{"id":1940,"date":"2016-09-19T01:09:18","date_gmt":"2016-09-18T17:09:18","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/aofa.tw\/?p=1940"},"modified":"2016-10-17T22:58:26","modified_gmt":"2016-10-17T14:58:26","slug":"truthful-lies","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/aofa.tw\/?p=1940","title":{"rendered":"LEWIS GESNER: Truthful Lies"},"content":{"rendered":"

Language: English<\/strong>; \u4e2d\u6587<\/a><\/strong><\/h4>\n

\"4534493461_22bfdf71a7_z\"<\/p>\n

There is an idea often attributed to Picasso, that art is a lie that allows you to see a truth. As a departure point, I propose to write a series of false documents or fictions relating to nonexistent art pieces. These will consist of mock reviews, quoted from imaginary art magazines, articles that outline imaginary artists\u2019 histories, and personal experience in which I visit works of art or encounter them in the world, during travels that never took place, to locations which do not exist. In short, these will be \u201cart lies\u201d that cover a wide range of what I imagine would be the art, music, and other creations of unreal societies, which the readers will be left to imagine themselves, based on these written artifacts.<\/p>\n

Underlying this project are a few other streams that will be influential to it. There is a variety of fiction often referred to as \u201cmeta-fiction\u201d, which offers depiction of academic or creative worlds created by reclusive, unknown, or mysterious writers. The reader must imagine the person who could have conceived of such work, or try to determine which parts are from real life, and which are fabrications. Secondly, the premise of writing about imaginary art allows me to personally create without making the work I describe; there is no struggle with materials or concern with spaces or venues. These two aspects work together to propose a small body of work that is as many of us see art works; by description only, or document, through media, and not in person.<\/span> While there seems to be a small kernel of real, physical art work in the world, how much of it do any of us ever really see, relying instead on writers\u2019 descriptions, biases and honesty?<\/span><\/p>\n

I propose to write seven<\/b> installments for the website, each quoting from different sources which do not exist, or detail personal experiences and encounters with artwork, or researches into the lives of imaginary artists, offering a backdrop of a utopian world where things are not as we know them. This \u201cmeta\u201d form then becomes my art work, abstract, free to move in any direction, and as fleeting as thought.\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

<\/p>\n

The Truthful Lie that Compensates Objects and Actions; an art fiction<\/span><\/strong><\/h3>\n

Language: English<\/strong>; \u4e2d\u6587<\/a><\/strong><\/h4>\n

\"f747eec6-88f5-4f69-9ec1-08b84ec42bbd\" \"98628c55-dc99-41cc-a9ad-9bba884eea39\" \"95ea3ce1-7142-4aa4-b4e9-d648f1bff269\"<\/p>\n

Introduction and introductory thought on a series of articles<\/b><\/span><\/h4>\n

I am wondering if art needs to be made to exist.<\/span><\/p>\n

I am wondering if our opinions are as often formed by familiarity through written material first, and if the viewing of work on a wall or in the environment merely supports an existing point of view from other familiarity.<\/span><\/p>\n

I am wondering if art can be as legend, stories told and retold, of conceptions and objects never seen.<\/span><\/p>\n

I am wondering if the reviewer or critic, who writes \u201ctruthful\u201d if not honest articles or reviews relating to actual work, may be replaced by the artist, whose work it is to conceive of work.<\/span><\/p>\n

I am wondering then if that work can exist as mere documentation as does much performance, but, not confined to performance or action aspects, extending to objects, painting, and other genres.<\/span><\/p>\n

I am wondering, if this extension is made, if it might be just as creative a production to have the documents exist without a fact of actual performance, or object, or painting, so that it is no longer documentation, but the work itself.<\/span><\/p>\n

I am wondering that if this is the case, we might dispense with the notion of fact or truth per se and move beyond it to the realm of writing parallel to fiction; the presentation of false facts, of relation to the familiar world, and the previous development of art, in the pursuit of an original description of art, as it might be observed by cultural professionals.<\/span><\/p>\n

I am wondering if it might be acceptable that some people might be confused or tricked into believing that some description represents a real object, and that those people modify their thought and existence based on the belief that such objects exist.<\/span><\/p>\n

I am wondering if the opening of this way to art making, and a parallel to fictional writing, might grow further from art than it might within the limits brought on by making physical art and art actions.<\/span><\/p>\n

I am wondering what will then constitute what parts in these parallels to fiction, if the creation of imagined galleries, exhibitions, and artists, in addition to their \u201cwork\u201d will equally occupy the space of what would for the reviewer be art description.<\/span><\/p>\n

I am wondering if, as an artist myself, the attention I give to this conception might affect my desire to ever make physical work again, and I am considering that the freedom from the physical in this art fiction parallel might be akin to the immateriality of the soul or spirit, and that in proposing and carrying out this project, I might be preparing myself for some unknown transition of my material life to something else.<\/span><\/p>\n

I am wondering, if this project leads me to an altered state of being, if it might also lead readers to a transformation or, a phasing of their physical and spiritual aspects, and that if this happens, if I am somehow liable.<\/span><\/p>\n

A series of articles will follow this introduction. They will be in pursuit of the conception I have described, and as such, this secret key will not be supplied or made reference to again, as we will be in the world of this conception, which doesn\u2019t account for itself in self-awareness. Exhibitions, art works, artists and their biographies, as well as countries, cities, towns, locals and historic events as reference points will be fabricated or allowed to fill in the frame of this conception. It is my sincere hope that this project will enlighten and entertain, perhaps assist in readers\u2019 own ideas of what art is, and at the very least, as the motto of the medical field advises, \u201cdo no harm.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

<\/p>\n

Acts of God and Devil ; Unsuspected Art<\/span><\/strong><\/h3>\n

Language: English<\/strong>; \u4e2d\u6587<\/a><\/strong><\/h4>\n

\"0\"<\/p>\n

A doctor is suddenly compelled to open a colorful but deadly blossom in the victuals of a patient who had been scheduled for a simple wart removal. Interviewed after the passing of the man in his care, he spoke of feeling his hands directed by an unseen force.<\/span><\/p>\n

Elders in a retirement home frequently gather in a day room to watch television and relax in conversation. Their various ailments and conditions have left their bodies variously contorted and twisted, as time and age will do. Unknown to any observer, the arthritic shapes of their fingers, bends of the spines and operation scars have formed letters in multiple languages. Each day when they converge, these affectations regroup themselves to form progressive installments of a novel, unknown to them. There is only one invisible reader.<\/span><\/p>\n

A pond in winter has frozen over. On the night of the freeze, there is a very heavy rain, which causes the leeches in the pond to rise to the surface. A very sudden change in temperature causes thousands of the leeches to be captured and frozen in ice on the very surface of the pond. For the duration of the winter, children skate and slide on the pond, as they do in many countryside settings. On the night of the first day of spring, a youngster rests quietly on the pond, wrapped in his winter coat and clothes, and, tired from an afternoon of play, falls into a light sleep. A warm front arrives stealthily and unannounced, melting the thinnest top layer of the pond\u2019s ice, just enough to release the thousands of suspended leeches frozen there, who are ravenously thirsty for blood. The child never awakens.<\/span><\/p>\n

At regular intervals, at all corners of the globe, there are near miss accidents, where a driver of a car, bus, or plane very closely pass or miss another, and where there are natural occurrences as well, which, if timed slightly differently, would create huge calamities of destruction. Some are observed as almost-events, while others slip by unobserved, and unappreciated as the workings of a finely geared hand wound clock of enormous proportion. Yet for an omniscient writer, the list goes on.<\/span><\/p>\n

A near perfectly vintage Stradivarius violin has been stolen, and sits for years in its case, hidden from view. The thief lives through decades, never touching the instrument, but knowing it is there if he wishes. Simultaneously, on three continents, three rare wines have been bought at auction for record sums. The proud owners, who had all bid anonymously, collect and covet their prizes, securing them in cellar vaults, knowing they may be had at any time, but never touching them. The wines and the stolen Stradivarius continue to age and ripen, and become more perfectly vintage and pure in taste and tone. And then, at exactly the same moment in time, they pass maturity. The three rare wines turn to vinegar, and the magnificent violin snaps at the neck, and its body cracks through. The deaths will not be known for many years to come.<\/span><\/p>\n

When the end of the world comes, it is unexpected and impossible to imagine, as it is the unfolding of an impossible event. In a small uninhabited cabin in the Black Forest of Germany, a meteorite the size of a marble crashes through the roof and embeds itself in the dirt floor. When it passes through the roof and ceiling, it dislodges two splinters of wood the size of chopsticks. They both land on the floor, each with one end embedding in it, and their other ends, pointing toward each other and almost touching, forming a capital \u201cL\u201d shape which has been tipped over to the right and on its side. As if two fingers then, pointing toward each other in accusation, the strange symbol of opposing powers is too great for the universe to ignore. One splinter then gathers energy of positive matter as it occurs in all of physical things. The other splinter gathers behind it all of the energy of antimatter, which has grouped itself in a massive army of an opposite state. Released from their restraint of eons, the two forces compel across the slight gap that remains between the two splinters on the floor, and the universe as we have known it ends.<\/span><\/p>\n

<\/p>\n

The Paper Scraps of Aldaz Nattle ; Open to Speculation – a few words<\/span><\/strong><\/h3>\n

Some notes on imaginary Performance of oneye, as a Performance score<\/span><\/h4>\n

Language: English<\/strong>; \u4e2d\u6587<\/a><\/strong><\/h4>\n

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I think the mathematician knows the scrap (of paper) just as he knows the random shape of a liquid spill. The piece of torn paper, as the splash or puddle of liquid is the most easily produced shape, while the most complex to describe accurately. I have seen street artists who will use scissors to cut the profile of a customer while they wait, as I have seen one who tore a good rendering with his fingers. It is an impressive skill to be sure, but itself as with much artisan skill it is a learned thing which is repeated over and over with some variation, and in its base form is little more than a learned trick. Even Matisse suffered in this work with recognized limits. The truly impressive torn shaping in one take defies image duplication, that resists resemblance and is simply a tear as the finger want to rip, turning, expressing as the order of things wish-. Ripping, the fingers find give and resistance, they find direction and change, and to be lost, and they find number, and division, and reducing and individuation through a kind of lessoning and amplification of number.<\/span><\/p>\n

This for the fingers and hands and maybe the implicated mind of Aldaz Nattle, who spent most of his life tearing pieces of paper, sometimes saving them, sometimes hiding them, often throwing aside, but in quantity great enough that it has lasted and we are still discovering …. Nattle produced millions of little pieces of torn paper. Most were scraps about the size of the tip of your finger. Some were left or contained in isolation from other paper, some were grouped, in sets, or in close communities, across a small selection of items that distinguished the scraps as belonging somewhere slightly different from each other. If you see these scraps you will not immediately see them as distinct – they are of course very different from each other. After you have seen them for a while, or left them and gone back to look at the, you will only see their difference. That effect will i assume take such hold of you that you will see little else. You may have to turn away. You may find yourself confused at a later time, in remembering of them all – if you have seen them….. their purpose is not at all clear.<\/span><\/p>\n

The arrangements, sets, and isolations, as well as the torn scrap shapes is so very complicated in that they are almost without repetition – and, it is not the random aspect that overwhelms, rather, it is – an individual essence that one sees, like an identity – not a tear of unconcern or indifference, it is a tear of greater awareness of the very distinction possible by use of the body and relation to something it can alter – my perspective of course, and no one is yet arguing very much about this, only talking speculatively, is it score, is it music, is it sculpture, is it a kind of flat art, is it math, or philosophy? As with “Oneye” generations, it is being studied with the background or setting.<\/span><\/p>\n

Some amount is known of Nattle, that he always did this, tore paper all the time at every free moment, and organized it all, putting things in bags and envelops or sorting them with a few other materials we assume are suggestions of where in the outer world setting these scraps might go – Nattle had a wife and five children and worked as a guard in various government buildings throughout his life and never seems to have attracted attention or distinguished himself at all. These scraps came to light in a typical accidental way, the discovering at multiple locations at once, in some old file cabinets in the same buildings where he worked for years, under the floorboards of the rooms he rented.<\/span><\/p>\n

I think, his story particularly is unimportant. The paper represents maybe passage of time in his life, and the paper is important, and not him.<\/span><\/p>\n

More than others of the “Oneye”s maybe his is a more clear example of the vessel theory of how these appearances manifest through human bodies – and over the time they have been present in the world. It is always good to speculate regarding these people. I think it is the only way in the end that the phenomenon will be understood.<\/span><\/p>\n

Study the works in this exhibition. While it is a sizable collection, keep in mind it is nothing to the volume that remains, and likely also less to the volume produced and no longer surviving. i think than, survival is not so much what this is about, or volume, as much “Oneye” work has survived, dare I say, when the work desired to remain.<\/span><\/p>\n

<\/p>\n

Kally Ornett, Invisible Mechanism, and Ghost Galleries<\/b><\/span><\/h3>\n

Language: English<\/strong>; \u4e2d\u6587<\/a><\/strong><\/h4>\n

\"18cc9e42-0a3c-41ac-a1dc-c86ab6365de3\" \"554f1001-bba1-4ab7-89f1-2d56e71d3fe6\"<\/p>\n

<\/b>In a time of flood or collapse, it is natural for the living to seek what seems to be afloat or stable on its legs. These rafts or islands of refuge or refuse are embraced and grasped in the same tenacious way a declining terminal patient clings to their consciousness, doing whatever they can for one last moment, whether the method be to count numbers, recite a recipe in their mind, or swear at imagined foes.<\/span><\/p>\n

Whatever the apt comparison, it is desperate, and it is useless. The contemporary art condition in my opinion has been in this state for the last twenty or more years. The rafts that look so life preserving in this case are trends of the unfamiliar, (foreign), products of isolated individuals, (unearthed from sheds and dim lit rooms, exposed to light briefly and abandoned to return to their secret gardens of mental illness), and students who have recently entered the market, with a plan to rehash the pluckings of their art history classes in an effort to revisit a past movement with the prefix of \u201cneo.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

Amid this riotous and futile clamor is a strain of intention, not unlike the spirits that accompany our daily lives, to manifest on celebratory days in costume and pantomime, and speak to us in whispers that \u201ctime is nothing, and matter is fleeting.\u201d To this end, outside of art trends and media frenzy, are the nonexistent artists, and the shifting, transient walls of the ghost galleries. While as ghost ships, they may drift from place to place, and on a schedule unrelated to a clock or calendar, there are signs that they will soon appear; a smell of varnish, mixed with dust, a creak of a timeless kinetic construction, and a hollow echo of an opening reception.<\/span><\/p>\n

Reviewing work presented at such venues is necessarily unspecific, in that there are no set addresses, times, or reliable artist stables. I can tell you what I experience, without expectation that you will ever see or know the work or artist, as I can direct you to nowhere. Only will I say, be aware, look for signs in your senses. This is the lasting, important work.<\/span><\/p>\n

I should add, ghost galleries are not always like a suddenly appearing ship on the sea, which arrives unexpectedly, fully rigged, out of a thick fog, with a crew of skeletal pirates ready to jump your ship. A ghost gallery can come, in little pieces, at different times, and it is up to you to recognize these parts, and to piece them together to compose the whole. And, you must be like me, with an instinct to know they exist, for them to present themselves to you. Being an audience member then, is a very tall order.<\/span><\/p>\n

Listening to recordings of music one afternoon, I was particularly struck by a jazz improvisation that ended up in my queue. I had heard it before, but perhaps not appreciated it in the way I did now. I thumbed through the notes and found it was Ornette Coleman\u2019s \u201cThe Shape of Jazz to Come.\u201d While this satisfied my need to know, my eyes and mind still lingered on the name \u201cOrnette\u201d but without the \u201ce\u201d at the end. A short time later, I was reading an email from an old friend with the first name of \u201cKelly.\u201d As I began to answer it, I found I had written her name as \u201cKally.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

This deviation too stuck with me, until the two magically merged during an unfocused moment as the name \u201cKally Ornett.\u201d Having the strong feeling it was significant in some way, I wrote it down on a piece of paper. Driving to my teaching post that same night, I had my headlight suddenly go out. I flipped the headlight switch on and off a few times, and it began to flicker irregularly. In a corresponding flash, I saw the name \u201cKally Ornett\u201d before my mind\u2019s eye. In an equal space of time, the act of flipping this switch set a milky white lever in motion beside me, causing another adjacent to it to respond by churning a transparent piston, and then another, through a network of channels.<\/span><\/p>\n

The street I was on had disappeared, as had the buildings and markets I was passing, and my scooter was no longer beneath me. As with things out of my control, rather than fight against it, I accepted this as an unavoidable aberration of my reality, entirely and without hesitation. Having accomplished this adjustment, I was immediately rewarded with the emergence, as lava would flow from a volcano, of a magnificent foyer of many royal shades of projecting light, which landed together to form the walls, floor, and ceiling of an elegant entrance to a modern gallery, reminiscent of one where I had exhibited in NY years before. In this radiant lobby, in neon-like blue letters, hovered the name \u201cKally Ornett.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

Without moving I seemed to have been conveyed into a high wide interior. There was no appearance of a conventional gallery. The walls undulated and changed in a casual way as if to indicate they were for no purpose other than to distinguish a compartment. Nothing was hung or displayed, yet there was a feeling of fullness in the air surrounding me.\u00a0 <\/span>Again, there was a materialization of long levers, pumps, channels and rolling gears, coming into existence as if from a mist, nearing solidity, and giving way to another perspective, or a new and rivaling view. The purpose of this manifestation was unclear, but as before, it heralded a shift. I felt redirected to the name I had been shown.\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

So was this the work of Kally Ornett? At first connected to the existence of a gallery as it spontaneously rose around me, and now, to something else, perhaps the fabrication of the name, a name that had come from two misreadings, and the convergence of a faulty headlight, the symbolism of fabrication and manufacture is present in the pump, gear, vent, and lever in a way not in electronic circuits. It is akin to magic, as the object is acting on its own as under a spell, or so it seems to the impressionable mind. I let my thoughts wander, as a kind of test. I found many things suddenly came from the mysterious air, the product of what the mechanistic clue had indicated to me.\u00a0 \u00a0<\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

In summary, this took the form of mountainous glazed cakes and similar sumptuous indulgence, and a dwelling on the curious (flights through geography and topology). I felt fine fears, heightened to a razor\u2019s edge of subtle influences on rarely touched nerves, I felt the turning of a gear and suddenly I was an eel on a sand beach, flopping back and forth with hundreds of others, trying to get back into the sea. It seemed an evening spent, but at its end, I was looking down at my watch, and no time had passed. I was sitting on my scooter at a light, and the headlight was steadily on.<\/span><\/p>\n

It is hard to characterize anything more deeply of this experience. If someone were to ask me, then, how is the work of Kally Ornett, I would have to say, it is future reaching, if I were not in the mood to speculate further, which I mostly am not. If you are left cold by contemporary art, you may want to consider being a little more sensitive to the details and accidents of your life, as the awareness of them is the gateway to the backstage, the invisible mechanism by which the fabrication of the ghost gallery and its pantheon of artists, (who are after all some small deposits of imperfection on the course of your day,) hinges.\u00a0<\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

<\/p>\n

A Pregnant Fly, A Hungry Dog, and a Cat in Heat Enter Otherwise Unattended Art Exhibitions<\/span><\/strong><\/h3>\n

\"just_a_fly_on_the_wall_by_ragdollar\"<\/p>\n

Testimony one: A Pregnant Fly<\/span><\/h4>\n

\u2026feeling like I could burst. I must have upwards of six hundred eggs, maybe I can get six or seven batches out of that, increase their chances. I remember when I was a larva, seems not so long ago, pushing my way out into the world a few hours after I arrived, an innocent little drop. How was I to know the life that lay ahead? Ah, to be yet born, to be a perky maggot, to be a young and optimistic fly again -. Now, to be on the verge of my last act before I repose into that great windowpane in the sky, a dried out shell of an organism, so much house dust waiting to be swept away, gives me pause. Let me land here on this wall and enjoy for some small time, the limited revelry of a house fly. Maybe it\u2019s because of a previous life, as another creature with more singular and forward directed eyes, that I can imagine what it would be like to not be hung with these wrap around viewers, through which I am confronted with a multitude of images, rather than the one I know is there. Still, these compound goggles help direct me to where I need to go, and for that, in this short life, I should be grateful. What else may I ponder? Well, rising, I can feel that left wing hinge is starting to go. I had better dump my loads, and soon, before I\u2019m just another grounded bloater expecting a footfall on her. What\u2019s this? Where I would expect a flat white wall, I see a swirl of lines, and such vibrant color! And ridges, and furrows, like mountains from a magazine (a fly\u2019s only way to travel the world is to land on an open photo magazine in a dentist\u2019s office). Whatever its intent, I think, considering my state, it will have to suit my needs. Odd, I can usually tell the purpose of a thing. Something warm, it\u2019s where you sleep. Something moving, helps you go. Something smelly, you should eat. Lacking those, then what is left? I have to think, a place for me, and any others who may come this way, to rid themselves of spawn and progeny, an incubator of the foul and rancid, as that is what becomes of all that exits without a cause. So, here it comes, and bombs away!\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

Testimony two: A Hungry Dog\u00a0<\/span><\/h4>\n

Smell cleaner, disinfectant. Smell varnish, oil product, pine, dirty iron, like slight rust on nails, rough fabric. Smell human, deodorant and sweat, hear a distant voice, locate, there in back, be quiet, they won\u2019t come. Here\u2019s the prize, a table radiating a circus of smells, I smell cheeses, cheddar, gouda, and blue I would say, pepperoni, like on a pizza slice in someone\u2019s trash, something acrid, oh, that\u2019s wine, hummus, God, wouldn\u2019t touch that if I wasn\u2019t starved, ham, olives, three kinds of cracker, one made with sour dough, and shrimp, and chicken wings\u2026 God, I\u2019m drooling a puddle, what good luck. Okay, have to have a strategy, want to rush in but I could lose it all if I don\u2019t plan. I might be able to reach a cheese plate that\u2019s near the edge without jumping up, just stretch my neck and lick the closest slices until they tumble over the edge \u2013 low risk, but the supply available will be quickly exhausted. Hearing one voice, not two. Check around the corner, there he is, in a swivel chair, on the phone, faced away. That betters my chances. So I could do a snatch and run, and get as much as I can fit in my mouth, or a couple of gulps before he chases me away, or I could deal with him first, and take my time. Well it\u2019s been a while. Used to be a guard dog, before I got stupid and wandered off. I think I could still pull off a surprise attack \u2013 just go for the throat and don\u2019t let go until he stops moving. Then feast at my leisure. Wow, that\u2019s a beautiful landscape painting on the wall\u2026 okay, kill, kill! <\/span><\/p>\n

Testimony three: A Cat in Heat<\/span><\/h4>\n

If I\u2019d had a choice I would have gotten myself spayed. Now look at me, stiff legged and gyrating. Can\u2019t stop moaning. Meow, meow, sound like a slowed down recording of Michael Jackson. And I hate contemporary art\u2026 but I love it ! Established, emerging, primitive, conceptual, it doesn\u2019t matter, I want to \u201cdo\u201d them all. Always sneaking in, hiding out inside until it\u2019s lights out, like a common derelict. Why, my ancestors were revered in the courts of Nefertiti, I\u2019m no street cat. How I\u2019ve tried to quit you, you delicious art objects, but every time I think I\u2019ve conquered my addiction, they put a billboard up announcing a MOMA or a MET exhibit, and I\u2019m pulled right back in. I suppose I should give myself some credit though. I used to be all about that, musking the walls of the museums, shagging the artifacts of performance artists and marking installations. Toning it down has helped my own self-image, as well as kept me from getting kicked repeatedly in the shins by museum guards. Now I largely do the smaller galleries, sneak in on the private showings, and target exhibitions hung by special guest curators who I know by reputation as mounting the most current trend setters. Sorry, I digress, this show looks promising, I can jump up on these pedestals pretty easily, and these constructions are so appealing, like a cross between the capture of the sensual gesture points of the erotic action painter, and the spiritual seductions of a conceptual folklorist \u2013 and I think I can wrap my legs around them too!\u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0<\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

Frames<\/span><\/h3>\n

\"5253cf8d7956badf13b316474b0f1d83_slide\"<\/p>\n

I could take a picture from my desk, pop the image out and place the frame around my thumb, or ring it around my neck, and wear it through the day, and therein capture each expression, and every word I say, and call it some production of the artist\u2019s craft. Having not done that, maybe I will this afternoon, and see how it goes. Or maybe just consider one whose work has touched more deeply any such related theme or introspection I\u2019ve proposed. Unselfconsciously and in a way of singular autobiography, one artist seems clear and apart in the implication and the talent of \u201cframing.\u201d <\/span><\/p>\n

More generally considered the master of more accurately \u201cthe limiting and the bounding of a section,\u201d Gee Burru anointed every fountain and well of his life with the presence of a closely following and calculated \u201cother,\u201d a fabrication of mind that was in fact his projected self yet not the pilot of his vehicle, or the arbiter of his will. It was rather a flaccid observer with a single armature, capable of a single focused thing at a time while his namesake proper, Gee Burru, continued with his daily routines and responses. This second other was most capable in the realm of pinpointing the angles of the hypothetical \u201cframe\u201d of the simply termed act of \u201cframing,\u201d with manifest expression as far out of the geometrical shape of routine and monotony as one could imagine; it was, in this sense, Gee Burru\u2019s negative.<\/span><\/p>\n

Who knows how any soul\u2019s potential other impacts the secondary world which it implies, with its full force of primary acts and necessities. For instance, is the other\u2019s body manifest physically, does it maintain its own quarters, marry, have vocation, and reproduce distinctly on its own? <\/span><\/p>\n

In particular, we have the evidence of a handful of progressions. The first, and we can call this the introductory work, is what has been referred to as the \u201cBand-aid Stack.\u201d There is not a lot of information about Gee Burru\u2019s childhood, but it is known from public record that he was born in Longfang, which is now known as Highfang, in the Cribcorner District, in the year 1810AF, with alternate birthdates of AF70 and AF9, accounting for doubling of some aspect of himself dating back to his birth. In addition to this remarkable fact is the antiquity of his arrival; indeed, there is no record of his passage back, which indicates, as all records are accurately kept in this regard in the continental region, that he continues to exist, and at an equally amazing age of 1079AFB, which makes him almost immortal. We know that the first application of band-aids to his left forearm were carried out by another hand, as each one is dated, and signed, with the signature of a barkeep famous for her delinquent debts on Ohoh road. <\/span><\/p>\n

You have to remember, this was before there was a standard, and as yet, in these more historical times, the artistry of wound support was not yet established. In the first days of the art, it was improvisational, and without a fixed vocabulary. And, there was little prospect for a practitioner. There were no dedicated museums, mentor systems, or universities for the field. There was no compulsion to preserve. It was only through transcendent confidence that a future was imagined which might embrace, and not destroy, such an artifact, that it survived. <\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0 <\/span>One band-aid was placed on top of another, in the hint of a permanent and continuous progression, and with no understanding that the previous one should be removed, and not accumulated, but replaced. In that respect, there is an element of the \u201calien to experience\u201d that characterizes the act. Another aspect is the tacit bourgeoisie fact of cultivating the accumulating stack of band-aids, which could be an alternative interpretation of the very factor of accumulation. In this case, it would be considered crucially significant that the stack would require Gee Burru be largely stationary in his life, as is required by other similar status claims, such as excessive growth of fingernails and toenails to show the lack of the necessity to engage in work. We should also consider the aspect of continuity with setting. \u201cBand-aid\u201d is a registered trademark of the Johnson and Johnson company, that in our time system was established in around -001AF, and collapsed with all independent ventures on that continent in the year 66 ABF. This obviously impacts availability of the authentic item outside of Gee Burru\u2019s time frame, as well as these years also existing parallel to our physics, which is widely known and discussed, and as such, there is little likelihood authentic items for parallel A physics were or will ever be available to us here (in parallel B). So, we are left to doubt the functionality of the bandaging in the pre- artistry wound support period. The band-aids were then replicas, fabricated assuredly at some expense, and, pure aesthetic-as-quotation. <\/span><\/p>\n

The height of the stack is what strikes this viewer most immediately. The layers have been examined and cataloged in a painstaking process of careful peeling back, restoring to exactly the previous arrangement, and the trussing, harnessing, and scaffolding of the entire stack to avoid a larger, irreparable tipping or tilting. Kudos to the curatorial and assessment team that dealt with the archival process. There are all told six hundred and seventy thousand band-aids in a single vertical stack which passes through the restoration lab ceiling and out into the sky above, protected there by a thick glass bubble that maintains a steady temperature and humidity. The examination continues, and thus far, three hundred signatures have been cataloged from the various levels of the band-aid stack, though they have not been historically researched as yet, which will likely necessitate extensive bibliography and annotation for this artifact, the work of which will be at least in part dependent on continued funding, always in question. <\/span><\/p>\n

Retiring this theme for the present, we may consider the other significant quality of the Gee Burru legacy. That would be, the \u201cother\u201d of the so called doubling of a life, which I previously mentioned. The evidence that this dividing self exists is almost entirely in the context of interpretation, which after aesthetic standardization (that signaled the cultural establishment we know today) parses in only a few directions, and as critical thinkers, we have only a small amount of work required of us in determining which direction any given work may lay in. \u201cOtherness,\u201d regardless of whether historical or contemporary, is to the largest extent qualified locally by unexplained creative phenomenon corresponding in time to the presence of whatever subject is in question. In the immediate years after the three accepted and alternative birth dates of Gee Burru, an improvisational music commonly performed in small music training booths where you would find pigeon roost today became subject to an infection-like variation. Musicians, performing on as tradition demanded, an instrument of their own fabrication, yet all became infected with a similar urge, to created passages of \u201cghost\u201d notes, which were not actually played, but rather implied, because they were suggested by spaces and harmonic sense between clearly denoted pitches. Thus, improvisation also contained \u201cghost\u201d music, implied, but silent, or \u201cother\u201d spontaneous composition, existing from seeming hesitation, or the attempt at more expressive styles, or imperfect technique. Currently, there are close to eighty transcription of the \u201cghost\u201d or \u201cother\u201d composition. Some implications of these absences are not in the range of musical pitches, determination made by the standardized interpretations, so, the transcriptions are often in the graphic realm. These images may be seen, along with replicas of the band-aid stack (the \u201coriginal\u201d replica as I have indicated is being delicately studied in laboratory conditions) at the central museum of the Cribcorner District, which maintains a permanent and developing collection and research archive of all material relating to Gee Burru. <\/span><\/p>\n

Before these terms became common, principles of framing must have been understood as mental aberration or witchcraft, and sufferers from art\u2019s demands would need to be careful at every turn. Burru was obviously protected in his life, both by others and himself, from costing him his life for his futurism. It says something that he has yet to come forward. Perhaps, it is habit that keeps him from showing himself today, the oldest of our species, and arguably the most profound. I am supposing it is possible he holds greater secrets, still outside of our contemporary appreciation, and this is what keeps him ever cautious, outside, and other.\u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0<\/span><\/span><\/p>\n\r\n\t\t