Some thoughts on cushions
With age comes an appreciation of good cushions. They must have qualities opposing the unforgiving pull of death. They make you forget your body through distributing the pull of gravity onto such a large area that it is barely noticeable. They devide gravitational force in a very large amount of small quantities. They try to beat gravity and in this they are machines that turn the person using them into a simulated angel : Life embracing, with a pain free mind, floating. They are a key to the shackles of reality. Dream maker, womb imposter. Utopia has been build probably on a foundation of soft cushions……
Projection of “Passanten” , video, 12min, 2008
To get certain foods we manipulate the sex life and the motherly love of animals and plants. We are inseminating cows and taking away materialised motherly love: milk. We are steeling unfertilised potential children from birds. We are lying to rice and pretending the rainy season is starting by flooding its environment , so it puts all the energy it has in its potential children,its seeds, so they can survive the next season and a possibility to get fertilised . I voice these observations not necessarily as a moralistic plea for veganism, but more as an observation of how our foods are connected to sexuality and love. A lot of our foods are interrupted plant or animal sex or the harvesting of motherly love. It is violent and very manipulative and expands over most foods and builds the fundament for the extraordinary expansion of our species. We have created a lot of narratives to be able to cope and execute this behaviour, as we are also socially highly empathetic and have the tendency to anthropomorphisise almost everything..
state of mind…at 2.30…
(written for the Royal College of Art catalogue 2014 )
Agatha Christie made sure that nobody ever saw her writing. She didn’t have a study or specific space where she would work, but instead placed her typewriter on the kitchen table after the children had left for school and she had cleared the dishes. By the time when everybody returned home her typewriter had disappeared again and she would be in the middle of making tea. At least this is what I read.
At 2.30 in the afternoon I start shrinking. A little bit like hulk, who slowly looses his anger and turns back into a small naked man. I have to prepare for a quiet, powerful and invisible portal that is awaiting my mind to cross through daily at around this time. It’s school pick up time. Behind the portal awaits another world: Tedious, structured, exhausted, obeying, with tied shoelaces , brushed teeth, money in bank accounts, hands shivering, stairs, flag poles and homemade pizza. A world strange and deterministic. Slowly it opens its wings and around 4 pm it stands in front of me glorious, cold and all engulfing with fingers, tasting sweet as jelly babies. I rehearse one last time and dissolve once again like fizzing aspirin. A small naked man, fairly happy, mysteriously normal.
The gaps that were wide open during the morning have disappeared, the world is solid again. It has to be. I exchange words with people that look like my parents; I look like my parents. I am boring, serious and use the word “No” during every other breath. At least that is how my son describes me. It doesn’t help that I try to explain the dialectic virtues of using the word “No” and what Hegel thought of it. At 4.30 pm I look at a tree and don’t see the tree, but only a symbol of a tree. While before entering the portal the world was breathing a complex, surprising and somewhat paradox pool of light and words, it now had collapsed into textbook symbolism and the logic of cause and effect. It wasn’t always like that and isn’t always like that, but like a pendulum that is kicked, after a while it starts steering the same course again. Its monkey business ! I explain to myself . Biology. The work that has to be done is to kick the pendulum, to create unbalance and take a glimpse through the gaps of matter and mind that open up in the process. After all, it is said that it has been a tiny unbalance that had created the universe. Now it is drifting back into vast and cold balance. The process we call time. I piss on time, I throw rocks at it and grapefruits. Recently I noticed the portal getting tighter. Clearly soon I wont be able to pass through it anymore. I just hope I will be on the right side of it, when it happens.
When I was a child animals seemed to be like humans.
Now humans seem to be like animals.
Not long ago I bought an iphone. The little flat pebble took over large parts of my communicating activities. A thought though started to worry me: ” How will in the future pictures tell us stories when there are less and less carriers of “visualised doing“present? Devices are merging together. The Book, The Telephone, The Television, The Personal Computer, The Letter, The Walkman, The World Atlas, The Typewriter,The Encyclopaedia, The Alarmclock are all disappearing poetic objects. They all are turning into one small black pebble. As a maker of visual poetry, I feel a little sad about the disappearance of these objects. Mustn’t it create confusion and impoverishment in image making? A person looks at the pebble. It is impossible to say if he watches a film, reads a book or a letter. The same image can mean a variety of different activities. At the same time I wonder what other new poetic interfaces will appear and how they will find poetic uses.
Sculpture by Dali
Painting by Dali
- Painting by Alex Katz
Sculpture by Nam Jun Paik
- Painting by Magritte
- Painting by Konrad Klapheck, The Language of the Powerful
- Painting by Neo Rauch
“Artists with too much power are dangerous !” 2012