In my dream last night I was skiing and hit a fresh new patch of snow, I thought, 'Fuck, I am really not that good on powder, even though most avid skiers flock to find it', so I lifted my skis and pointed them across the slope, I leaned back and turned abruptly, 'Phew, I got out of that one', I directed myself into a groomed patch. I was on a hill at Copper Mountain in CO, it was the spot where I learned to skate backwards on small skis when I was in high school. The dream probably had to do with looking at second job options this past week, searching for what comes next is like having to make my own tracks, an interview with Kogeto, my quick application to be the Head of Tours at the New Museum. I like the gamete, irregularity breads personal growth outside of the demarcating stamp of our hyper-capitalist economy. Fuck, it makes my legs hurt, or was that my pride. Okay, I'm okay, I lift the tips and drift to the charted groomed area of the slope, a day job, it is calmer to take hold of what one has. 'You are a little Napoleon,' that is what Joey said, why is he right all the time, 'you go into that Museum, work there for two weeks and now you want to run the place'.
The next day my co-worker crouches behind Lynda Benglis' 'Sherbet' a pile of neon polyurethane foam, he is a part of the artwork, the cherry on top. The works seep onto the ground like a drooping ice cream on a hot day, possibly its drips creep over the side of the counter, maybe we are at Dennys, those old bright runaways from Lynda's treat, drying and sticky.
My coworker says that he will defend Lynda's neon foam, so he stands closer to it, now it is his land, flag on top, laughter happens, from him or me? Who started that, or finished it? Things are arid and desolate, the pauses between people at a work place, standing around with nothing between us to accomplish except slight regulations, endless time and space. Who starts and stops the warbling in the valley of silence, the murmur bubbling out, a break in the otherwise still? I chime in right on top of his reactions, finishing his quips with an assurance 'You and me buddy, we get each other'. He knows our relationship more than me, he has friends at the job, so easy, when you get each other. I think they are all very smart. I think that everyone is smart, everyone has a land that they are the master of, taking care of the territory of their perception and logic. I know that they are picking up things I cannot see, and same for me.
Sometimes for fun I look to see what each persons 'good' is, it tells the truth about their personal morality, none of us are deeply reliant on what we have been told without translating it into our own thoughts and active truths. Besides, each one of us is changing daily, making something, the will of the world, our greatest desire, the sinful fruit of purposeful labor.
If we are different all the time, and the artwork lives in each of us, after all the audience is the one who enlivens the work with observation, than where does an artwork end? Or a country for that matter, or history? The document of our shared reality keeps evolving in its people, the audience, the makers, I call that the active object, that is the theater that I wish I could make, the moving kind, with no master, not even language, or a stage, but a brewing understanding, not a religion, not a doctrine, that is for the weak willed, but a theater that is all about what people make because they saw what I showed, what can I help you to generate, poetic, charged, did marketing teach me that or did I teach that to marketing, through this blog, Google said what I said what Google said, the flag is on top, my co-worker laughs for me and with me, passing time, two months ago I would not have seen him and he would not have noticed me, just another guest, but look at me, I wear a neon pink sweatshirt in my off hours.
Next I dreamed about the theater, all these people in colorful clothing running around and kicking their legs on the floor, 'That is where Doris went wrong,' I thought, 'the theater is about action, it is so fucking god damn absolutely physical' I cuss here because I think that is more physical, like the Lynda Benglis piece 'Blat' that I stood at the tip of yesterday for five hours without moving, so my dreams have told me that the theater is charged through action. This is why I am afraid of the image filled stage that I always desire to make, I had wanted to create energy pieces before, went to Dia for the big sit, fuck, it was so slow, fuck, fuck, so slow, fuck, it was so fucking god damn piece of beauty slow.
I want to talk about all my artworks in ways that are made of dirt from now on. There is so much promotion, to me it feels more graphic to go the other way, if I say 'This show truly sucks, you probably should do something else with your night like getting blasted on crack and Four Loco, it is an utter waste of time, don't even think about being thoughtful or considerate here, it is a true piece of shit and I recommend going to work, or talking with your mom, or getting stuck on the G train over trying to make out what these pretentious naive brats are pulling out of their memories of a liberal arts education that seriously, ended five years ago, why aren't they over that shit? Why are they drawing you in with this spectacle of multi-media crap, show me the photo and don't waste my time. This show is part of the new movement in theater that is trying to get you in the door rather than present you with gut wrenching, truth involving, deep characters caught in a tragic plot, but do you even care as an audience? Life is too draining to not spend your off hours watching TV on your own clock, with the invention of the cell phone, and the internet, you don't even have time for coffee, so fuck theater for its watered down comment on life, which these artists have such small contact with anyway, they are speaking to you without finances, desperately expelling a voice that is unrefined, nebulous, and eccentric yet static. You want a beer, or a stir fry, or your bed, but not the crap being put on the stage and passed off as the theater. These artists have not earned it, you have not heard their company name before, you do not feel that the $10 you will give to this waste of time will be well spent, these people should go back to their low-end employment and stop asking for your attention'.
The reason to say things is that it might be true, I am an artist, not an entertainer, so, fuck, keep it moving.
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