Works in progress
Drawings, Paintings, Objects
-
This is a poetic statement: “Poetry is the decoding and recoding of what we actually are: agents of a multiple nothingness.”
It takes a certain amount of time, say four to five decades per person, a series of centuries (God knows, maybe millennia) from person to person, to find out if we have taken a few steps towards poetry.
Poetry is to be understood on the basis of poetic in its etymological meaning from Latin poeticus, from Greek poiētikos “relating to poetry”, literally “creative, productive”, from poiētos “made”, verbal adjective of poiein “to make”. A poet, then, is one who becomes an active agent by dividing the nothingness into something that is, as well as it is not.
This in my mind, the active surrender to the multiple nothingness, leaves me with only one question to ask. A question to be objectified, the object to be deconstructed, the particles thus dissected to be formalised, the forms to be composed.
There is no other object than the conditions of my bodily perception as it has taken place in my organs (from the digestive tract to the brain) from the sixteenth month of my birth, when my father implanted his telling into my fertile flesh, until today.
The question reads: “How do I stage the act of splitting the multiple nothingness into something that is, as well as it is not?”
-
how to share what is not to be seen / my little Anselino,
don't hit your head against the wallI've been going back and forth all
morning / as soon as I
got up / we still have bananas and
a whole mountain
of tangerines / the ground cover
plants have also
slightly damaged / they roll up their
leaves / to ward off
the cold / oil is scarce / when the
characters merge
into each other, as they appear on
the page in front
of me, doesn't say much about my
state in the world /
I grind the coffee beans / that's my
morning business /
our supply of coffee beans is running
out / as soon as the
boiling hot water vapour is pressed
through the sieve
filled with coffee powder and
emerges
as a deep brown
saturated liquid in the upper part of
the pot, the
sound typical of this type of coffee
preparation is created /how to share what is not to be seen /
my little Anselino,
don't hit your head against the walllet's venture an analysis / two
thematic
complexes are at the centre /
the four-fold triad and the end of
history / in fact,
we could only discuss this if we start
from our centre,
which lies hidden behind her
vertically swollen labia,
expanding into infinity / this is followed
by a drawing entitled:
schematic representation of the central
coordinates /how to share what is not to be seen /
my little Anselino,
don't hit your head against the wall
-
A knocking off, a shaking out of the apron, the cloth dusted with flour / the news speaks of a contamination of the tap water / it is recommended to boil the water before use / I set out, head to the academy / brush the flour off my pants beforehand / take a sip / as soon as the apple juice has been open for two days, it tastes fermented
–
while cleaning the coffee machine / you know, one of those that just sit on the stovetop / coffee crumbs fell to the floor / already spent / drained / their flavor sucked out / they looked like the crumbs left by the mouse we caught in a live trap / I had to wipe them up / not much use as trail markers anyway
–
wandering aimlessly in small steps, with a longingly searching gaze, hoping a marker or sequence would appear / perhaps the split sky behind the panes of glass that are fitted together in squares / the widely spread leaves of the rhododendron in the blue-striped vase / only a tiny, oh so tiny mouse crumb, easily mistaken for black sesame, I found on the middle cushion of the couch / I think that’s enough to ensure I won’t stray from the right path in the day’s tasks
-
In relation to objectification we always have to deal with the tension between our immediate movement (especially breathing and heartbeat) and the congealed trace of it, that is the drawing in the sense of coding the movement as such, that is without any other reverence than being in motion.
The question of what the object is therefore belongs much more to the actualisation of the drawing as an act than to the subject in the sense of a face, a body, an animal, a plant, a landscape or part of any kind of urbanity. At the end of the creative act, the dissection of nothingness, a scenery is put on stage in which the subjects (face, body, objects, etc.) appear in differentiated repetitions. What is repeated and thus differentiated is movement as an object.
So the question “How do I stage the act of splitting the multiple nothingness into something that is, as well as it is not?” is objectified by my movements in the act of poetry.
-
Drawing is the deconstruction of what we perceive. We have to break it down to the basic code, to the up and down, left and right, to the dimension of the surface. The third dimension is a valid materially constructed illusion, the sheet we are working on is a part of it. We ourselves are three-dimensional illusions, based on the virtuality of everything real.
Virtuality, nounification from the adjective virtual, late, 14th century, “influencing by physical virtues or capabilities, effective with respect to inherent natural qualities,“ from Latin virtus “excellence, potency, efficacy“. In the sense of poetry, the virtual given by the dissection of nothingness, which is and is not at the same time. Thus, identical with our self: agents of a multiple nothingness.
-
Hiroshima and Auschwitz are the definitive end of history. We could go on counting the so-called most important actions in politics, culture, the environment, year after year, but it does not change the fact. As early as the 1930s, Walter Benjamin was well aware of the end that had already been announced. Let's face the fact that history is an invention to predict a constant development that will lead to a certain future, a better or worse one, depending on whether we are pious and follow the commandments. No matter what ideology in this world or faith in the next it may be. There are no more promises, the warnings are overwhelming. The future has become a black hole that seems to absorb all hope in a matter of seconds, a pure, impenetrable nothingness. Take away the human invention and the future has become what it always was for each individual: unpredictable.
The interconnections between actuality, reality and virtuality are far too complex for any reasonably reliable prediction to be made about the development of the self.
From the perspective of poetry, this is a very welcome insight. History as we have known it has lost its oppressive power. The idea of becoming powerful, famous, rich, and thus immortal in the sense of history, is simply absurd. The really important question of survival is rather how to create a togetherness based on a diversity forced by deconstructing the multiplicity of nothingness.
For this togetherness we need a proper language, a tool for composing the self's connection to itself, to other selves and to the whole environment. Now the poetic task is to use the particles and elements extracted from the deconstruction of the self (our living movements) to create the forms needed for our compositions.
-
The work of composition demands a few more questions. Firstly, how to actively surrender to the actual present around us, a present filled with the formalisations we have carried out ourselves, as well as those we inevitably find in the same places we used to store the forms, formalised by those elements and particles we have gained by deconstructing the objectification of our basic question.
There is no possibility of composition without our active surrender to the actualised forms. The question is how to do this. In order to surrender, we need a valid reference, i.e. another question. With an answer or an assumption we will not get anywhere. A question strong enough to follow: How to encode the living movements of what can only be actualised in the act of participation?
The composition is nothing more than giving the questions the form of a scenery. A scenery that is, in fact, the encoding of the random operations or unpredictable possibilities of actualising the sequences that make up the scenery.
The interconnections between actuality, reality and virtuality are far too complex for any reasonably reliable prediction to be made about the development of the self.
From the perspective of poetry, this is a very welcome insight. History as we have known it has lost its oppressive power. The idea of becoming powerful, famous, rich, and thus immortal in the sense of history, is simply absurd. The really important question of survival is rather how to create a togetherness based on a diversity forced by deconstructing the multiplicity of nothingness.
For this togetherness we need a proper language, a tool for composing the self's connection to itself, to other selves and to the whole environment. Now the poetic task is to use the particles and elements extracted from the deconstruction of the self (our living movements) to create the forms needed for our compositions.
-
The assumption that the result of composition can already be the finished production of drawing, painting or any other artistic technique (in the sense of producing what we call a classical work of art) is a misunderstanding of what composition and production actually are. There is a sharp boundary between being in the process of composition and having completed it. Once your work is framed (in whatever way), it belongs to production (in the past tense of our access). It is important to consider the fundamental difference between working on art and a produced work of art. An essential part of the composition is the use of pencil, brush, paint or other materials. The tools and materials extend the movements of the body, or actualise them by forming the elements of a composition.
The work of art as soon as we let go of it is a machine-like system that produces neurophysical actuality as well as the divided multiplicity of nothingness, we call time and space.
It becomes clearer when we talk about objects or products that are designed with the aim of multiplying them. Now the boundary between a composition, the result of which is a kind of prototype, and production is obvious. Production can be based on handicraft or industrial means.
Even in the case of multiplication (by printing, manufacturing or staging), our aim is to produce a system or method according to which the composition can be carried out in terms of togetherness (as objects of participation) through repetition and thus differentiation. The act of composing thus becomes an object in itself, or more precisely, an object of performing interactions.
In my work, the means of production are actually beyond my direct access. I use the verbal objectification (in the form of notations) and the coloured drawings as the basis for images and animations, whose elements, or more precisely whose numbered particles, are taken from the collective aesthetic subconscious as it is found in the latent space. In this way, the sequences are placed on a public stage in order to show one or two of the infinite possibilities of dividing the multiplicity of nothingness.
-
In the sense of literally “to make common”, communicate (“to share, divide, impart, inform; to join, unite, participate in”) is directly related to the word “common”, approx. 1300, “belonging to all, owned or used in common, general, of a public nature or character”, from Old French comun “common, general, free, open, public”, from Latin communis “in common, public, shared by all or many; general, not specific; familiar, not pretentious”. The from goes back to the Proto-Indo-European compound ko-moin-i- “held in common”, compound adjective formed from ko- “together” + moi-n-, suffixed form of the root mei- “to change, go, move”, hence literally “shared by all”.
So communication means our duty to share what we have produced with all, or at least as many as possible. In our time, especially in the age of the Internet, sharing means copying the object as often as possible and ideally, spreading it worldwide. In this understanding a media product can be shared with an infinite number of people. This inevitably leads to a struggle for attention, but struggling for attention has nothing to do with communication. We have lost our way and failed in our duty.
So communication is first and foremost about dealing with the fact of limitation. If there is anything to communicate, it is that participation in the object is limited by the object itself. You could say that on the Internet everything is always available. Yes, consumption is there, but not participation. The formula is rather: to be communicated is the participation in an object, which as such is limited, but as soon as someone actually participates, the act of objectification is involuntarily repeated and thus varied and differentiated. How does this work?
Since, through production, we provide not only the object but also the system or method of participation, participation becomes identical with the first step towards composition, which is deconstruction. To participate is to deconstruct, to formalise, to compose according to the movements inherent in the object.
-
I write and draw by surrendering deeply to not knowing. To not being able. I can't say what the result will be, but that it, insofar as I truly surrender to the momentum of writing and drawing, re-codes reality. So my writing and drawing is genuinely political.
Through writing and drawing, I record the movements of my father's telling and its physical impact on me, which penetrated deep into my childlike flesh and soul between my sixteenth month of birth and my second birthday.
I'll give you an example:
I hear the sound, a sequence of the sounds that my voice has always consisted of, as if it were the rough, broken whisper of my father, who spreads grains on my chest and rubs them into my skin with his fingertips.
Memory one: it wouldn't have taken much / I would have fallen asleep at the wheel / on the bridge, children stand and wave / they wear masks / that reach down to their belly buttons
Plays the piano on my narrow, childish ribs, then he beats the time with his flat hand, with his elbow along the bars.
Your mother's tears, embroidered on the Ottoman cloth you wore night after night, how they burn, the Arabic numerals you carved into my forehead with your pointed finger.
Memory two: they dangle their oversized rubber ears and stick out their tongues far over the railing / their tongues almost reach down to the butter-yellow tarpaulin of the lorry, whose driver stares down at your bare feet
Play the piano on my narrow, childish ribs, then he beats the time with his flat hand, with his elbow along the bars.
The road markings, carved and driven into my flesh once and for all, that I cut out of myself day after day along the word-lines and drawn shapes, conjure up what I cannot pronounce.
Memory three: your bare feet, which you press outstretched against the window as we drive past him at a moderate speed / a bare foot is followed by a bare leg and so on / that the big, round, googly eyes pop out of the brave lad's skull
Plays the piano on my narrow, childish ribs, then he beats the time with his flat hand, with his elbow along the bars.
