October 2005
Is formalism an expression of conceptualism. Doesn’t formalism ask about the nature and sense of the language of art. But what does all this matter in the end, when the author has to choose between different solutions? What good does it do when he throws his ballot into the ballot box, and votes for one of the empty and false possibilities on offer.
The dance of Saturday has thrown society into the consumption of new and newer artistic objects. I could not resist my legitimate needs.
I was masturbating for so long that I tore my frenum and when I looked at it up close I realised that the word postconceptualism was written on it.
Snatches of sentences written just before the exhibition opening. Information about time can also serve as an alibi, but it has to do with suspicion and implausibility; self-confidence could be the right solution.
It is unusual how many works of art have no title, what a great amount of them are called Untitled or given a mere date. They cannot be mistaken for one another; when I speak of one work of art, it is rarely perceived as being another one. And even stranger is the fact that the only thing that has a name at this exhibition relates to the past: it is a grouping of artefacts from an exhibition that has already taken place.
When I look for the reasons for creation, I see nothing but the opposite of abundance, plenty and fullness. I have overeaten; I am slightly sick.
How many moments were there in my life when I could say that I had really lived fully, that this Saturday was absolutely unique. Or is this just the talk of lifestyle magazines, that disappears with the blood on the slips of toilet paper, with the headache and the flush of the toilet.
It is apparently indisputable that I am a member of a generation that is unable to express itself; our rhetorical abilities have long ago been stunted at the level of a speckled newt. Despite all this we attempt to do so, and maybe after some time we will be able to set a standard, a normal level of these abilities for future generations. I would like to say that I hope I will not live to see this, but it is not true.
Exhibition without text and contents, head without thoughts.
It is morning, the street is empty. I look into the darkness, and despite this the mirror ball turns in the torches of sun rays and glints around the boundaries of the whole space. It is Saturday, it is good to put on some nice clothes, comb your hair, spray your armpits with deodorant and set out into the black morning.
I considered two solutions of how to present the presently originating text: either to print individual excerpts on coloured papers, in randomly chosen letter sizes and group them in a big coloured clot on the wall; or to print the text on one paper with gradually diminishing letters until they become illegible.
Each of these options has several secondary possibilities. The choice is difficult, the decisions are awkward and there is also a third way – not to participate.
Reality is grasping, a critic and ticket-checker, and the artists are fareless passengers, sometimes, someone, always, almost everyone, here and now.
Saturday comes after Monday, havoc and emptiness after boredom and importance. Let’s replace problems with pleasure, art with entertainment - there is no other way, anyway.
Only generalisation is brave.
What is it like to write only one’s opinion. Not to quote, not to think up various conceptual methods to hide it, but just say it simply and directly.
The pubs are full as well as the clubs, the drunkards stagger on the street, many loving couples decided to set out into the night in search of entertainment. The night could appear as a virgin and full of possibilities, but nevertheless, in the most distant corner of your mind, my doubt was hiding far behind the screen of dance, alcohol and sex.
Isn’t choice an order and possibility a given fact. We make a choice, or we only think that we make a choice. What are my abilities, where do they reach - behind the boundaries of this country, this language.
I would like to be a successful artist, so that art could be the intermediary to money, high-quality delights, fulfilled life. The way is clear, only my incapability is alarming.
I use the pronoun I and we, according to some key. Maybe not.
Little work, great reaction, fascinating success. It is only my motto, or also of my colleagues.
Can content become form. Isn’t the recognition of such works of art whose contribution is based on a single content characteristic the cause leading to content formalism. What is the difference, if I praise fleetingness as a virtue or if I choose to praise liquidity in its place. However, I should have used the word ephemerality. What for, exactly. Why is it better to choose the exotic equivalent of a common word?
Everything belongs to me, but also to you. Questions, doubts, stupidity and the exhibition. We sail on the same ship and they don’t show much on the TV, it is fucking shit. I will probably have to decorate it with beads, as it stinks - no, stinks is not enough, it reeks awfully. We dance and somebody smears the floor with his feet. It is me. It is one of you.
My question mark key doesn’t work; I hope you will not come to hate me for that.
Towards morning, small pimples appeared on the skin in the place where my hand bends. It itches, so I scratch it, I scratch off the layers of skin, it stays behind my fingernails. A slimy liquid floats from the wound and before the evening comes it clots on my clothes. I go to bed and the situation changes once more before the morning comes. The skin surrounding the scabs becomes dry as a bone, crumbles, and when I am changing into my pyjamas it falls on the mattress like snow in thick wails.
I would like to quote, but I am too lazy to look up a quote somewhere, and of course I don’t remember any suitable one.
Words do not aim towards their meaning from the start; they circle around mindlessly, touch something here and there and become immediately distant; it is possible to add anything anytime. The lavish freedom of their use, their unlimited offer has overlaid itself and unrestrainedly rolled out its own meaning until it become completely vague. This is another reason why my coming exhibition could be called Ulrich.
Each commitment is a limitation of individuality or its fulfilment.
Anyway, I don’t care about anything, it has come to my mind now - yes, this might be my message – indifference.
What is left while watching the sunset but to steal colours, shapes, rip away and debone other people’s works of art, fill them with local marasmus and my own ambivalence, and grow bitter while looking at the picture, retreat within myself, see the impulses sent from above and stick it out here until I die.
When I am self-conscious and don’t want to show my doubts, it is better not to express any content; avoid content altogether and deal exclusively with form in my production.
Saturday is Friday’s hangover. Metaphor as competitiveness.
Ingratiate myself with… and hunt him down, somebody prominent, somebody influential, flatter him and show him my work, explain it to him, but avoid any effusiveness in this respect, be seen in society with him to a sensible extent, talk about my conversations with him, oppose him slightly at times, but not too much, consider this activity as another opportunity for my own creativity, at least as far as it is of use.
A clot, a bloody node, the Gordian knot of liberalism, pluralism, balance, positive values, peculiarity, aesthetics, the social - context has got stuck in my throat. I wheeze, cannot catch my breath. Shall I disentangle it or cut it.
The metastasis of problems, the rawness of impossibility, the obsession with stupidity, the courage of nobody.
I can feel it in the wind, the negative energy, its rushes, thunderous surges, joyful hatred, the urge for the opposite, I don’t know why, but I don’t feel like searching for the motives.
To be an artist or to play the role of an artist.
Marek Meduna, 2005
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