issue #0 10/10

04 Lighting in Layers Serena Lee 09 22 Answers and 2 Postcripts Mike Crane 12 WE SPEAK LAST Aislinn Thomas 14 Each to each other dreams of other’s dreams: a study in dislocation Chris Fite-Wassilak 18 Letter from New York Andrew Berardini 26 The irrelevance of originality. David Deery 29 “crossing the atlantic” or “a voyage over the atlantic” or something like that Henning Lundkvist 30 Is this a beginning? Leif Magne Tangen 36 Orange Neil Bickerton 44 Yellow and Blue Makes Green Lauren Wetmore

There are two tragedies in life. One is not to get your heart’s desire. The other is to get it.

ANAL is a quarterly periodical that addresses significant areas of contemporary art practice through articles, interviews & essays within a series of playful discourse by forwardthinking artists & writers. The periodical is available online, in PDF format and in print through a network of distributors.

Lighting in Layers by Serena Lee The first thing you see is the brightest. The next thing you see is not actually there. Owing to the fact that they imply more than one light source, double shadows have come to signify dubious morals and hidden motives. The doubling of light creates an uncanny presence; subconsciously we do not register this as a contradiction of the pervasive unity of first light, commonly accepted as natural – we only recognize that having more than one shadow doesn’t feel quite right. This is not just yellow, that’s what I’m trying to tell you, it’s not just a colour or a temperature adjustment or whatever... No, no, I’m not – no, it’s not about nostalgia, come on - this is not decorative, it’s important. They were talking about the Look again; she was trying to convince him of a certain economy of light and shadow. He was convinced that fluorescent would solve all their problems, but she stood her ground. An effective description of the subject can be achieved by lighting in layers; the trick is to consider light as a sharp blade that carves away shadow to reveal surfaces, defining the edges and thus the form of the subject. In its addition, light subtracts, and shows the contours that are perceived as limits; where the subject begins, ends, and is separate from the surrounding space. This method of description achieves the impression of natural light, consistent with broadcast standards, leaving the viewer undistracted by mise-en-scène and focused on action. To avoid double shadows, the Key dominated from its angle, five degrees from the centre line. It was almost balanced to daylight, as was the Backlight; the Fill on the other hand maintained the warmth typical of tungsten and was considerably more diffused than one would expect. He was taking Chinese brush painting classes when they had started working together. In rudimentary passing, he had mentioned how grass is stroked, compositions contrived, edges implied. She knew that he had a thing for negative space. This diagrammatic first impression had always irritated her, much like West Coast jazz did; she was exasperated by his brand of abstraction.

Presumably the confidence of the Key had been adjusted for the Special Glint. The effect resulted from a winning combination of minute focal and tonal adjustments in the Key that consequently dictated the placement of the Backlight. At first, the Glint had required a temperamental arrangement that was prone to overheating; one subject had fainted on such a set although the incident had been more or less attributed to hairspray. This brand of flattery for print was a game of focus, but ultimately the degree of its success would depend on the subject. Fluorescent lights naturally emit a faint green tone, barely perceptible to the human eye but noticeably garish on screen. They are favoured because of their moderate temperature; it is only after prolonged periods in tight spots that they begin to heat up, but then it is always a manageable heat. Nevertheless, thick leather gloves on any set are a wise precaution. Once, when they used to do most of the installation themselves in the smaller venues, she noticed a fleeting attraction to him. They worked closely in those days, and in retrospect she chalked it up to the combination of his profile and the splendid old redheads they had been using. His accentuated angles had caught her off-guard; she resolved to ignore it. They would use those lamps for several more shows until they had all burnt out or were lost to the European Union’s dispassionate commitment to sustainability. She knew he had finished his last cup of coffee for the morning and she could hear him relent through sarcasm: So you want to reproduce the Kodak tungsten look of sunlight that’s slightly crisper than late afternoon Northern Ontario Indian summer as it would appear through oak trees on an enclosed veranda facing southwest through late 19th century farmhouse windows, in a white cube studio with three-point lighting? In most cases, the Backlight is not worth mentioning in great detail, however the importance of shadow is not to be underestimated. Edges carved out of shadow by a correctly considered light reflect bulk and space. A typical example of overly dramatic backlight is the photo on the cover of Bob Dylan’s Greatest Hits, where the halo of his hair is treated as a discrete effulgence, discrete from the blue background, discrete from his face in shadow.

They agreed to meet for lunch to re-discuss shadow. She tossed her phone into her purse, grasped her keys, and slid on oversized animalprint sunglasses. Groping her way out of the darkened hallway, she braced herself for the noon outside.

There were footsteps in the hall. Entering, the gaffers cursed from the corners of their mouths; someone had forgotten to strike the set and now the lights were needed in the next studio. The gaffers sensed that the lamps could not be rushed and fished out their leather workgloves. They pulled the plugs and slouched in the wings, waiting for the lights to cool in the dark. •

Adjustments can be made to the subject, the lights, the set, and where applicable, the camera – but there is no simple answer for counter-acting, compensating, embellishing, capitalizing on the qualities of reflection and absorption: ºdo you spray some glycerin on the subject? vaseline? ºdo you sand it or hairspray it to dull excessive shine? It is difficult to come up with solutions on set, under pressure, in the heat of the moment. Gaining familiarity with basic three-point lighting will allow you to comfortably improvise in manipulating light and shadow for effective narration.


Press Release

Session_11_Press Release

(Romantically) Be my encourager. Let me down for me to restore sense. Be my denouncer, because all you need do is attempt for me to succumb. Succumb to the unexpected, to that of delightful bliss, to that of intellectual pursuit, to that of consequence - a consequence that your being commands, one you are obliged to hold. The objective of this piece of writing is to introduce or inform. Inform on matters that you are about to encounter. Matter seems an appropriate place to start, if anything this show is about matter in its entire register. Material, that which constitutes - there are the obvious or traditional, and then the modern and non-existent. We appear to have found a place where they manage to co-exist, one where they matter less. (Matter exists too here in its negative, the de- of material.) Subject, that which narrates - persuades the maker to set out on a journey, and also enables the ensuing encounter with a viewer. It will hold several possibilities, yet always find its distinctive voice when met accordingly and given time. (Through the process of recognition - aesthetic and ethical - a subject is at the same time an individual standing before the work)

22 Answers and 2 Postcripts Science Fiction Studies 40, ( November 1986 ) p.6
Question, that which reasons - query as a means for change, ones personal-political duty. A phenomenon with effect when posed and appreciated. A philosophical stance we all inhabit, and one for which art is to encourage. (Matters)

As you turn around, and make your way to the back of the gallery, a deliberate obstacle comes to mind. When contemplated, a sense of confusion and ease gather. The paradoxical nature of experience makes her stumble; luckily she landed yielding.

This exhibition is about the task inherent to the press release. Where does interpretation and engagement with text sit in relation to the experience one has with visual art? How does a curatorial practice negotiate a preexisting press release that is handed over to act for a yet non-existent exhibition?

You have said that philosophy’s weakness vis-à-vis science is that philosophy has no “other”, no test of failure, no inherent mode of self-correction. Doesn’t your work imply that science has a weakness vis-à-vis art? If not, why didn’t you become a scientist or an engineer? The world-models supplied by philosophers are arbitrary, in the sense that they do not contain appeals to some decisive factor in favor of a given proposal. The models supplied by science test themselves against reality, else the shuttle Discovery couldn’t have been flying around the planet. The scientific models do, however, spill over the boundaries of everyday utility; but wherever they do, they lose currency and become old and void. The products of dated technology are anachronistic, but never become “incompatible with reality”; Stephenson’s locomotive and Ford’s original automobile could run today as easily as in their heyday. On the other hand, the image of a world based on the 19th century’s atomism is outdated, discarded — indeed, incompatible with the truth. Only in this sense can science be said to “make mistakes”, and even so, science learns from its mistakes and moves on. A newer model is not the final one, either — that is, true once and for all. The world-models supplied by literature need not undergo the above process, provided that the problems under discussion themselves do not go away. There is no way to support science with literature and vice-versa, even though both are intellectual pursuits and tell us something new about the world. A literature that rejects science toto in corpore borders on the autistic, the nihilistic. Still, science and literature have incompatible agendas. Science attempts to show that the world is such and such, that phenomena have such and such a structure, and any questions asked of science on these subjects elicit changing answers. Literature, on the other hand, may pose questions that have no answers. It may pose problems that are not understood or understandable. It may concern itself with that which may befall humans or humanity. The boundaries of literature run at the bounds of articulated speech (ethnic speech). The boundaries of science lie where no language, no code, no simulation, no modeling would suffice for the purpose of posing questions and answering them. However, aside from living in everyday life and seriously doing science, people may and do like to play. Science may be a plaything and, in part, that is what my literature is.

Session_11_Press Release is curated by FormContent.

This press release was written by Am Nuden Da.

4th November to December 2010 FormContent 51-63 Ridley Road London E8 2NP

WE SPEAK LAST by Aislinn Thomas The script is lost. We could spend time looking for it, but the stage has been set, is set, was set many years ago and will change without us soon if we don’t begin. (We got up this morning, did we not? And did we notice that moment between sleep and waking when the moment had no weight at all? When I wasn’t sure I was me, and you weren’t you either and the world was... well, who even knows? But if we noticed it, assuming it was there to be noticed, was observable at all, we could marvel at how unencumbered we were, having no tangible identity or obligations or concerns. And how the light on the ceiling and the shape and texture of the shadows cast were absolutely complex and entirely stunning. Of course there can be no words for any of this until later. At which point we will wonder if some things are more real than others; if that moment was more real than this one. Or vice versa.) The coffee is bad, but since when did I drink coffee, anyway.

And we forgot the rule about no speaking. NO SPEAKING. We like quiet before 9 am. It seems we tend to forget things. Especially quiet. So let’s try again. (Some things never sleep. At least not fully. Like sharks, for instance, and fruit flies. Since they don’t sleep, they don’t ever wake up. Since they don’t ever wake up, is it reasonable to conclude that they don’t ever get to be without themselves? That for some of us there is no getting away from the insistent press of survival, if that’s what it is?) But NO. Let’s forget the stage. It doesn’t need us. (And we don’t need it. Right? Right.) Let’s wander for a bit and see what we find. If the script does show up (it was hidden under a rock all along) we’ll shriek and leave it there or throw it in the air and run to the water. Okay, I’ll run and you can walk. Fine. Yes, of course you can stay there. Fine. Whatever. I’ll find you later, at which point we can compare the contents of our pockets. And it will be okay to speak then. (Shhh.) A few objects never knew one way or another whether or not they were cared for. But what if they did? (And they do.) And they belong to each other and not to us after all? We can put one here, and a couple there and see what happens. And keep trying. Are you confused? Because I am. Really. Sharks? I mean REALLY. Okay. Okay, okay. We wake up each day. (It’s a beginning, right? The end? Yes, I suppose it could be the end. But just listen for a second. And be patient. Please?) We wake up each day. Or try to. Or it just happens on its own. (No? Oh... right.) We don’t just wake up. We wake up and we don’t speak. We don’t speak. At least not right away. It doesn’t have to be for very long. And then we can do. We can do as we please. You can walk and I can run. Or vice versa. We can speak after that. Speaking always comes last. (It just does. Today it just does.) •


Andrew Kerton, Who's Afraid of Red, Green and Blue, 2010, Video still.

Each to each other dreams of other’s dreams: a study in dislocation by Chris Fite-Wassilak In the 17th century, after a plague of mercenary soldiers were incapacitated with a reoccurring longing for a home, Swiss doctors first began to study and conceive of nostalgia. It was first recognised as an epidemic, a curable disease sharing much in common with melancholia and hyperchondria. Speaking just under thirty years ago in Le Monde, even the cinematic avant-gardien Andrei Tarkovsky saw it as “a fatal disease.” (12 May, 1983) Nothing a relaxing trip to the Alps couldn’t cure. In English, now, the Greek root of ‘nostos’ (returning home) has become adapted to denote more symbolically that acting of returning; as a romanticisation of the past, as a place, ideal, or a state of mind. Of course, Tarkovsky did go on: “The Russian term is difficult to translate: it could be compassion, but it’s even stronger than that. It’s identifying oneself with the suffering of another man, in a passionate way.” Cock. You’re a cock. I find myself cursing you with ‘dickhead’s and ‘asshole’s, curses for men. The emotions of a woman but the instincts of a man, to just get up and go. So I guess that makes me the woman, lying here while someone else makes a decision what to do with me. If you just got off that emotional high horse for a second to see that down here time moves slower and there is more perspective and a longer view from this base level. Reacting to whatever is in front of your face, while acting that what you put in front of your face isn’t your choice at all. Repeating phrases like I couldn’t help myself or I didn’t know it would be like that when in retrospect it follows a pretty predictable arc of incidents. Goldfish circles, heartfelt and wide-eyed, caring about each turn so much that the care inscribes itself into the action, transforms it or at least makes it unrecognizable so that as it comes back around it might feel familiar but only as a sort of dream echo. There are no warning signs or feelings of displacement. Carrying out research on the narration of Christian pilgrimages and the concept of suture led me to a certain book, small and faded with a ragged cardboard bound cover, where in the silence of the National Library I read these words, ninety-three years after they were written:

III. When I do think my meanest line shall be More in Time’s use than my creating whole, That future eyes more clearly shall feel me In this inked page than in my direct soul; When I conjecture put to make me seeing Good readers of me in some aftertime, Thankful to some idea of my being That doth not even my with gone true soul rime; An anger at the essence of the world, That makes this thus, or thinkable this-wise, Takes my soul by the throat and makes it hurled In nightly horrors of despaired surmise And I become the mere sense of a rage That lacks the very words whose waste might ‘suage. - Fernando Pessoa, 35 Sonnets, (Lisbon: Monteiro & Co., 1918) This book was one of the few publications of poetry to be released under his own name. With seventy-three known heteronyms and alter egos, Pessoa was a voracious writer, working almost full time as a correspondence translator and apparently the rest of his time as a poet. After his death of cirrhosis in 1935, a trunk fill of over 20,000 sheets of material was discovered, since following a slow trail of academic digestion, print, translation, and so on. An English guide to Lisbon he wrote in 1925 was finally published in 1992. All those things people have said about you, you know are true. Or should know. That time when I called you a butterfly, thinking only of your cocoon-like winter jacket and imagining the coloured release from it, you said the word had been used against you before. And I can see why, flitting from person to person, life to life in what becomes the focus of your mind for a moment before being swept into the forgotten disarray of the rest of your life, like any living space you inhabit that becomes a carefully layered bombed shelter. Nothing can be moved and still you always spoke of things that could be done to improve, order and organise.



The comics genre began as a market entity—firstly as a means to sell newspapers in the New York paper wars of the 1890s, and later in magazine form as a filler between novelty gadget advertisements. A studio production system grew out of this, owned and run by the publishers, which churned out a house style under demanding conditions. Writers and artists consistently came up with characters, stories and images for a pittance, while profits and property belonged solely to the house. Out of this, Will Eisner, creator of The Spirit, became one of the first to set up his own studio, as well as claim all of his own intellectual and property rights. The revolution was mainly one of marketing: Eisner’s studio was run much the same as any other of those existing, the only difference being that of a human face at the front of it. While The Spirit was popular in its day as a skilful example of energetic draftsmanship, cinematic framing and chiaroscuro, not to mention incessant violence, this material fact has been a just as significant contributor, if not more, towards placing him in a prominent position in comics histories. He went on to claim the invention of the ‘graphic novel’ with his work A Contract With God (1978), as well as coin the phrase ‘Sequential Art’ in an attempt to re-name the form beyond its joke-based etymology. His approach found contemporary expression in his latter-day protégé Frank Miller, who in part transformed the shape of comics in the 80s with a series of stereotypically ultraviolent male characters, and who in recent years has been translating these to popular film—Sin City, 300, and most recently, The Spirit, which passed by largely unnoticed. But if it is as you say, and the larger part of you wants to come running back, then I don’t understand what you hope to get out of this. The selfsatisfaction of having followed your every whim? The untying of every knot? Yours seems to be a fine line between honesty and cowardice, that everything should just work without thinking, and the moment thought arises it is dead, a corpse of previous emotions to evade with a hand of sickened shock held to the mouth. So now it feels more like you acting out an idea of yourself—a freak who can never be with anyone for long, and in that move freezing both of us in jarring roles. But you have decided to go. And I have decided not to accept that. •

Walker and Walker, Between i and f , 2010.

Letter from New York by Andrew Berardini The actors took over. Like a subtle and discreet virus spreading slowly through newspapers and magazines, internet sites and text messaging, from person to person, from contact both direct and indirect, the populace began in earnest to act. The first few actors were considered an anomaly, the normal turn of desire for all people to turn away from the tawdry and tiring rigmarole of rat races and dog-eat-dogging and various pecking orders. Some attrition to the arts was natural, not everyone could stand the stagnancy of poorly ventilated offices with their incessant pop and hum of fluorescent lights, the petty politics and group-think of modern administrative work with its shrill slogans and inane patterns of logic. the suburbs, but they too submitted to the virus. Actors were everywhere, the soap operas and commercials, theaters and television studios became mobbed with actors. The guards and gates held them back for only so long before they too became actors, and the actors rushed the gates and took over the studios. The studio heads and gaffers, the secretaries and the webmasters all became actors. It happened at the same time that the actors took city hall, that the remaining office staff became actors, the street sweepers and liquor store clerks, the art curators and the aestheticians all became subsumed in the acting pandemic. Some were eager to “make it,” others just wanted to be free to practice their art, free of the crass demands of commerce.

This and opposite page: Andrew Kerton, Who's Afraid of Red, Green and Blue, 2010, Video still.

One by one, the office workers and maintainers of administrations large and small begun to leave the offices, just a few a week, then at least a few a day and then the acting really begin to get going. Street corners and subway cars became infested with actors, reciting Shakespeare and Albee, Ibsen and Mamet, doing impromptu impressions of James Earl Jones and Rikki Lake, Lawrence Olivier and Angelina Jolie. Everyone began talking about their bodies as “instruments.” The offices grew desperate, droves of unemployed would-be workers were trucked in from

The city infrastructure came to a stand still, the subway cars hung around the station, nowhere to go, street lights all blinked dumbly red, but the traffic had largely stopped anyway, and the lights just blink as beacons or props in street performances, grocery stores became impromptu improv theaters, small unlikely groupings of neighbors started workshopping one another, every park bench became a platform for a ready monologue, all actions became plots, all places scenes, all words dialogue. Misbehaving children were admonished for their unprofessionality. This only lasted

It took time for the actors to decide where the best roles would be, but background in a role felt like really good research and a great place to start: husbands decided to play husbands, sons decided to play sons, criminals, long associated with the very real details of life in prison returned to their jails to perform the daily realities of their suffering, the injustice of the penal system, the stark realities of man’s inhumanity to man. These roles demanded bravery and dignity and they accepted their roles, knowing that these stories needed to be told. The most brilliant and artistic amongst them chose the hardest roles, the ones with the most emotional resonance. Thus the best actors, the most deeply-feeling and sensitive became the oppressed, the reviled, and the poor: prostitutes, junkies, lunatics, homeless, and even lower: murderers, rapists, pederasts, and politicians. They tried to invest their roles with humanity and depth, tenderness and style, so that these roles, as complex as they were, would hold an undeniable gravitas and get the understanding and sympathy that these characters required. Within days the play had begun, everyone an actor, everyone an audience, playing their roles without cease. They would wake to their roles and go to sleep to their roles. The script would be felt out and improvised. The drama would become painful and real. There were deaths and births. Sometimes the actors would forget their roles and stand back for a moment as an audience member looking at the greatest drama the world had ever seen. These momentary audience members, actors forgetting they were performing struck by the power of the proceedings, would stand back and weep before another actor would nudge them, ask them what was wrong, and they would continue on, acting out their roles with responsibility and dedication, until the end. •

Garrett Phelan, Dead or Worse, 2010, 29.7 × 21 cm, Pens on paper. Image courtesy the artist and mother’s tankstation.

a few days before things started to settle down. It began that the actors, working together and with mutual consent, began to assign roles for the greatest play the world had ever seen. Though many roles were switched and changed. The bus drivers were given the very important role of bus drivers and stars of melodramas involving bus drivers, their daily struggles, their existential dread. A few were assigned to be the doctors, the doctors were greatly excited to be able to a play the role for which they’ve done so much background research. Many practiced the line for parties “Yes, I’m a doctor and I play one on TV.” Though because of the nature of the production, only few would get to say it and rarely, as a part of a role of someone who was a doctor and played one on TV.

The irrelevance of originality. by David Deery PART 1 This is a very sticky topic and could very easily put me in a kind of pretentious quicksand, but I have to say this much. I went down to the Akademie der Kunste today to see the George Grosz exibit. That has little to nothing to do with this story, but I did enjoy the exibit. The problems arose later, when I was killing time in the book store and came across a few books entitled “street art Berlin, Part 35” or “pictures of awesome street art, part 7” or something. These books have to be the most annoying mosquito bites in the book world. I have to say this, and I mean it. If you’ve ever written a book about what you might call “street art,” that is nothing more than photos of everyone else’s art, please go directly to the window and jump out. And while we’re at it, if you’re one of those assholes who prints posters, then goes out with some wheat paste and proceeds to cover up “tags” because you’re doing “art” and so on and so forth, you should also go to the window and jump, I hate you. Where do I get off, you’re probably asking! That’s exactly what I’m also asking, Where can I get off this “Street art train?” Did it ever occur to anyone in this world to un hype anything? EVER? If there was any topic in the world that doesn’t need a fuckin book about it it’s graffiti. I’m not mad at art books, this isn’t directed to you SAM FLORES. You make art. You made a few books. Hopefully, you’re raping the art consumer’s pockets with the least amount of effort you can, so you can get on with your real life…. making paintings. One of my favorite graffiti artists, ESPO, wrote an insane book, called, “The Art Of Getting Over.” That book is the shit, but unfortunately, it’s more about stories of people than pictures and it’s watered down in a giant drink called “street art books.” Disgusting. I’m disgusted that no one has stabbed these people yet making books with pictures of other peoples art in them. Sure, it’s a free world, but there’s a certain code that comes with the “streets” that a lot of people wanna lighten up with the word “art” after it. I bet if there was a Cope piece on the cover of a book costing 15 euros in a gallery, not written by Cope, someone would get buck 50’d. There’s a huge difference in working, and raping the work of someone else. HUGE. THE BARRY MCGEE PART Let me try to explain it in a story.

In 1996, I was obsessed with graffiti. OBSESSED. I liked to write my name on things that didn’t belong to me in order to get other people to notice it and say, “my god, that dude is stupid dope.” I liked lurking in abandoned dark buildings. Climbing rooftops, bridges, train tunnels, highways, you get my point. I didn’t drink, smoke, do drugs, I had no girlfriend. I worked 20 hours a week, and when I wasn’t getting Krylon, American Accents, Rusto, markers, giant cans of Marsh ink, Fat caps, streakers, phantoms, mops, pens, and griffon, I was emptying those things on the streets with my friends.
Barry McGee, TWISTER, 2008, Tag on a priority mail label.

Barry McGee, AKA TWIST, was the undeniable god of San Francisco graffiti. Again, where you might know him as a gallery, or corporate guy, I knew him from his ridiculous amounts of fat cap tags, huge straight letters, fill ins, trucks, and stickers. Everyone in San Francisco hit tags on stickers. It was something fun to do in the day, or to put on busses, or bus stops, stop signs, whatever. We had those red, “Hello my name is” stickers, ups stickers, priority mail stickers where the hit for a bit, and a lot of cats made homemade stickers. A girl who wrote PROBE made some of the best stickers I remember.

Are you still with me? I’m gonna make a point, I swear. Anyway. At one point I remember TWIST would peel the stickers, tag on the sticky part with a black marker, then post the sticker somewhere inside out. He did this a lot, and fast, so in about 2 weeks it was very noticeable. He was getting up with his reverse stickers. TWIST had managed to use something common, and washed up, like making stickers, and made it so fresh and new it was ridiculous. Do you realize how much burn you get when you come off with an idea that revolutionizes a concept that’s already popular? It was genius. I’m not even 100% sure it was Barry’s original idea, but he was for sure, most defiantly, without a doubt the first person doing that in SF. I noticed it right away. He branded it! I also thought to myself how interesting it would be to see how long it would last before some tool steps up and bites. In my mind, that guy is the culprit. He’s the weak link in the armor. Once he bites, it’s perfectly ok for everyone else to because he already did it. I would never have been the guy to step up and imitate something so obviously not my idea, but of course, in this fame starved world we live in, where the idea of being original is less intriguing than any abuse you will never take for being a follower, it took no longer than those few weeks before some sucker stepped up and took a gobble of the TWISTO steez. Wasn’t the first time, and wouldn’t be the last, I see a lot of TWIST bites out there, but the saddest part of that story, is what happens in usual events as well. Everyone just accepts it and moves on. SAD. I said to a friend a few months later when EVERYONE was now tagging the backs of stickers, “Wow, crazy how EVERYONE just bit TWIST with those backwards stickers, huh?” He said, “You think TWIST invented that? Come on man, no one invented that, everyone just started doing that all at once.” Makes me laugh even now. New goal for 2010, do something no one has ever done before. Any suggestions? • “crossing the atlantic” or “a voyage over the atlantic” or something like that (2010) script for a few minutes long sound recording I had the idea to record the sound of a whole flight over the atlantic. a dictaphone would be able to perform this task for me. I would start the recording before take off, and stop the recording only after landing. I would call the work “crossing the atlantic” or “a voyage over the atlantic” or something like that - a title both concrete and sort of pretentious at the same time. I switched on the recording while I was walking to the gate, but changed my mind only a few minutes later, before reaching it. I realized that I didn’t know why I should produce such a work, what the work would mean, why it needed to be produced at all, so I restrained from actually producing it. it was very close that a moment of inspiration made me actually produce the work, but I came to my senses again, opened my bag, took out the dictaphone and switched it off before I boarded the plane. I would not say that it is important for me not to produce the work in question, but I would also not say that the work needs to be produced, whatever need might mean in this context. at the moment of writing this, I would say that not recording the trip was the right decision. sao paulo, brazil 24/9 2010 henning lundkvist



Is this a beginning? by Leif Magne Tangen Rereading the beginning of Samuel R. Delany’s science fiction novel Dhalgren it strikes me how romantic this structuralist beginning seems to be. Peter Osuburne, wrote a fairly philosophical text (lecture) about the early German Romanticism that parallels Sol LeWitt`s sentences on conceptual art in the magazine Verksted #11. In there he points out (again) that artists like Dan Graham and Carl Andre at the time (end of the Sixties) understood themselves as poets. Reading the first book of Norwegian poet Audun Mortensen Everyone Tells Me How Great I Am In Case I Turn Out To Be, I have a feeling of conceptual poetry. Mortensen’s website, however, talks more about the language of multimedia awareness and playfulness. Reading the seven questions to Ben Russell at the website I realize that he is a deep thinking artist that has tried and extended his interests for a time much longer than the ten years or so he’s been active as a filmmaker. There was a time when the idea of having a concrete space to exhibit in started to build up in me. I was, at the time, fighting some self-doubt (actually, as much as 20% of my daily energy still goes towards defending my own thoughts to myself, and they aren’t that interesting or spectacular even). The idea was a space to move about freely as an Ausstellungsmacher and someone that moves between the semi-permeable walls of an artist whose role can shift from contemplator, curator, etc. I wanted to find a way to mix the critical with the creative from my critical point of view. I am not sure if I have given up this thought, but the more I think about it, the more I am unaware of it. It still plays a role, but not the same. D21 was born out of a desire to curate within what the Germans call an “off-space” setting: something that is a blueprint of an institution, but without the institutional bureaucracy or experience. Different roles within the art system you say? Sure. The only project that has allowed myself and others to move freely between the definition of artist and critic is PHILIP, a novel written in the bar of the Project Arts Centre in Dublin during seven days in November 2006. This project dis32

solved all the given definitions of project, exhibition and production. The white cube as a black box is well known, but PHILIP’s real output was the printed matter of the novel that was released two months after it’s conception. During the week of production we wrote, without editing, about 60,000 words. Instead of using the traditional form of finished objects placed in a space, the social facilities of the institution, Project Arts Centre, were used to produce work on the spot. Additionally, instead of the normal weeks-to-year way of working on a longer text, this material was compressed and then expanded again into the finished project. PHILIP was inspired by an immaterial labor situation and the power of observation and revolution. The book has sections and ideas from all participants. In my opinion, it should probably be remade as a film one day. But back to the space. The white cube, without going into its history, had the notion of clearing out all unneeded or wanted disturbances - only the works, alone. D21 has gone through various phases, including being painted orange, I believe. The space of D21 has its own patina: the floor and the ceiling are not to be overlooked, and play a strategic role in the reading of the works being present there. Also, one side of the space is 90% windows, large ones. As an exhibitor one is not in someone’s apartment, but also not in an enclave and frozen room that tries to ignore the outer world. Reading: everything that happens in the space needs to be clear about what conditions they are dealing with, because there are always limitations to a space. That’s the definition of a space in-itself: separated from the rest. The concrete white cube, or the so-called, is to be broken up very soon - basically because its inherent in contemporary art. The way that Duchamp invented it is an extreme just-in-time economy; everything will be outdated and reinvented in a cycle that will shorten itself with that x% each time it repeats itself. It is built-in as a way to prevent history to be forgotten - but instead it becomes a cannibalistic swamp-thing that feeds on itself. Today one can see the return of the bürgerliche apartment and prefab structures together. In Norway one has a discussion about the use of the word-combo “neo-conceptualist” as a “group” without clearly understanding that the reason why one resonates conceptual works are not because it is perceived as a medium to work within, or a movement that

has its generations - but because the re-use of history makes it valuable to artists. Today artists, curators and critics use the conceptual in their practice as a way to escape certain postmodern tendencies such as one aesthetic, continuation, narration and analytical criticism. One can just as well talk about artists using wood to build structures, or the use of nude photography, it’s a reflection of an inverted use of history, not a belated third generation conceptualists. There are no conceptual artists, just as there is no performance art anymore. It’s gone and it will never return. •


This and opposite page: Kevin Kirwan, Untitled (Cat), 2010, C-Print, 90 cm x 90 cm. & Kevin Rodgers, Hole, 2010, Photograph, 20.32 x 25.4 cm.


This and opposite page: Fermín Jiménez Landa, Mon/Fri Sat/Sun, 2010, C-Print, dimensions variable.

A sculpture of air-beds was installed in one of the driest villages of Spain to see what happened, provoking the passer-by to practice stealing or vandalism on a small scale with an object which is not too identifiable. All of them were stolen and none were seen in the village, so I couldn’t take a photo.

Later on another similar sculpture was placed in a street near the sea in the summer of 2007. A moment of collective euphoria exploded when the first person had the courage to take one. These photos are the only document that remains of the scattered remnants of the sculpture, which was installed as a block. I received the photos by e-mail from a friend of a friend.


Orange by Neil Bickerton This is a performance called , ‘Orange’. I want this performance to go further around, not through or under. To go over the top corner. I want this performance to be about bridges. I want these bridges to span through a city like cobwebs in an old shed. I want these bridges to go from every point in this city to every point in this city. All points of departure to all points of destination. When you look at these bridges, you can’t quite make them out. You can squint, you can stare, but these bridges, that you know are there, are not there. Or, they’re just there. Just on the edge in the corner, glinting sunlight like a forgetting dream. A dream that you can smell and taste. A dream that you can almost speak and name, but that runs and hides from inquisition. I want this performance to be about these bridges. Bridges that you can stand on. Bridges that you can walk on and over. An infinite lattice of invisibling bridges that join and bind a city. If I was walking on a bridge like this, in a city like that. And you were walking on a bridge like this, in a city like that. And we passed close by. Your bridge glinting in the edge of my eye. My bridge glinting in yours. Would you see me? Would I see you? Would I remember you like a forgetting dream? Can I travel the bridge without becoming like the bridge? I want this performance to be about bridges. And I want this performance to be about oranges. I want to imagine an orange. I want to imagine it’s smell, the texture of it’s skin, the firmness of it in my hand. I want to imagine biting into this orange, it’s juice running in my beard, running down my chin. I want to imagine it’s colour. I want this performance to be about oranges. Oranges are orange. Mouldy oranges are a pus green I want this performance to be about mouldy oranges. Soft and yielding. I want to imagine holding a moldy orange. Holding it up to my face to smell it. The mold smell in my nose. The fuzzy slipperiness of it in my hand. I want this performance to be about moldy oranges. Moldy oranges are a pus green. Rotten oranges are a chaos black

I want this performance to be about rotten oranges. The dead fruit, the dead flesh. The sunken shriveled shape. I want to imagine the dry and brittle substance. I want to imagine the nonsmell, the dead weight. I want this performance to be about rotten oranges. Rotten oranges are a chaos black. Young oranges are an elf green I want this performance to be about young oranges. The new fruit, the sappy growth. I want to imagine holding piles of small green oranges in one hand, lifting them to my nose to smell their bitter smell. I want to imagine filling my mouth with them and chewing their bitter rind, drinking their bitter juice. I want this performance to be about young oranges. Young oranges are an elf green. Orchards are where the oranges grow This city’s dirty integer Elf, pus green and chaos black below On this bridge forgetting dreams bestow A fervoured world rent simpler Orchards are where the oranges grow A parsing point, separate and bow This hollow place, this destination similar Elf, pus green and chaos black below The cobweb bridge and it’s cobweb shadow Your bridge and you and sunlight glimmer Orchards are where the oranges grow Our spanning paths amid these bridges flow The certain luck in the silver shimmer Elf, pus green and chaos black below This bridge, my bridge, where I travel, though they reach and span then bright now dimmer Orchards are where the oranges grow Elf, pus green and chaos black below



Unrecorded Interview On Thursday 30th September, Maki Suzuki and Yoyo Suzuki visited Exhibitions at Project Arts Centre, Dublin. We asked them to record their responses as they first experienced, and then came to feel familiar with, the seven different artworks in the group exhibition. The brothers were asked to experience the artworks without the Gallery Guide, produced to mediate the exhibition and containing both the details of each artwork (artist’s name, title of work, year) and texts describing the context, or story, behind the pieces.



The Suzuki brothers spent an hour and a half in the gallery, speaking amongst themselves and an Edirol, to decide what exactly they could infer from the artworks to the readers of ANAL, who have most likely never seen the exhibition. Up the stairs, into the bar and a Guinness later, Maki and Yoyo began to tell us about their very recent trip in a small car around Ireland. From the Giant’s Causeway, passing by the Tudor Cinema, and collecting potatoes in the fields, the brothers took care to avoid a pre-planned itinerary and would often find themselves on a dark, narrow country road passing by lonely fields or sleeping homes in the hope of finding a place of rest for the night. In these quite stressful moments, with eyes firmly glued to the road, Maki forced himself to take pictures into the darkness. He felt that the pictures would be embedded with the memory of a significant, fleeting moment; a moment which could unlock the memory of a voyage, in whole. Maki then proceeded to recall the story of the moment he gave up smoking. He and Kajsa were visiting Aurélien in San Francisco, and were so happy to be together that they smoked constantly and communally. (Maki wondered whether there might be a correlation between smoking and happiness.) As soon as he and Kajsa returned to London they gave up permanently, both overdosed on nicotine and not feeling well. Aurélien then showed Maki that this was an entirely fabricated memory – that in fact soon after Maki and Kajsa had arrived in San Francisco, they had heard of a relative’s severe illness. All three decided to give smoking a rest for a few days. Aurélien began smoking again a few days later, but Maki and Kajsa decided it was the right moment to quit altogether. Due to a technical blunder, the one and a half hour conversation was recorded with the microphone switched off, and the 655MB wav file, uploaded the next morning, had nothing on it.

Text: Tessa Giblin Pictures: Saskia Vermeulen (featuring Maki Suzuki, Yoyo Suzuki, Aurélien Froment, Tessa Giblin, and artworks by Luca Frei, Nina Beier and Pernille Kapper Williams). With warm thanks to Maki, Yoyo, Aurélien and Saskia.
44 45

Yellow and Blue Makes Green As told by Mike Schuh to Lauren Wetmore October 1st, 2010 [abridged transcription]. So, this friend of mine is going out on maybe like the second date with this guy. I say that because, you know, it’s not like a one-night-stand. This is someone who she kind of likes. Anyways, they go out a second time and she ends up having a great time and sleeping with him that night. They wake up the next morning and he says, “Hey, I had a great time. I have to go to work now but you can stay as long as you need to. Help yourself to whatever is in the kitchen. Make yourself at home. Just please lock up when you leave and I’ll talk to you later.” Then he leaves. Almost immediately she gets up, because the night before they were drinking lots and lots of beers and she has really bad beer-shits. So, as soon as he leaves, she’s up and in the bathroom unleashing this whole gross mess into the toilet. She’s there for a while, you know, then finally it’s all taken care of and she goes to flush the toilet. Of course, the toilet doesn’t flush. She grabs the plunger and starts to plunge but it doesn’t do anything. She’s stuck with this bowl of disgusting shit. It’s all wet. It smells bad. Its super gross and she feels gross too cause she’s hung over. She’s freaking out. She’s like, “What am I going to do? I can’t just leave this shit in his house and be like ‘Oh, by the way, sorry about that’.” Thinking on her feet, she goes to the kitchen, gets a large Ziplock bag, goes in the bathroom, and just starts to kind of scoop it out of the toilet. And she is actually completely successful. She manages to get all of the shit out of the toilet and into the bag. It must have taken an hour or so because it was mostly liquid but she got it all out and got herself all cleaned up. She’s feeling awesome. The whole ordeal is over. She’ll just take the bag with her when she goes. So, she gets all of her stuff together, she is ready to go, and as she’s walking out she decides to stop and leave him a note. She gets paper and pen and, on the counter of the kitchen, she writes him this note saying, “Hey, I had a great time last night. Looking forward to seeing you again soon. Give me a call. Blah, blah, blah.” Then she walks out the door, shuts it behind her, and makes sure its locked. And then she realizes that she doesn’t have the bag of shit with her. She tries the handle but the door is locked. She’s fucked. She has left this sweet note on the counter right next to a Ziplock bag full of disgusting liquid shit.

She did try to get in through a window. She thought, you know, “I’ve already scooped all of this shit out of the toilet with my hands – I might as will make this little extra effort.” But the windows didn’t open. I think that at that point she was willing to be like “You win, Universe. This is over. I just won’t talk to him ever again.” And she didn’t. He never called, and they never saw each other again. •

Kelly Lycan, Tab Flyers (detail), 2009, paper and padding glue, group of 28, 160 x 198 cm.


7-8 Session_11_Press Release FormContent, London 9 Illustration from A Theory of Heat p.10. 10-11 Linda Quinlan, Pottery Percussion, 2010, Found images. 22-23 Mike Schuh, Left, 2010, Tape and corner, dimensions variable. 24-25 43. Un perroquet sur son perchoir semblant vouloir parler à un passant. Pas d’autres personnages. 2010 43. A parrot on its perch seemingly talking to a passer-by. No other people. 2010 Work from a series following Raymond Roussel’s instructions in ‘Nouvelles Impressions d’Afrique’, pigmentprint framed with engraved title in passepartout. frame 92 x 74 cm, photo dimensions variable. Edition of 3 + 1 A/P, signed, 2005-ongoing , copyright Ulrik Heltoft, courtesy Wilfried Lentz Rotterdam 38-39 Celia Perrin Sidarous, Lima 38 & Hand and Window, Montreal 39, 2010, Colour photograph, inkjet print on matte paper. 40-43 Exhibitions - an exhibition about exhibition-making Martin Beck, Nina Beier, Luca Frei, Sriwhana Spong, Pernille Kapper Williams Project Arts Centre, Dublin 46-47 Sils is a project space managed by a committee of five artists and curators: Stefano Calligaro, Rachel Carey, Teresa Iannotta, David Stamp & Kathrin Wolkowicz Sils, Rotterdam insert Lee Welch, Now I know how looks milk., 2010, Silkscreen, 20.32 x 29.21.

Printed & bound in Banff. Edition of 120 All content © 2010 the authors, artists and editor. ANAL gratefully acknowledges the support of the Arts Council of Ireland.

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