A heavy fog has set in this morning crossing the Manhattan Bridge gazing Southward towards the Brooklyn, the city looks as if on the edge of the world. It just ends. The old stone bridge becomes the last and only crossing joining the two strange remaining islands on Earth. Then begins the light misty void extending into infinity as it swallows up all that it can off into a sublime unknown.
Friday. One of the the most glorious six letter words in the English language, particularly at 5 p.m. that very day. A good day to be alive & well with sunshine & slight soreness from yesterday's workout. A hot coffee in hand sipping caffeinated life along the N train tracks. Greta and Aaron are having there party tonight. Ellisa is coming up from B-more to visit for a few days into next week for some acro-yoga classes. Hopefully she'll call off the bus and we can bring her up to the party too. Speaking of the party, I need to solidify my thoughts on the matter. A toast is in order for this evening's festivities. It's not every day that these sorts of things happen to your friends. May I forgive myself for any trespassing into cliche territory and for any trampling into the cheese. Here goes:
7-11-09 A.M. Brklyn
From, break it you buy it -to- break it and send it back.
In many corners of this hyper interconnected universe of pattern interfaces and system functions ever expanding experiments on themes go by on and on like water flowing up and down the East River. Depending on what time your train crossed the Manhattan Bridge, the Atlantic will be pushing its salty waters up stream or the Long Island Sound will be rushing down with fresh drops of Hudson and Harlem Rivers. Anyway you look at it, it’s still all greenish brown.
Greenish, Brownish, ish is the new it. If it is, than it is. If it’s definitive, it’s pushy. If it’s vague, it’s noncommittal-- but ish-ish is the new real. It is now-ish.
Whatever art I have been seeing around me is ish. It is good-ish, bad-ish, faux-naïve-ish, and commercial-ish. The lines have been blurred that once separated the distinctions. Were there distinctions? I see artists working toward new problems in a way that is best described in an observation I had in my youth where a caged puppy had defecated and then comsumed his own matter. It’s efficient, contained and theatrical. It is banal, ostentatious, awkward, beautiful, poetic, silly, fun and sarcastic. Sometimes making a joke of the joke, these young artists are seeing themselves see. Not unlike self-consciously trying not to be self-conscious.
Our work, our Art is earthy, lofty, important, meaningless, synthetic, organic, plastic, biodegradable, recycled, handmade, industrial, fake, real, toxic, edible, wild, and domesticated. It is for the individual and for no one all the same. It is both consumption and production, like puppy.
What else could we know but what we know, what we’ve lived? Live our world of online, All-Mart consumer frenzy terrorism fragmented material culture of multi-stage chemical compounded experiences, we web surf, channel surf, reality surf, text, sext, smoke, joke, breed, feed, drink, think-ish.
Tonight like last night they hit the crumbling streets in hipster cigarette packs through the borough on their way to the infirmary. Can you swim to the other side of this anywhere?
Skip it man. You’re flipping your lid off like a soda pop top tab tossed out from a cab. Who’s got the money for the fizz, who for the guy driving this mess?