place where I went so low and where I found my redemption.
The place where I betray and was betrayed, where I found the ghosts
who talked to me and trough out me.....
What time is now?
I don't know, it feels like there is no more time out there, now or yesterday
are melting with each other.
Long ago predates today and never wake up to a new morning but just
a looping old new day again.
The souls that posses me are taking me with them to precise stages and
situations they guide me and show me so that my eyes became yours
El barrio Xino is a whole world and even if the whole time pass by it
never a place had more of the same , repeating its geographic speciality
A labyrinth , a container of lives and experiences bordering the lowest,
the outcast , the free for all , the villains , the whores, the addicts ...
One day of spring 2182, I gravitated towards El Xino, and I will just drift
getting lost and found on its dark humid streets.
Old, very old buildings, intense smells of acid urine residuals ,putrified rubbish,
fried oil and some scent of flowers that I could not really place or see but where
floating like next to the sea salt humid air beaten up by the flying doves.
Monday 17 January 2011
subject matters
Overview
The Young-Girl is not always young; more and more frequently, she is not even female. She is the figure of total integration in a disintegrating social totality. --from Theory of the Young-Girl
First published in France in 1999, Preliminary Materials for a Theory of the Young-Girl dissects the impossibility of love under Empire. The Young-Girl is consumer society’s total product and model citizen: whatever “type” of Young-Girl she may embody, whether by whim or concerted performance, she can only seduce by consuming. Filled with the language of French women’s magazines, rooted in Proust’s figure of Albertine and the amusing misery of (teenage) romance in Witold Gombrowicz’s Ferdydurke, and informed by Pierre Klossowski’s notion of “living currency” and libidinal economy, Preliminary Materials for a Theory of the Young-Girl diagnoses—and makes visible—a phenomenon that is so ubiquitous as to have become transparent.
In the years since the book’s first publication in French, the worlds of fashion, shopping, seduction plans, makeover projects, and eating disorders have moved beyond the comparatively tame domain of paper magazines into the perpetual accessibility of Internet culture. Here the Young-Girl can seek her own reflection in corporate universals and social media exchanges of “personalities” within the impersonal realm of the marketplace. Tracing consumer society’s colonization of youth and sexuality through the Young-Girl’s “freedom” (in magazine terms) to do whatever she wants with her body, Tiqqun exposes the rapaciously competitive and psychically ruinous landscape of modern love.
Collage 2000
Water Colour and Ball Point pen 2000
Poster Photo 2004
Performing as the subject matter always becoming a subject apart
from reality.
As a performer or actor and as an open question to where and what
frame is or can be found.
Saturday 15 January 2011
THE LURE OF THE LURE ..... ( another way of doing war ????)
The attraction to Underground aesthetics as a starting point
for the discovery of Dandies, Dilettanti and Eccentrics .
And how I choose what better suited my natural disposition
since I was ten years old.
Eccentricity is often associated with genius, giftedness,
or creativity. The individual's eccentric behavior is
perceived to be the outward expression of his or her
unique intelligence or creative impulse.In this vein,
the eccentric's habits are incomprehensible not because
they are illogical or the result of madness, but because
they stem from a mind so original that it cannot be
conformed to societal norms.
Edith Sitwell wrote:
"Eccentricity is not, as some would believe,
a form of madness. It is often a kind of innocent
pride, and the man of genius and the aristocrat
are frequently regarded as eccentrics because
genius and aristocrat are entirely unafraid of
and uninfluenced by the opinions and vagaries
of the crowd."
The things one can do when is young come from an instinct
from a sort of intuition.
We get pulled by forces that demand from us to choose one
thing against another.
Later, we can see more clearly and look at our choices
from a perspective, at this point we can regret what we
did or we can actually realize that what had been a pure
impulse seemingly irrational was actually a given
knowledge and that we where still feeling and thinking
on the same line, in a kind of natural coherence.
Then, is when reinforced by certainty we concentrate
over what we now know more than ever.
Analyst can call this self boycott , because what is called
and defined as Underground and its similar Dilettante ,
appears to go against the grain and elude mainstream
success .But what can you do if you loath what you see
and the wider majority likes and supports?
The Barcelona I grow up on was just boring , claustrophobic,
conservative, repressive and mediocre .
I could just say this was a normal age gap and the
antagonistic values of its natural generational difference.
But it wasn't . At the age of ten I used to go to the garage
of a neighbour that had lots of records, he was fifteen,
I would sneak between him and his friends during the
summer and just have fun listening to music and dancing .
He brought The Rolling Stones , David Bowie, Marc Bolan's
T Rex and the Motown sounds in to my young life..
And that same year I had my first singles and with them my
first wet dreams dedicated to Brian Jones and Marc Bolan
specially.
For some reason, call this fate, there was no one of my age
that I could share this with, and the young like me , let's say
that of my generation, where just entertaining a very different
sort of tastes and life style. Surprisingly, they where not
rebelling against anything , they where just good Spanish
catholic ultra-conservative boys and girls.
Why, then, I was attracted to this rock and roll icons with
make up and dandy looks? Why I found so special a look
of androginy and feminine boys?
What really means to have adopted the icons of an older
generation and of a very small portion of them, any way,
from five to ten years my seniors ?
My neighborhood in Barcelona was a bourgeois place, with
bourgeois shops and cafes, but suddenly some one opened
this fashion shop...It was very close to my house, and to go
there you had to go down a spiral stair leading to a huge
basement .
And there... all this boys ( still the same age gap older
than me) where looking like Bowie's, Brian's , Richards and
Bolan' s.
I was called, lured, hypnotized and I was just twelve .
With out any knowledge about what this was... apart of the simple
its from the foreign world .. its London.. and its wild ..
Only now looking backwards I can see why, and I can see that all
this had to do with my personality and my identity and what its
more amazing with my whole work's narrative and life style.
Which means how influential all this elder bad boys from
Barcelona had been for me and how , when I made their Icons
my Icons I started to discover an amazing amount of people that
still now have my respect and are a source for my inspiration.
Excluding all the people who died of an OD.. later and sadly,
most of this people from Barcelona changed over time and went
right back to their bourgeois lives and got jobs and created families.
For them just had been a fashion an aesthetic minor rebellion a
matter of age and youth.
But for me this had just been the surface of a deeper issue :
sexual freedom, bohemia, marxism, difference in many ways, that
transcended in to the discovery of much wilder and deeper subjects.
A very special kind of : Writers, Philosophers, Artist, Musicians and
Politics.
PLUS:
You're never too young to be exploited
Jon Savage's social history of youth and youth culture, Teenage, touches all bases, from Sinatra fans to Anne Frank, says Andrew Anthony
Monday 3 January 2011
OBEDIENCE TO THE LAW IS FREEDOM
A series of posters from 2004
For a wile i proposed in my work the notion of subject versus object
submission and power, and this of course take the form of feminine
caracters , as erotic actress and models.
Performative writing
From Wikipedia, the free encyclopedia
Jump to: navigation, search
This article has been nominated to be checked for its neutrality. Discussion of this nomination can be found on the talk page. (November 2009) |
It is often practiced by feminist writers. The most notable current writer in performative writing is the feminist theatre theorist Peggy Phelan. She describes the form as one which....
- "enacts the death of the 'we' that we think we are before we begin to write. A statement of allegiance to the radicality of unknowing who we are becoming, this writing pushes against the ideology of knowledge as a progressive movement forever approaching a completed end-point." (Mourning Sex, 1997)
Critics of performative writing have described it, in practice, as: self-indulgent; insular; politically neutred due to its tiny elite audience and its neo-romantic individualism; obscurantist; often bearing only a loose relationship to the works of art it claims to be about; and dependent on the funding (of universities and public arts funding) of the very state that it claims to be against. Also that, when taught, it often paradoxically expects students to reveal personal truths and use experimental forms within a strict classroom regimen of grades, lesson attendance and exams. It can generally be seen to follow the pattern of much modernist writing, in that it seeks to create complex new literary approaches in order to seal off 'high art culture' from the attention of ordinary people and from a mass culture.[citation needed]
The term performative writing should not be confused with "writing that is performed", i.e.: plays, radio or poetry readings.[citation needed]
Performative writing is sometimes referred to by the alternative name of 'creative critical writing' - which is not to be confused with straightforward creative writing.[citation needed]
[edit] Further reading
- Lynn Miller & Pelias Ronald (Eds.) The Green Window: Proceedings of the Giant City Conference on Performative Writing (Southern Illinois Press; 2001).
- Jeffrey Williams. "The New Belletrism". Style; Fall 1999. (Full text link)
[edit] External links
- artist in performative writing the media artist inspects the notion of "performativity into writing" and the idea of "text theatricality" in her MFA.
[edit] See also
Retrieved from "http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Performative_writing"
Hidden categories: NPOV disputes from November 2009 | All articles with unsourced statements | Articles with unsourced statements from January 2011
Iammedicated…Ihavemultiplepersonalitydisorder…Iamalienatedwhocares...?
I am a Zombie, a Ghost. (NOT A GOTH, PLEASE. THANKS...)
ANARCHY AND NONSENSE IS THE MENTAL SPACE WHERE I HAVE GROWN AFTER DRIFTING AROUND WITHOUT DIRECTION, WITHOUT 'SCHOOL-TRAINING'. I AM AN ESCAPEE, A FUGITIVE NURTURING ELECTIVE AFFINITIES WITH THE DILETTANTE.
Dyslexia, treatment and claustrophobia.
In my long lost trip I discovered a CONTEXT:
INDIE, DIY and FUCK YOU ALL -
IN WHICH I NOW OPERATE, HAPPY TO BE A THIEF AND A CRIMINAL.
NOTHING IS NEW,
NOTHING IS EXCITING.
ALL, ALL IS NORMAL,
ALL, ALL IS MODERN
SINCE THE BORROW-K.
I realize I am quite embarrassed to have to say I am an artist.
I COULD SAY INSTEAD I AM A PUTAIN!
BUT, BUT
MOST OF ALL....
A BURGLAR.
Which gives me pleasure: I am a junky of spleen.
HERE IS SOME ENTERTAINMENT, OR AT LEAST A FAKE ATTEMPT AT IT.
Please cross with an 'X' what you prefer to think about me:
a) Artist who plays in bands (or in groups that function like a band).
b) Artist with a band posing as an art project.
c) Musician/performer making installations.
d) Artist that works with pop music codes and mass memory.
e) Artist who uses exhibitions simply as a way of promoting the fact that she is an artist and she could get acknowledged for it and get more shows. (A real paradox.)
f) Artist who is not an artist.
g) Artist who is separated from the essence of the difference between you and her... or them and her....
TIPS FOR COMPLETING THE ABOVE:
In November 2000, Esther Planas had a review about her piece in a group show called THE REDROOM. AT FIVE YEARS, LONDON.
IT SAID:
In February 2004, in an Art Forum article titled 'FROM NOISE TO BEUYS (ON ART AND POP MUSIC), Bennett Simpson writes:
"DO YOU WANT NEW WAVE OR DO YOU WANT THE TRUTH?” asked the punk band MInutemen in ‘84 - AND THE VERDICT IS STILL OUT, ESPECIALLY IN ART. The prominence of pop music in recent art, from rock and punk to noise, techno, and hip hop, is one of the most ambiguous developments of the past five years."
THE ARTICLE CONTINUES.….. (if interested! Google is always there to help.)
I have worked with the formats of music, band and art (whatever is supposed to be the difference) since 1995 in Barcelona. Where the ghosts of murdered Anarchists and murdered Priests still haunt us. The spirit of nonsense CONTINUES.
NO MORE DATA NO MORE DATA
DOT DOT DOT
DOT DOT
DOT
DOT
Kill me tender, kill me true.....
dead day, death, death,
and all the masks and skeletons are commodities for distraction from
the real thing.
The real death.
The real skull.
The worms and the earth humid and dark, the tomb, the eternal sleep,
Yes,
I feel is so near.
All that I lost already, all that is dead already,
all gone forever.
Oh!
To be or not to be,
again and again,
for you and for me.
Us
and the rest, Let’s die
Tonight.
For them to go and walk with them holding hands in the light from the unknown.
Whispers - paradise lost, come, come, come.
Please not,
please don't leave me now.....
It’s always this time when I open my box, magic Pandora
and I confess
to all, to you,
I am scared.
I am terrified.
I want to sleep forever,
and, yes, forget.
If I could forget always before I really did I will do.
So many times for me ...
it will be
the next thing... why not? It is comical!
Thank you comedians,
now I need you all,
I need you badly.
I am just about to fuck them all off.
Smack heads is mad - is mad??
I don't think so, he knows he has seen it all.... and he has been
touched by medusa head...
Oh oh!
Boy, smack head I love you in your talk - talk, writing spell - in - ing....
scorpio rising - ing
Groups... and outcasts...
I am a scar…
Chorus:
Oh oh!
She is sad and love blinds her!
Oh oh!
Ay, ay, ay…
She is getting too warm!
She wanders in her mind and dreams too much!
Pain is what will come!
Ay ay ay ay!
The moon was full,
the moon is tempting them.
Ay AY!
She is fallen…
falling ...
Oh, goddess!
Protect her from the hell
of loneliness and melancholy,
protect her from the void she is getting into.
Ay AY!
He does not care,
he does not love!
He has got someone else and is far,
He is far in his heart!
And she, she ...
is blind,
is blind.
Goddess, save her save her…
She is, yes, confused, and sad... deeply sad...
but so what!
is it that important? …
No, nothing matters now…
In that unique night
possessed tears will flow.
Now that time has gone
forever
last week
is like last year:
here is last year, last year is here.
Can someone relate to an un-existing being?
Yes, so it seems…
Yes, because he is real,
he is too real and I know…
now
I know.
Oh! My Pandora box…
What do you keep here that can come and petrify me
when I awake from the dream I am in.
Pandora is full, and is closed.
Pandora opens and disaster is spread all over...
Chorus:
Tragedy,
Tragedy.
Fate.
Oh, oh!
Poor lady!
She is lost and is dark.
The snake is waiting,
the snake!
Oh!
Oh!
Esther,
don't go there,
don't go there!
But I will go and I am there and, there, there is nothing but darkness and nonsense and self -deception and false hopes fed by the needs of child-love, heart broken, and all the same eternal same that never cures…
Chorus:
Oh oh!
She is not listening she is falling!
Disgrace!
Death!
Hate!
Please!
Please keep away!
Oh!
Tears and tears,
Oh!
Pain, pain deep as a knife-cut,
bleed and bleed.
There will be no
sweet kisses for you,
just the void,
the dark void.
Oh, oh, oh!
Poor her…
And now after all I have to stand up and walk and my stomach contorts with pain and nothing will save me from myself…
13… What a day!
Half moon just passed a hint out of shape, …
but two days ago,
it was as if I was cut by a knife, ...
Cut, cut, cut me ... and nobody understands why
and we get cut because what hurts us - listen to that - is nothing,
nothing compared with that pain,
that pain is like the chilli in the eye of the elephant, it is, yes, harsh, but only for a second... So this is actually to say, all of you, that no cut is ever worse than
my inside wound... and the ones of my brothers, ...
that need to bleed,
because they give a fuck about you too.
13 is the one.
I was born on a 13th so the damned day …the day, my day,
and now it’s too late.
No! Never was late at all!
Never, so time is on my side...fallen angel, fallen wings, fallen, fallen, fallen,
falling again and again.
And the sinner flows and falls, circles like smoke down and down and
down and more down forever
in this eternal hole like a heart that never ends, always alive....
The fallen angel fell because he loved; he loved it, and loved him,
and loved him, and love is a drug.
Love is sacred, love is a quest, an affliction,
and is dark dry desert.
It was a light and has gone...
To go dark is what makes me bleed, to see a light but it is dark, dark,
dark, so dark, so dark, dark.
13
kisses
13
millions of kisses
13
times a thousand and one nights......
13
full moons
13
half-moons
13
13
13
third and teen…
13
the end.
Oh!
Did you know ... that I have not forgotten at all about the fact…? A dream?
About dying?
Yes, yes I want to.
I can't, I can't, And …
I am waiting, for ... like Santa Teresa de la Cruz … I live without living
and I die because I can't die...
and I want to die because I can't live,
live like this, trapped like this.
Please you help me …
Please
help me,
help me.
Today I had this dream. I was trying to save some animals… from some idiots that were messing up with their poor little bodies…
Anyway … I am in the seaside land where all is so like nice when just for a while,
like the rest of all this life which gets us tired ASAP ...of anything, so I get like bored at any moment.
Yes, but boredom mixed with la dolce vita is like my thing...so fucked-up I don’t have to move a finger... After the swimming and the seawater pool I had massive Absolut vodka doses provided by the super-fun gay club waiter....
Lots of clear pure Absolut at the Sunset Fitzgerald … wet hair, fresh sea, silver, ...
and sailboats floating by and all the boys playing ball games in the golden sand...
So, so, so aromatic
salt sea, lemon vodka … Yes!
Ballard knows what I am talking about, and you???
Man Ray was sweet no?
How to be like him after what he witnessed, he misses something as already a very important philosopher from ages ago knew all, and prevented us from seeing … Did he know about Vasari, artists’ lives?
Did he know about the poisonings and other crimes?
Weird…
Maybe he missed the treasures of history of the amazing Baroque... Gracian, and Vasari...
portrayed it all...
X-ray all. Ray X Man.
Where is your brain?
It is a puzzle but...
Man Ray Statement,
SUBTITLE - THE PARADOX:
I did kill him and more than that I will kill ...... I WILL KILL YOU ALL!!! Signed:
An artist! We all know we are criminals!! Sacred criminals?? Oh Xraymanray......you were a double-agent? Ooh-la-la-la yes…
You always were my number one grrrl sistA!!
I’ve left a plane ticket for Doherty round at a friend’s house southside... Let’s hope he gets to LA b4 the end of the month – don't think I could stand a moment’s more of his cheekiness!!
Dear Pandora
Long time, been wandering around with a mate … a boy who does not know he is a genius…
He is very pissed at everything and at everybody...
He is a bit of a picaresque... from La Banda de Don Monipodio… He is Rinconete or Cortadillo.
Let’s see...
He is a hero ... the baby... Here is some essay I found about my beloved philosopher of all times
Baltasar Gracian…
I dedicate it to my mate Keeds and his rage…
Yes,
Pandora's box ...
Here I am opening myself to you again
No holy days, no, no, no. Some more deep anti-writing frozen, paralyzed there down there.
Meet a guy, MK, I knew him
and he is rare.
I like rare.
Rare.
He writes one way,
I see and get turned on.
I am not going to talk about the amounts of chemicals I had to be taking.
No, no, not data for that, not data for no love and data for deception
in my too romantic imagination. And inspiration. Seems
hearts round me are
DRY,
DRY,
DRY,
that is all.
So what to say here to give space here for dried hearts and
dis-inspiring fear or who knows what.
I am opening Pandora for you and for me
and I do not care what else -
winds and destinies,
travellings and flight plans and projects, dreams unaccomplished but
new unexpected creatures,
the creatures, the flowers from here there appearing.
CWE is the most, the MUST I must say… he was with me for ages before, before, and before and he sees me and
recognizes me without explanations and intros,
he just knows and I know too and he makes me happy and inspired...
he crushes silky flower vetivert profound from the wood and the
woods ... trees and herbs … and unguents for skin that feels life at
high
sense - austere tears and smile from heavens
take my hand and make me dance and lets pose against the anti-pose and
the crossed pose -
PETRUSHKA!
VOILA! Despair, the heights of it and all and no no no data please Pandora
do not open these wounds now,
please do not mention the unwanted opener of a dear door
please let me go
let me forget now
just erase
got my pills
that is what counts...
ghosts to not be dead
to not kill myself
for no data no data about for what or who.
More Pandora,
now art, art?
what the fuck is this?
brain shit from my nite mares...
dedicated to all anglosaxophones!
To relate to Dali, Picasso, Picabia, Buñuel, in that specific
time of the century, the anarquistme!!
Barcelona as a small reduct for nihilistinos no no....never that great but a
place mention as in perfumes publicity ... by for example PIC A BIA
magazines from Barcelona
Why you find flamenco puro music in Man Ray movies??
What was the scene – internationialenationale - chauvinisticalepop? Pop and Brit...britten shineofffuck,
Superioreaudecolognesocolonialdreams still are yours
pop
popprincesspoppers pop …
Why all the latinos have to hide? The latino has to erase the front
hairtoomuchritahayworrrrrwhat? cansino cansino.
Why Pablo was not called Ruiz wich was his first name? or Francis, Martinez? Oh! Martinez and Ruiz,
not to saycinemaman Jean,Joan ... Vigo, such of pioneer family Miguel Almereida was
from Catalonia ... escapees all from the time of escapefromdanger
but not yet the time for Spain (iards) … not the time for acknowledgement… to get out of… just let us be what we have been before you and you and all of you and you too. Talking about vaccines and all that we infected your brains
till the point that you dare to forget from where all is this coming... Nation, nation of refusseeeees ... the ones and the onlyseees …
so much more infiltrated that,
double-agents,
we will fuck up your brains still, forever. Tralatralala!!and tortilla de patatatapaptapa....we do not exist
even if we provided you with the most of … most … most of the real
avantgardessince the barrow que...
specimensl … Sort of even more monstrous
creation … thegeniusesthatyoulovearehotblooded l a t i n o s
why
hide we do not know but (now you hide!)
We suppose that it was embarrassing to be
relatedtopostwarfascisfassccioterritoiresoallwantedtodieandrenounce
betrayedthebloodandwereashamedoftheirfamilynames
and
snobtheminparisollalalaalwherealllsointegrated infrenchexotiquequixotiquepicassooooopicabiaaaaapica pica
PICA P I C A......iwillgetmy pica name...picanassss!!
Not bad. Picanasspicanansssss … can I come in now … now can you hear me
now? … Is my passcode working?
A bit later...
I landed … bit by bit ... now I am back ... in the grey
the cloudy ... romantic … sad...
hard … tearful … …
but before leaving my land … my terra ... of clear blue … had a night on
the club where old orquestras play tangos...
like in Paris ... old couples went there... but so long ago … the spirit ... maybe stayed there...
but lots of techno sweet ... covered the walls...
well that night there someone play … someone I was ready to see and
try and test myself for...
He is like a puck ... a fairy boy ... enveloped with music … magic … and
other sorts of fairies ... playing piano, trumpet, cello, violin,
drums (a pair) ... pedals of all sorts ... keyboards ... moog .... bass…
guitars... …
and a sound that came like in the jazz times ... like
organic … enthusiasm ... rapture … laboratoire...
noise … shake....melody ... order and chaos ... coming together like
driven by the demon ... puck ... the boy … the eyes under the black long hair...
Mild night caressed by only … like in here in Sant Gervasi... the air … always the same air ...and coming up Via Augusta .... then Aribau...
My heart trembling with fear of the unknown and the future as always,
since I was a little gir,l since I was my grandmother Maria
and my great-grandfather Antoni ... trembling hearts fear
and dark in the mild soft sensual night … in the pine tree scented air…
going up and up the hill ... back home…
any of the homes ... till the last one, the one that stills is now … at Rector Ubach...
the end house, the ghost house ... the sad house.
My heart trembling ... breathing the unknown future...
the time I wish had passed … why I am not dead like them?
I wish just to be a blurry photo … a soft far memory in my young
family, Tobias.
Tobias that already has had the taste of the park at the back of
the house and of the up-the-hill-and-down-the-hill
filled with joy
and curiosity for the huge future...
filled with wars and warriors and cars and races and sailing and
sea-salt ... and wind...
I have been singing in the street with casual gypsies … clear guitar and
sour voices, sweet love … and nostalgia...
Afterwards, coming back up the hill...
I was reminded I could escape again...
again…
‘scape ... free...
8 8
remember the key?
eight eight
you are a bad boy
and you like it and you know it
I saw that images from a time lost and more than gone…
as usual in to a black hole ... where we save our ghosts in a camera,
in a tape ... what a trick...
no more strange than the Egyptians painting in their tombs
all looking for eternity and repetition...
Anyway, I am not going to miss the unmissable … the regrettable...
I am looking at these moments ... 8 8 ... like seeing dead friends…
drown with the Titanic...
I cannot even allow myself to be romantic or emotional... I got left without the possible reason or sense for that...
liquid love
liquid time
diluted time ... spread in nonsense...
hours
H ... is for Hours ... the hours of sadness...
8 is for 8 days months years
Virginia will have lots to write about that.
How H? How I fall...?
My feelings are unreal … are fantasies ... I can´t trust myself or them…
My feelings are mirages...
I never guess the real…
I always trompe l'oeil...
trompe l'coeur.
Make drawings of my tears,
paint my tears as Velazquez did the pearls and embroidery over the
dresses of the infantas...
as the nets of las hilanderas...
tears bathe me in oblivion...
I still want to die
today
to die
today
todie
how bizarre life is...
always hoping to die … and I missed for one day ... the
bomb ... imagine a blast!
weird...
Just next day after I passed by ... the same station that got the bomb...
Now I am here, landed in my place where myths are different… where Zeus, still, has been someone.
In the night, I was walking the eternal… architectural ... urban settings...
where I … being so many different personas ... beings ... the little girl
always still hides in the deep dark...
and the one who believes in princes still has time to miss ... to dream...
to walk like in a sad kind of in love way...
in love with my ghost ... a ghost boat … a promise of a paradise lost...
mixed feelings … feelings mixed with the immediate, the recent
memories and perfumes...
and, long time lost, someone that still revives as soon I step in… to this city...
into my neighbourhood...
Sant Gervasy… the mouse trap
the grey pavement where all our dreams crash…
he crashed
he crashed my heart and his heart...
and we are dead
but...
ghosts are more lively than living self-deceiving persons.... again I went down and up... passing near by… Yesterday the air of this now almost alien birth town...
smelled to me in love with the more unreal dreamed…
ghost... the same that haunted my grandmother Maria...
a one that will not have the guts...
guts … and authenticity are hard to find here... in Sant Gervasy ...all fake blurred mirrors of boring bourgeoisie ... the discreet charm of ... is tedious..and asphyxiating...
It kill us off ... the ones who are too sensible for all that mediocre
faux-riche...
Now … in the day...
still smelling the same air …here …in the mouse trap... I feel more safe
and maybe the ghosts will dissolve… but … as we all know...
vampires come only when it is dark ... now he is back in his coffin...
One day my prince will come... larala larala laralaa...
larala larala laralaa...
one day my dream come true…
one day … one day... one day…
one day… one… day… …
Esther Planas is a visual artist, writer and musician. She is the publisher of Dark Star and plays with Dirty Snow.
Anxiety Attack
Esther Planas
Iammedicated…Ihavemultiplepersonalitydisorder…Iamalienatedwhocares...?
I am a Zombie, a Ghost. (NOT A GOTH, PLEASE. THANKS...)
ANARCHY AND NONSENSE IS THE MENTAL SPACE WHERE I HAVE GROWN AFTER DRIFTING AROUND WITHOUT DIRECTION, WITHOUT 'SCHOOL-TRAINING'. I AM AN ESCAPEE, A FUGITIVE NURTURING ELECTIVE AFFINITIES WITH THE DILETTANTE.
Dyslexia, treatment and claustrophobia.
In my long lost trip I discovered a CONTEXT:
INDIE, DIY and FUCK YOU ALL -
IN WHICH I NOW OPERATE, HAPPY TO BE A THIEF AND A CRIMINAL.
NOTHING IS NEW,
NOTHING IS EXCITING.
ALL, ALL IS NORMAL,
ALL, ALL IS MODERN
SINCE THE BORROW-K.
I realize I am quite embarrassed to have to say I am an artist.
I COULD SAY INSTEAD I AM A PUTAIN!
BUT, BUT
MOST OF ALL....
A BURGLAR.
Which gives me pleasure: I am a junky of spleen.
HERE IS SOME ENTERTAINMENT, OR AT LEAST A FAKE ATTEMPT AT IT.
Please cross with an 'X' what you prefer to think about me:
a) Artist who plays in bands (or in groups that function like a band).
b) Artist with a band posing as an art project.
c) Musician/performer making installations.
d) Artist that works with pop music codes and mass memory.
e) Artist who uses exhibitions simply as a way of promoting the fact that she is an artist and she could get acknowledged for it and get more shows. (A real paradox.)
f) Artist who is not an artist.
g) Artist who is separated from the essence of the difference between you and her... or them and her....
TIPS FOR COMPLETING THE ABOVE:
In November 2000, Esther Planas had a review about her piece in a group show called THE REDROOM. AT FIVE YEARS, LONDON.
IT SAID:
TARATARATATATTATATTANNNNCHANNNNN!!!!ANOTHER USEFUL REFERENCE AS WE NEED DIALECTICS:
"Behind a tinsel curtain, an ancient TV plays low-budget music videos for Esther Planas's INDIE BAND (sorry 'performance project') DIRTY SNOW. ARTISTS' BANDS ARE RUBBISH AND THIS IS NO EXCEPTION... blah blah blah blah... THEY RAISED THE QUESTION OF WHETHER THE INSTALLATION IS A PARODY OF SMACK-ADDLED LOSERS OR SIMPLY PUBLICITY FOR UPCOMING GIGS."
Signed:
Martin Herbert
Time Out Magazine
In February 2004, in an Art Forum article titled 'FROM NOISE TO BEUYS (ON ART AND POP MUSIC), Bennett Simpson writes:
"DO YOU WANT NEW WAVE OR DO YOU WANT THE TRUTH?” asked the punk band MInutemen in ‘84 - AND THE VERDICT IS STILL OUT, ESPECIALLY IN ART. The prominence of pop music in recent art, from rock and punk to noise, techno, and hip hop, is one of the most ambiguous developments of the past five years."
THE ARTICLE CONTINUES.….. (if interested! Google is always there to help.)
I have worked with the formats of music, band and art (whatever is supposed to be the difference) since 1995 in Barcelona. Where the ghosts of murdered Anarchists and murdered Priests still haunt us. The spirit of nonsense CONTINUES.
NO MORE DATA NO MORE DATA
DOT DOT DOT
DOT DOT
DOT
DOT
Kill me tender, kill me true.....
dead day, death, death,
and all the masks and skeletons are commodities for distraction from
the real thing.
The real death.
The real skull.
The worms and the earth humid and dark, the tomb, the eternal sleep,
Yes,
I feel is so near.
All that I lost already, all that is dead already,
all gone forever.
Oh!
To be or not to be,
again and again,
for you and for me.
Us
and the rest, Let’s die
Tonight.
For them to go and walk with them holding hands in the light from the unknown.
Whispers - paradise lost, come, come, come.
Please not,
please don't leave me now.....
It’s always this time when I open my box, magic Pandora
and I confess
to all, to you,
I am scared.
I am terrified.
I want to sleep forever,
and, yes, forget.
If I could forget always before I really did I will do.
So many times for me ...
it will be
the next thing... why not? It is comical!
Thank you comedians,
now I need you all,
I need you badly.
I am just about to fuck them all off.
Smack heads is mad - is mad??
I don't think so, he knows he has seen it all.... and he has been
touched by medusa head...
Oh oh!
Boy, smack head I love you in your talk - talk, writing spell - in - ing....
scorpio rising - ing
Groups... and outcasts...
I am a scar…
Chorus:
Oh oh!
She is sad and love blinds her!
Oh oh!
Ay, ay, ay…
She is getting too warm!
She wanders in her mind and dreams too much!
Pain is what will come!
Ay ay ay ay!
The moon was full,
the moon is tempting them.
Ay AY!
She is fallen…
falling ...
Oh, goddess!
Protect her from the hell
of loneliness and melancholy,
protect her from the void she is getting into.
Ay AY!
He does not care,
he does not love!
He has got someone else and is far,
He is far in his heart!
And she, she ...
is blind,
is blind.
Goddess, save her save her…
She is, yes, confused, and sad... deeply sad...
but so what!
is it that important? …
No, nothing matters now…
In that unique night
possessed tears will flow.
Now that time has gone
forever
last week
is like last year:
here is last year, last year is here.
Can someone relate to an un-existing being?
Yes, so it seems…
Yes, because he is real,
he is too real and I know…
now
I know.
Oh! My Pandora box…
What do you keep here that can come and petrify me
when I awake from the dream I am in.
Pandora is full, and is closed.
Pandora opens and disaster is spread all over...
Chorus:
Tragedy,
Tragedy.
Fate.
Oh, oh!
Poor lady!
She is lost and is dark.
The snake is waiting,
the snake!
Oh!
Oh!
Esther,
don't go there,
don't go there!
But I will go and I am there and, there, there is nothing but darkness and nonsense and self -deception and false hopes fed by the needs of child-love, heart broken, and all the same eternal same that never cures…
Chorus:
Oh oh!
She is not listening she is falling!
Disgrace!
Death!
Hate!
Please!
Please keep away!
Oh!
Tears and tears,
Oh!
Pain, pain deep as a knife-cut,
bleed and bleed.
There will be no
sweet kisses for you,
just the void,
the dark void.
Oh, oh, oh!
Poor her…
And now after all I have to stand up and walk and my stomach contorts with pain and nothing will save me from myself…
13… What a day!
Half moon just passed a hint out of shape, …
but two days ago,
it was as if I was cut by a knife, ...
Cut, cut, cut me ... and nobody understands why
and we get cut because what hurts us - listen to that - is nothing,
nothing compared with that pain,
that pain is like the chilli in the eye of the elephant, it is, yes, harsh, but only for a second... So this is actually to say, all of you, that no cut is ever worse than
my inside wound... and the ones of my brothers, ...
that need to bleed,
because they give a fuck about you too.
13 is the one.
I was born on a 13th so the damned day …the day, my day,
and now it’s too late.
No! Never was late at all!
Never, so time is on my side...fallen angel, fallen wings, fallen, fallen, fallen,
falling again and again.
And the sinner flows and falls, circles like smoke down and down and
down and more down forever
in this eternal hole like a heart that never ends, always alive....
The fallen angel fell because he loved; he loved it, and loved him,
and loved him, and love is a drug.
Love is sacred, love is a quest, an affliction,
and is dark dry desert.
It was a light and has gone...
To go dark is what makes me bleed, to see a light but it is dark, dark,
dark, so dark, so dark, dark.
13
kisses
13
millions of kisses
13
times a thousand and one nights......
13
full moons
13
half-moons
13
13
13
third and teen…
13
the end.
Oh!
Did you know ... that I have not forgotten at all about the fact…? A dream?
About dying?
Yes, yes I want to.
I can't, I can't, And …
I am waiting, for ... like Santa Teresa de la Cruz … I live without living
and I die because I can't die...
and I want to die because I can't live,
live like this, trapped like this.
Please you help me …
Please
help me,
help me.
Today I had this dream. I was trying to save some animals… from some idiots that were messing up with their poor little bodies…
Anyway … I am in the seaside land where all is so like nice when just for a while,
like the rest of all this life which gets us tired ASAP ...of anything, so I get like bored at any moment.
Yes, but boredom mixed with la dolce vita is like my thing...so fucked-up I don’t have to move a finger... After the swimming and the seawater pool I had massive Absolut vodka doses provided by the super-fun gay club waiter....
Lots of clear pure Absolut at the Sunset Fitzgerald … wet hair, fresh sea, silver, ...
and sailboats floating by and all the boys playing ball games in the golden sand...
So, so, so aromatic
salt sea, lemon vodka … Yes!
Ballard knows what I am talking about, and you???
Man Ray was sweet no?
How to be like him after what he witnessed, he misses something as already a very important philosopher from ages ago knew all, and prevented us from seeing … Did he know about Vasari, artists’ lives?
Did he know about the poisonings and other crimes?
Weird…
Maybe he missed the treasures of history of the amazing Baroque... Gracian, and Vasari...
portrayed it all...
X-ray all. Ray X Man.
Where is your brain?
It is a puzzle but...
Man Ray Statement,
SUBTITLE - THE PARADOX:
"I am an old man now. In sixty years you can do a lot of work. I did a lot of things in sixty years. My paintings, my photography, my objects. I change all the time. I have periods where I do one thing then for a few years then I do something else. I am a free man. I do not work for a padrone or a boss. I am indifferent to things that do not interest me. But never would I attack them. Especially in the creative arts. Because I say anybody who does creative things is a sacred person. I do not care what he does, whether he paints academic pictures or he is modern or different from anything else. He cannot do any harm. Whereas a bad politician or a bad doctor or a bad cook can kill you!”???? Whaaaat? ???? This is me! (The criminal). What? What, what, what?
I did kill him and more than that I will kill ...... I WILL KILL YOU ALL!!! Signed:
An artist! We all know we are criminals!! Sacred criminals?? Oh Xraymanray......you were a double-agent? Ooh-la-la-la yes…
You always were my number one grrrl sistA!!
I’ve left a plane ticket for Doherty round at a friend’s house southside... Let’s hope he gets to LA b4 the end of the month – don't think I could stand a moment’s more of his cheekiness!!
x mark wonderin 'ow good Croydon tarts are at REFLEXOLogEE??!!??Imagine all that time...all these blank pages are filled with all sorts of intense feelings and an amazing sunset lights English land after the rain, and the wind’s coming to help my sad heart… Love, love, love.
x always best 2 hear it from the 'eadless 'orses Mouth.
xx tigerrrr
Dear Pandora
Long time, been wandering around with a mate … a boy who does not know he is a genius…
He is very pissed at everything and at everybody...
He is a bit of a picaresque... from La Banda de Don Monipodio… He is Rinconete or Cortadillo.
Let’s see...
He is a hero ... the baby... Here is some essay I found about my beloved philosopher of all times
Baltasar Gracian…
I dedicate it to my mate Keeds and his rage…
Yes,
Pandora's box ...
Here I am opening myself to you again
No holy days, no, no, no. Some more deep anti-writing frozen, paralyzed there down there.
Meet a guy, MK, I knew him
and he is rare.
I like rare.
Rare.
He writes one way,
I see and get turned on.
I am not going to talk about the amounts of chemicals I had to be taking.
No, no, not data for that, not data for no love and data for deception
in my too romantic imagination. And inspiration. Seems
hearts round me are
DRY,
DRY,
DRY,
that is all.
So what to say here to give space here for dried hearts and
dis-inspiring fear or who knows what.
I am opening Pandora for you and for me
and I do not care what else -
winds and destinies,
travellings and flight plans and projects, dreams unaccomplished but
new unexpected creatures,
the creatures, the flowers from here there appearing.
CWE is the most, the MUST I must say… he was with me for ages before, before, and before and he sees me and
recognizes me without explanations and intros,
he just knows and I know too and he makes me happy and inspired...
he crushes silky flower vetivert profound from the wood and the
woods ... trees and herbs … and unguents for skin that feels life at
high
sense - austere tears and smile from heavens
take my hand and make me dance and lets pose against the anti-pose and
the crossed pose -
PETRUSHKA!
VOILA! Despair, the heights of it and all and no no no data please Pandora
do not open these wounds now,
please do not mention the unwanted opener of a dear door
please let me go
let me forget now
just erase
got my pills
that is what counts...
ghosts to not be dead
to not kill myself
for no data no data about for what or who.
More Pandora,
now art, art?
what the fuck is this?
brain shit from my nite mares...
dedicated to all anglosaxophones!
To relate to Dali, Picasso, Picabia, Buñuel, in that specific
time of the century, the anarquistme!!
Barcelona as a small reduct for nihilistinos no no....never that great but a
place mention as in perfumes publicity ... by for example PIC A BIA
magazines from Barcelona
Why you find flamenco puro music in Man Ray movies??
What was the scene – internationialenationale - chauvinisticalepop? Pop and Brit...britten shineofffuck,
Superioreaudecolognesocolonialdreams still are yours
pop
popprincesspoppers pop …
Why all the latinos have to hide? The latino has to erase the front
hairtoomuchritahayworrrrrwhat? cansino cansino.
Why Pablo was not called Ruiz wich was his first name? or Francis, Martinez? Oh! Martinez and Ruiz,
not to saycinemaman Jean,Joan ... Vigo, such of pioneer family Miguel Almereida was
from Catalonia ... escapees all from the time of escapefromdanger
but not yet the time for Spain (iards) … not the time for acknowledgement… to get out of… just let us be what we have been before you and you and all of you and you too. Talking about vaccines and all that we infected your brains
till the point that you dare to forget from where all is this coming... Nation, nation of refusseeeees ... the ones and the onlyseees …
so much more infiltrated that,
double-agents,
we will fuck up your brains still, forever. Tralatralala!!and tortilla de patatatapaptapa....we do not exist
even if we provided you with the most of … most … most of the real
avantgardessince the barrow que...
specimensl … Sort of even more monstrous
creation … thegeniusesthatyoulovearehotblooded l a t i n o s
why
hide we do not know but (now you hide!)
We suppose that it was embarrassing to be
relatedtopostwarfascisfassccioterritoiresoallwantedtodieandrenounce
betrayedthebloodandwereashamedoftheirfamilynames
and
snobtheminparisollalalaalwherealllsointegrated infrenchexotiquequixotiquepicassooooopicabiaaaaapica pica
PICA P I C A......iwillgetmy pica name...picanassss!!
Not bad. Picanasspicanansssss … can I come in now … now can you hear me
now? … Is my passcode working?
A bit later...
I landed … bit by bit ... now I am back ... in the grey
the cloudy ... romantic … sad...
hard … tearful … …
but before leaving my land … my terra ... of clear blue … had a night on
the club where old orquestras play tangos...
like in Paris ... old couples went there... but so long ago … the spirit ... maybe stayed there...
but lots of techno sweet ... covered the walls...
well that night there someone play … someone I was ready to see and
try and test myself for...
He is like a puck ... a fairy boy ... enveloped with music … magic … and
other sorts of fairies ... playing piano, trumpet, cello, violin,
drums (a pair) ... pedals of all sorts ... keyboards ... moog .... bass…
guitars... …
and a sound that came like in the jazz times ... like
organic … enthusiasm ... rapture … laboratoire...
noise … shake....melody ... order and chaos ... coming together like
driven by the demon ... puck ... the boy … the eyes under the black long hair...
Mild night caressed by only … like in here in Sant Gervasi... the air … always the same air ...and coming up Via Augusta .... then Aribau...
My heart trembling with fear of the unknown and the future as always,
since I was a little gir,l since I was my grandmother Maria
and my great-grandfather Antoni ... trembling hearts fear
and dark in the mild soft sensual night … in the pine tree scented air…
going up and up the hill ... back home…
any of the homes ... till the last one, the one that stills is now … at Rector Ubach...
the end house, the ghost house ... the sad house.
My heart trembling ... breathing the unknown future...
the time I wish had passed … why I am not dead like them?
I wish just to be a blurry photo … a soft far memory in my young
family, Tobias.
Tobias that already has had the taste of the park at the back of
the house and of the up-the-hill-and-down-the-hill
filled with joy
and curiosity for the huge future...
filled with wars and warriors and cars and races and sailing and
sea-salt ... and wind...
I have been singing in the street with casual gypsies … clear guitar and
sour voices, sweet love … and nostalgia...
Afterwards, coming back up the hill...
I was reminded I could escape again...
again…
‘scape ... free...
8 8
remember the key?
eight eight
you are a bad boy
and you like it and you know it
I saw that images from a time lost and more than gone…
as usual in to a black hole ... where we save our ghosts in a camera,
in a tape ... what a trick...
no more strange than the Egyptians painting in their tombs
all looking for eternity and repetition...
Anyway, I am not going to miss the unmissable … the regrettable...
I am looking at these moments ... 8 8 ... like seeing dead friends…
drown with the Titanic...
I cannot even allow myself to be romantic or emotional... I got left without the possible reason or sense for that...
liquid love
liquid time
diluted time ... spread in nonsense...
hours
H ... is for Hours ... the hours of sadness...
8 is for 8 days months years
Virginia will have lots to write about that.
How H? How I fall...?
My feelings are unreal … are fantasies ... I can´t trust myself or them…
My feelings are mirages...
I never guess the real…
I always trompe l'oeil...
trompe l'coeur.
Make drawings of my tears,
paint my tears as Velazquez did the pearls and embroidery over the
dresses of the infantas...
as the nets of las hilanderas...
tears bathe me in oblivion...
I still want to die
today
to die
today
todie
how bizarre life is...
always hoping to die … and I missed for one day ... the
bomb ... imagine a blast!
weird...
Just next day after I passed by ... the same station that got the bomb...
Now I am here, landed in my place where myths are different… where Zeus, still, has been someone.
In the night, I was walking the eternal… architectural ... urban settings...
where I … being so many different personas ... beings ... the little girl
always still hides in the deep dark...
and the one who believes in princes still has time to miss ... to dream...
to walk like in a sad kind of in love way...
in love with my ghost ... a ghost boat … a promise of a paradise lost...
mixed feelings … feelings mixed with the immediate, the recent
memories and perfumes...
and, long time lost, someone that still revives as soon I step in… to this city...
into my neighbourhood...
Sant Gervasy… the mouse trap
the grey pavement where all our dreams crash…
he crashed
he crashed my heart and his heart...
and we are dead
but...
ghosts are more lively than living self-deceiving persons.... again I went down and up... passing near by… Yesterday the air of this now almost alien birth town...
smelled to me in love with the more unreal dreamed…
ghost... the same that haunted my grandmother Maria...
a one that will not have the guts...
guts … and authenticity are hard to find here... in Sant Gervasy ...all fake blurred mirrors of boring bourgeoisie ... the discreet charm of ... is tedious..and asphyxiating...
It kill us off ... the ones who are too sensible for all that mediocre
faux-riche...
Now … in the day...
still smelling the same air …here …in the mouse trap... I feel more safe
and maybe the ghosts will dissolve… but … as we all know...
vampires come only when it is dark ... now he is back in his coffin...
One day my prince will come... larala larala laralaa...
larala larala laralaa...
one day my dream come true…
one day … one day... one day…
one day… one… day… …
Esther Planas is a visual artist, writer and musician. She is the publisher of Dark Star and plays with Dirty Snow.
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