:)
"niggas always gon need books"
-alice, ~'07
to alice, who this book wouldn't exist without, typing this feels small in context to ur very real physical absence (i think u'd prolly find all of this delightfully pedantic) but suffice to say we luv and thank u for everything and all tha rest always, ofc
every one of u art niggas gotta ask urself if ur work finna b useful when banks don't exist...
while we were watching a rock was cut out, an obelisk, a mound, but not by human hands...they've left a hole in things, and in tha wake of daily death i had to grapple with tha wider purviews of my making; of makers in general, tha violence making has wrought; tha languages razed...tha implicit//explicit dimensions of Black subject erased; this is an unpacking of my placement within that subject; a syncretic kitchen-sink of west-african cosmology, art history, hip hop, tha Black panther party, revolutionary suicide, weed, superheroes, and idk that's all of it i think that functions as both "book" and blueprint for future work; we are on a burning rock, it would b so deeply evil of me as a maker to continue tha cycles that hav rendered countless unmoored, we cannot make to carve a rock; to endlessly supply for an endless demand; we must break structures; form new languages; carve rocks amongst ourselves for ourselves; fail; and most importantly, imagine something better than this; this is tha first in a long-winded attempt to build a better system of making for myself...one that unpacks wider notions of artistic culture, tha voices made illegible by said cultural production, and tha brutally simple calculus of capital that influences and generates product (and tha sticky lines between culture, it's production, and that production's output that follow)...(fuck im rambling)...this is me sitting with tha hole in things...this is sidelong
(this is an imprecise gesture of an attempt to form a language <i don't necessarily kno wat that means yet> lemme rephrase, this is me trying to make manifest tha hole in things…tha hole left in the face of our daily deaths; wat has been left behind, tha histories razed.... i’m sick of staring into that void, this womb//death [see glissant, 7] in my moments of discontent. i am tired of running from tha hole in things just to find another hole in things. this is an attempt at sitting and, somehow, smiling when i see it. <okay wait i think i got it now> this is me sitting at the edge of the hole in things…or better-yet me burying myself into it’s innermost edge, kicking my feet up, and tossing a few stones into the well below <idk if that makes sense, this might not be tha style...fuck, get to tha point ur vamping> this is me, with shaky hands and a clearly worried mind, attempting to fill tha hole in things)
artist as popstar
*note: tha following passage cites Offset: The Work of Mechanical Art in the Age of Electronic (Re)production by johanna drucker, Economies of Scale: Pamela M. Lee on Takashi Murakami’s Technics by pamela m. lee, a twitter thread about Murakami and his practices by @kossportapros (jul 2020), and Man at work: rigour, neurochemicals, and 24/7 assistants at Takashi Murakami’s studio by jens h jensen...all authors will be henceforth referred to as (drucker), (m. lee), (@kossportapros), and (jensen) respectively.
since tha days of studio 54 artists hav held a specific subject position in wider culture, while tha idea that artists are human beings is a relatively recent conversation, especially in context to our rights/personhood in relation to our rate of production, tha role of artist as both occupation and class identity has become definitively fluid; artists are celebrities, they’re talking heads, they’re cultural critics, they’re brands, they’re corporations, they’re geniuses, they’re assholes, etc...tha appraisal of one’s work or contribution to this sticky slimy thing we call visual culture is measured along a multitude of axes; and as anyone who makes/produces art in this gilded cage of tha institution can tell you, tha higher up tha food chain u git tha more u engender certain ethical compunctions. tha fine art world has become (or has it always been? THAT is tha million dollar question...watever tha fuck a million dollars means) a money laundering pit, it’s explicit ties to tha uber wealthy and their blood money cannot be ignored under current frameworks of critical appraisal; an understanding of tha museum (and tha industry @ large) as an ongoing site of colonial theft and erasure, wealth hoarding (soooo much wealth hoarding), and exploitation is critical to understanding how capital-A art is consumed and therefore invaluable in any attempted construction of something better (or at least far more ethical).
art is a padded room, artists just hav tha luxury of painting tha walls. we’re worldbuilders, able to expand tha purviews of our expression; stretching our laws of aesthetic and taste and canon onto tha familiar in hopes of manifesting tha unfamiliar...we make magic, pushing tha 4-dimensional into tha tangible; we as artists live in that moment of transfiguration, in that little space between tha magician reaching into his hat and tha rabbit suddenly appearing (and tha crowd goes wild). it’s one of tha most beautiful things abt art i think...that moment where we rlly ask ourselves; did i fucking get away with it? did i do everything possible and execute this idea to its fullest? will it reach ppl?...hav i taken in enuf of tha world to truly make something that deserves to be in it??????
critic johanna drucker notes “tha beginning of tha modern period in visual art corresponds with tha development of mass production modes in industry”, as cultural production finally hit tha fast lane it was “necessary for fine art to distinguish itself from other forms of image production” through two characteristics…
“it was autonomous, separate, and distinct as a commodity form (an object among others and an image ‘free’ from reference)”
“and it was comprised of unique, original works-or at the very least, those in highly limited editions” (see drucker, 187)
while u were watching, a rock was cut out...
an obelisk, a mound not formed by human hands...built upon tha slimy pit, out of that muck & mire. for us, as printmakers, production is tha pit...tha imperfect perfects of process & distribution...of taste and aesthetic form...we as makers make out tha mire in hopes of finding firm place to stand...to cut a rock. book-making and alternative print production presents as a form of disobedient object (thank u jina, eternal thanks always), a rebellion against tha fetishistic consumption of our everday: tha very task of having precludes any true sensation, we no longer have tha opportunity to truly feel tha things we consume or even make...like tha ouroboros we consume and produce shit in perpetuity. media has gone stale...punk has festered into dodgy retro, a reflection of a chain of production that denies its audience tha very sensation of feeling...being has become a luxury under our current frameworks of media consumption and production. tha print production of tha black panther party offers a blueprint, a mode of production that breaks formats for tha inclined..where individualistic constructions of authorship & profit are replaced w/ community...an artistic production that, in essence, denies passive consumption...we as artists, as print-makers specifically, must rely on these tools for our collective survival...we must break away from tha ouroboros, tha reckless cycle of our our individualistic consumption and invite tha deeply uncomfortable and fulfilling experience of community into our slimy pits of muck & mire...to build firm place to stand amongst ourselves for ourselves...because everyone of us is stuck in tha muck...so why not build sum together while we’re here...(smile)
we→ when i use “we”, “us”, “our”, etc. i mean those who look like me...so prolly not u, i am not talking to u, or abt u, i honestly do not care for u very much…and when i say i do not care about u i do not mean that to be callous or cruel or mean, i try not to be those things. i say that to protect myself. i am hiding things from you. i don’t know u particularly well and therefore don’t trust u very much. i respect u. u are my peer. my audience. my burden. u are tha weight of tha world. i respect u, i think ur smart, i want to talk to u,
i want to make u laugh, and i want to impress u...but that does not mean i know u or that u know me...so i don’t trust u…
the language→ wat they hav robbed us of...tha ability to imagine a world better than this. found in tha bottom of boats. this is a framework that i have difficultly articulating, but i think that’s tha point; language is intuitive. we are intuitive. language is not a geometric proof, it’s about manifesting...building tha plane as we fly it...language is magic.
tha cool→ According to Yoruba concepts of birth, man begins with tha divine spark of tha ancestors igniting primordial flesh with their energies and guidance; a communion of divine responsibility and tha human form...tha cool is when these forces, the divine and the mortal (read, the ori inu and ori ode) are balanced with ease. tha cool is a sense of equilibrium in tha face of tha weight of tha world; a detachment “that imparts order not through ascetic subtraction of body from mind, or brightness of cloth from seriousness of endeavor, but...by means of static unions of sensuous pleasure and moral responsibility” (see thompson, 18). under tha cool, aesthetic presentation divines metaphysical purpose and tha cooler u look tha closer u walk in the shadow of the ancestors. Under tha cool, visual aesthetic is based in assemblage; symbolic objects filled with catalytic life force are combined with rich textiles...this assemblage is emblematic of yoruba concepts of two-ness, everything is defined by its physical presence and that physicality’s relation to tha metaphysical; masquerade is pivotal in its ability to channel ancestral powers in order to literally move tha community in song and dance. This two-ness is also at tha core of hip hop, samples of tha old masters are chopped and screwed and reversed in a certain alchemy that draws upon deeper ancestral truths. it is a constant balance of recontextualization, all to find that one break that’ll get asses shaking on tha dance floor. in hip-hop’s early days these assemblages were decidedly funky and distorted, post-disco grooves punctuated by scratches, random shouts, horn stabs... anything to create dissonance and keep niggas on they toes, but eventually even dissonance can get a tad boring; people’s feet get tired, their voices get hoarse, and at a certain point they’re gonna need some fucking mywater...what do we put on when tha party needs a break? here arrives tha backpackers, tha nerds who’ve appropriated their parent’s jazz (we got it!). they’re here to put that same tired crowd at ease, to let everyone know that it’s okay to slow down for a bit. dancing ur heart out is fun but it isn’t cool...it’s hot actually, really fucking hot, u end up getting all sweaty...but slowing down, bobbing ur head, holding a hand to tha sky and calling out “can i kick it?!?!?!???!!!”, nigga that’s cool.
revolutionary suicide as artistic practice is tha guiding principle of tha panther’s print production; it is tha framework upon which tha movement disseminated their information, expressed their political goals, and aligned themselves with other left-wing organizations abroad…revolutionary suicide, from founder huey p newton’s point of view, is tha collective acknowledgement of a revolution’s planned obsolescence, an understanding that truly challenging tha status quo as enforced by tha state is to invite death
on tha importance
of dwntime…
(interlude)
we all need dwntime...artists especially thrive on it. production is all abt planning, sitting, & then executing; imo tha sitting’s tha most important part (cue sitting meme). Procrastination is tha lifeblood of concept, it’s a sneaky way 2 stew in tha thing-ness of whatever ur making w/o actually feeling like ur doing work. u can shoot tha shit, bounce ideas, joke, drink...anything to keep u out of tha slog. and then, when it’s crunch time, it’s time to put all that dwntime 2 good use...my personal fav dwntime is tha scared art of tha boof, sumthing abt tha routine of it & tha ppl i do it wiv gives me tha space i need from my own slimy pit (i.e. “production”,”art-making”,”watever tha fuck im callin it nowadays”)...since this zine has more or less become my silly lil place to drop my silly lil thoughts on this grand thing we call “art” (ew...i kno) i though i’d at least hav tha courtesy to giv u, dear reader, sum dwntime...i’ll join u by doing my favoritve passtime…
gb instructions (this section is inaccurate, sorry i smoke weed, it read differently in tha book, will update)
materials: 2 liter soda bottle, water pitcher or large bowl, tin foil, tape (glue is prefered but it'll work as a temp), scissors, safety pin, lighter, boof
step 1: make a small incision right in the middle of ur 2 liter (incision placement may vary depending on tha size of ur pitcher/bowl)
step 2: cut off tha top half of ur 2 liter, make sure tha cut is as straight as possible...plz recycle ur bttm half!!! (also could b a useful ashtray)
step 3: take tha cap off of ur 2 liter and make a small hole in tha center w/ a pair of scissor, make sure it's wide enuf to allow air to go thru but not so big that tha cap loses structure. (try holding a small flame to tha cap to soften it up so it's easier to cut tha hole)
step 4: cut a small piece of tinfoil and glue/tape it to tha top of ur cap, make sure tha tin foil completely covers tha hole u made! (DO NOT USE NONSTICK FOIL U'LL END UP BREATHING IN THA CHEMICALS)
step 5: flip ur cap upside down, poke abt 6-10 SMALL holes right where tha cap bottoms out...
step 6 (this is tha tricky part): congrats! ur gb is done! time to spark! it might take a few tries to rlly get tha motion right, but place a small amount of boof right on top of ur holes and carefully light it (avoid burning ur fingy's!)...
…for newton, this invitation is tha direct opposite of a reactionary suicide (read; discontent at tha hole in things)…to be a reactionary means to stew an bark bacc, to sit with tha weight of tha world in a desperate attempt to not get crushed. to allow tha discontent of our mundane to break ur fucking bacc. reaction is at tha core of our reckless consumption, production and consumption becomes obfuscation at best…a death march at worse. as artists we often talk abt institutions, how they fail us…how they can be better, how can we fix our hole in things with a more correct hole in things? we as makers have entered into a constant politic of correction (see moten, “undercommons”, pg. ????, thank u evan); demand can never meet supply and we are constantly spinning tf out trying to keep up…applying newton’s framework of a revolutionary suicide presents a break from tha mythical most correct institution…a sort of “death clause” with our own practice…as we continue to determine our relationships (i.e. how we stick/unstick ourselves from) these systems we must remember that revolution is by nature fleeting; our practices are fleeting; content is not meant to go on forever and ever and ever…recognizing/accepting our practice’s inevitable heat-death provides exciting opportunities, it means that we can finally tap out of this fucking rat race to tha hole in things…even for a moment. that is revolutionary suicide as art practice, fighting to escape tha most-perfect institution knowing full it will never be sustainable…to imagine something better than this, even if it’s a fantasy…
despite our lofty ideals and ambitions, we need to talk abt wat art is and wat art can/can’t do (and to be very clear, i do believe that great art can change tha world <for better or worse>)...art is not tha work...art is not going to raise tha dead, or give back land, or fill that fucking hole in things...art can supplement those things, gesture at those things, it could maybe even inspire someone to go out and do tha thing, but it can’t do tha work. while we are making in our slimy pits of muck and mire it is important to remember that “a quality of artificiality must be retained in a work of art, since, after all, the reality of art is not to be confused with that of the outer world. art, it must be remembered, is artifice, or a creative undertaking, the primary function of which is to add to our existing conception of reality” (see bearden, 18)
tha hole in things→ when i mention tha hole in things i always try to ascribe it to wider concepts of cultural erasure; tha ancestral truths lost in tha face of our shared struggle. that is tha hole i will fight to fill for tha rest of my days...but that is not tha hole this page is trying to define. this page is about a more personal hole in things. a hole that has been left unfilled for too long. u. u are my hole in things...u always have been. i never had to live without u before...and honestly it gets so so hard for me to luv myself without u here, but i try...
nigga→ always autocorrects for sum reason...could be used as a noun, verb, adj, adv, interjection, onomaetopia, etc...be prepared u are going to see this a lot. i do not know why it appears so often to be completely honest...we could probably have a very long and very productive conversation on nigga and the dynamics of using it in work in “the institution”, maybe we’ll actually sound like we know what we’re talking about. but honestly i don’t think either of us want to. at least i know i don’t.
Ψ(t1)=U(t2,t1)Ψ(t2)+U(t1,t2)Ψ(t2), t1<t2
smile*
this criteria of separation between “image” and “art” buckles under current productions of tha fine art world, creating works ad nauseum that in effect serve moreso as carefully curated exercises in brand management rather than a quantifiable work that operates within tha needs of our era (we are on a burning rock at tha moment). we must come to terms with tha fact that fine art, and visual art in general, has very much lost its place as tha apex of culture and any effort in placing value in such an endeavor requires a real come to fucking jesus moment. while existing in tha umbrella of tha late stage capitalist death march of our present, tha art world as a whole, and thus tha artists within them, are virtually indistinguishable from normative processes of image production (i.e. tha wider visual culture fine art has been attempting to differentiate itself from for tha past few decades); famous artists are less so people and moreso a carefully considered cult of personality that intersects with tha same systems of exploitation and capitalist consumption that predicate our everyday; in effect they’re superheroes, a never-changing accumulation of iconography and canon that is simply too reliant upon tha machineries of production to ever rlly evolve to fit tha needs of our age (if we want to survive tha next 25 years we must abandon capitalism as tha dominant economic form of governance, and art can’t exactly do that without affecting its bottom line)...here we explore how certain artists, and in tha macro tha art world itself, has contributed to tha very same harm we must abandon in tha future...
one of, if not tha biggest, tricks in tha artist’s playbook is scale; it’s meant to b emblematic of an artist’s alleged mastery of aesthetic form or technicality to produce such massive edifices, huge mounds dedicated to screaming “look at me! im here! i am very special and i need u to know me and luv me and hate me and blahhhhhhhh”...artist’s like playing god with tha 3-dimensional, applying massive disruption to tha geometries of the world around them simply thru their ideas and force of will; tha more disruption u create, tha more u give ur idea firm place to stand (i.e. “cutting a rock, but not from human hands”). this obsession with tha obelisk, with forming tha largest rock possible, obviously has ramifications, in fact these very ramifications, of space and form, of aesthetic and disruption, are tha raison d’etre of such objects…ur almost impressed by it until u realize “holy shit this def requires a massive amount of resources????? isn’t tha planet fucking dying right now?????”
okay before i launch into this whole “carbon footprint” thing i wanna start off by saying im not going to fucking talk abt nfts. i am not interested in yt ppls new fangled way to murder tha planet while making obscene amounts of fake money (that’s oxymoronic). bottomline, artists are wasteful. incredibly wasteful. especially when it comes to materials. let’s do a lil exercise...on march 22, 2019 internationally recognized artist KAWS debuted a massive inflatable sculpture, companion, right along tha shore of victoria harbor in hong kong; tha sculpture itself is 121 feet long (37 meters if ur nasty) and weighs roughly 40 tons due to tha steel pontoon boat it’s attached to. this obviously requires a ridiculous amount of industry, even giving KAWS tha benefit of tha doubt and assuming he used tha most sustainable materials possible, producing that much nylon, that much PVC for coating, tha amount of gas needed to transport tha damn thing, (tha fact KAWS commissioned an entire marine staff to maintain tha piece 24/7 is insane, literally tha equivalent of running a parked car for a fucking week straight)...it’s shocking to me, dear reader, that he dared to call this piece “relaxing”. and these are not reusable objects...at best it’ll end up traveling the world, requiring even more industry and even more waste, and at worst it’ll be collecting dust in a storage space until KAWS dies (hopefully) and someone decides to launch another one of those goddamn retrospectives. and for wat????
alrite, fine i lied to u, i am gonna talk abt nfts for a sec (wat can i say im a wascally wabbit)...nfts are marketing themselves as a bold new path towards a more democratic art world when in reality it’s tha samo shit...another trick, another way to further invest ourselves as artists into tha wheel of capital at tha expense of tha world we try so desperately to make “better” with our pursuits. for too long we have allowed tha alleged sanctity of art to stop us from holding tha art world to account, this idea that all expression is always benevolent all tha time is simply a lie; a lie perpetuated by artists...art is not always benign, it can be violent, historically speaking it always has been. pretending that art and visual culture is somehow abstained in any critique of tha ruling class and their interests is ignoring a simply unalienable fact; most artists are rich as fuck and they will do anything to remain rich as fuck. if we want a planet to continue to make art abt, we need to break from this obsession as artists with imposing our obelisks onto tha world without consideration, without consequence…
nowhere is this violence more palpable than in tha artistic practice of internationally recognized japanese artist takashi murakami, his iconic anime-influenced style has been recognized in galleries across tha world; with his ubiquitous kaikai kiki flower design making him one of tha most easily recognizable artists in tha world. tha ubiquity of murakami’s work is demonstrated in tha many physical forms his imagery takes on; they are sculptures, pillows, paintings, keychains, album covers (where im sure most of u were introduced to him), pottery, prints, and so so much more; his material flexibility alone brings his artistic practice closer to an automated process of constant reproduction, moreso creating a branded product than a true-blue “artwork”, blurring tha lines between tha two. for murakami this constant reproduction of iconography, is tha art, not tha final product; testing tha art historical notion originally posited by cultural critic walter benjamin that a reproduction of an artwork always subtracts tha original’s cultural/historical context…murakami’s insane production rate is made possible by his global team of assistants, who create thousands upon thousands of iterations of murakami’s original designs; art historian pamela m. lee views murakami’s practice as a product of globalization (in which technologies are developed to increase tha geographic range of one’s practice) in line “with what engineers of post-fordist production have called “automation with a human hand,” in which the blankness and sterility of digital control are softened by the gesture of human agency, in large part a response to the demands for customization” (m. lee).
this “demand for customization” has, allegedly, in minecraft, led to certain...let’s say choices, in terms of murakami’s studio; allegations of abuse and labor exploitation have followed tha artist for years, with former assistants comparing his studio to a cult. from all account his studio sounds like a fucking nightmare; his assistants are on a 24/7 schedule, they have absolutely 0 contact w/ natural light, they’re obsessively micromanaged;
“large sheets of cardboard give information about who is on duty, production
schedules and deadlines, and changes to artworks. when a dot of black paint has been added to a painting, the painting is photographed. this photograph is then printed out, time-stamped and added to the production board for the artwork so murakami can go back to previous versions” (jensen)
which is further exacerbated by murakami’s laissez-faire attitude towards deadlines;
“‘if i am really unhappy about a particular work, i will ask for it to be returned to the studio after the exhibition so I can complete it. if i keep at it for more than two years, however, the galleries and the clients start to become seriously upset, so when their anger reaches tipping point, i deliver the work.’” (murakami via jensen)
these conditions ultimately shows the natural conclusion to the fine art vs. image debate, tha endpoint in which tha demarcations between tha two are essentially so blurred they no longer exist; artistic recognition demands constant production which, inevitably, leads to exploitation. in his quest for tha superflat, for tha ubiquitous, to reach even deeper into that hat, murakami (and artists like him) has reinforced tha harm that has for too long been ignored in this industry. this is tha price of a practice that exists only to feed itself and its own iconography, where work is less so an exercise in reapproaching/recontextualizing tha world around us and moreso a form of brand upkeep; another sequel that nobody needs, another blockbuster to watch as tha world burns...
to those who taught me even when i didn’t want to learn, thank u i luv u mor than i can ever say
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