How long shall I wait for you?
Do not wait for me. I am tired and I want to lie down.
Are you tired and do you want to lie down?
Yes, I am tired and I want to lie down.
Went to a fantastic lecture today by one of my favorite writers, Diedrich Diederichsen, who was discussing the artist Martin Kippenberger. At the very beginning of the talk, he alluded to the idea of “sequentiality” in Kippenberger’s work. Sequencing has been on my mind a great deal lately because of the exhibition I’m co-organizing. (It’s called “To Illustrate and Multiply: An Open Book and it opens at MOCA, Los Angeles, on October 19.)
In a way that I can’t even begin to paraphrase, Diedrich elucidated the “endlessness” of Kippenberger’s practice — i.e., the ways in which Kippenberger’s work would lead to other work (a path that is decidedly non-linear in reality) but would also lead to work done by others (friends, assistants) that would be part of his practice. And when Kippenberger became unable to do the work he would set another in motion to do it for him. And so on, and so on…
Diedrich also talked about what amounts to a joke deprived of its punchline, a joke that can go on and on endlessly without the closure provided by a punchline.
A couple of specific thoughts came to mind that I want to remember for later:
If MK’s practice was somehow based on endlessness, how does it feel to be one of those who made work for him? What is it like to work in the shadow of someone who worked in this way? Is it a concern that any work done by those people henceforth is co-optable under this rubric? I’ve recently observed that some artists who were close to Kippenberger during his life have sought to distance themselves from his legacy and I wonder if this is an act of artistic survival for those artists who are still alive or is it a refutation of something that threatens to become commodified.
Also, I am intrigued by the potential that could be yielded through a consideration of sequenciality in an artist’s practice. Perhaps for some, one thing leads to the next and so one, but for many the path is more rhizomatic. And, in deference to a model that Diedrich himself likes to call out in his writing, one often discovers the presence of internal loops — of the eternal return to certain themes and ideas that lead elsewhere each time they are revisited. Certainly that is the case for me. I am often surprised to find myself thinking about something that preoccupied me many years ago but it continues to be generative, especially in the context of the current moment, as it leads me in a new direction (which turns out to take me to the place I started). This blog is proof of that.
More on sequentiality later. Thank-you Diedrich — and Martin, wherever you are.
Boredom is the dream bird that hatches the egg of experience. A rustling in the leaves drives him away.—Walter Benjamin
I used to be afraid of boredom. Now I am embrace it.
If I were a cinnamon peeler
I would ride your bed
and leave the yellow bark dust
on your pillow.
Your breasts and shoulders would reek
you could never walk through markets
without the profession of my fingers
floating over you. The blind would
stumble certain of whom they approached
though you might bathe
under rain gutters, monsoon.
Here on the upper thigh
at this smooth pasture
neighbor to your hair
or the crease
that cuts your back. This ankle.
You will be known among strangers
as the cinnamon peeler’s wife.
I could hardly glance at you
before marriage
never touch you
— your keen nosed mother, your rough brothers.
I buried my hands
in saffron, disguised them
over smoking tar,
helped the honey gatherers…
When we swam once
I touched you in water
and our bodies remained free,
you could hold me and be blind of smell.
You climbed the bank and said
You touched
your belly to my hands
in the dry air and said
I am the cinnamon
peeler’s wife. Smell me.
It is conceivable that the artist might once again be completely integrated in society as he was in the Middle Ages. Today he is hardly likely to find himself unless he is a non-conformist and a rebel. To say this is neither dangerous nor new. It is what society really expects of its artists. For today the artist has, whether he likes it or not, inherited the combined functions of hermit, pilgrim, prophet, priest, shaman, sorcerer, soothsayer, alchemist, and bonze. How could such a man be free? How can he really “find himself” if he plays a role that society has predetermined for him? The freedom of the artist is to be sought precisely in the choice of his work and not in the choice of the role as “artist” which society asks him to play. – Thomas Merton, Raids on the Unspeakable
A man’s work is nothing but this slow trek to discover, through the detours of art, these two or three great and simple images in whose presence his heart first opened.” —Albert Camus
All writing is in fact cut-ups. A collage of words read heard overheard. What else?
- William S. Burroughs
vacant mouths gaping on the shelf sallow skull
of the eastern moon minus its black tongue bivalve
sunrise unhinged hollowed red tooth shell the closing
of their form postponed (it is because there are empty
spaces we are able to use them)
as a child I believed everything ever said would be heard
again the slow accretion of every word every sound
as in the conch my aunt kept against her living room door
when pressed to the ear the far-off roar of an island
a muffled heart a droning of no song
teach me song, i
would sing, teach me
love. i would
i were open
to it. teach me
to pray
privately, praise
quietly
those things
i should. show me
the grace
of movement
& touch – that much
i would offer
to her. teach me
more – a way
for me
to reach her
who beckons
hesitantly. teach me
to be sure.
Scalp condition
Swelling and water retention around face and neck
Hemodialysis shunt in neck
Blood blisters on face
Sore on ear from oxygen tube
Thrush
Sore neck, shoulders, and back from lying in same position
Imprint of folds on back (red and irritated skin)
Incision beneath shoulder blade for drainage of left lung
Skin abrasion from tearing of dressing on skin near armpit
Stomach tube for feeding
Sore backside from lying in same position
Extremely dry cracked skin on arms and legs
Blown veins from unsuccessful IV attempts
Holes on wrists from being poked for IV
Swollen wrists from effects of chemo-therapy (when hands were in constant pain)
Sore red heels from lying in same position
Cold feet from poor circulation
Additionally:
Pneumonia in left lung then right lung
Coughing with need for suction
Coughing to the point of vomiting
After dialysis:
Increased heart-rate (heart racing)
Low blood pressure
Light-headedness
Fever
Ongoing:
Depression
