ANAL

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
There are two tragedies in life. One is not to get your heart’s desire.
26 The irrelevance of originality. The other is to get it.
David Deery
GEORGE BERNARD SHAW
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

ANAL is a quarterly periodical that addresses

significant areas of contemporary art practice
through articles, interviews & essays within
a series of playful discourse by forward-
thinking artists & writers. The periodical is
available online, in PDF format and in print
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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, com-
monly 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 fluores-
cent 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 impres-
sion 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 de-
grees 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.
6 7
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 place-
ment 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 hair-
spray. 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 be-
cause 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 combina-
tion 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 commit-
ment 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 south-
west 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, how-
ever 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.


in the dark. •
and absorption:

effective narration.
braced herself for the noon outside.

8
ºdo you sand it or hairspray it to dull excessive shine?
ºdo you spray some glycerin on the subject? vaseline?
print sunglasses. Groping her way out of the darkened hallway, she
They agreed to meet for lunch to re-discuss shadow. She tossed her

the lights were needed in the next studio. The gaffers sensed that the
phone into her purse, grasped her keys, and slid on oversized animal-

Adjustments can be made to the subject, the lights, the set, and where

There were footsteps in the hall. Entering, the gaffers cursed from the
compensating, embellishing, capitalizing on the qualities of reflection

of the moment. Gaining familiarity with basic three-point lighting will

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
corners of their mouths; someone had forgotten to strike the set and now
It is difficult to come up with solutions on set, under pressure, in the heat
applicable, the camera – but there is no simple answer for counter-acting,

allow you to comfortably improvise in manipulating light and shadow for

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

You have said that philosophy’s weakness vis-à-vis science is that phi-
losophy has no “other”, no test of failure, no inherent mode of self-cor-
effect when posed and appreciated. A philosophical stance we all inhabit, and one for which art is to encourage.

As you turn around, and make your way to the back of the gallery, a deliberate obstacle comes to mind. When
rection. Doesn’t your work imply that science has a weakness vis-à-vis
Question, that which reasons - query as a means for change, ones personal-political duty. A phenomenon with

This exhibition is about the task inherent to the press release. Where does interpretation and engagement with
contemplated, a sense of confusion and ease gather. The paradoxical nature of experience makes her stumble;

text sit in relation to the experience one has with visual art? How does a curatorial practice negotiate a pre-
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
existing press release that is handed over to act for a yet non-existent exhibition?

“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.
Session_11_Press Release is curated by FormContent.

The world-models supplied by literature need not undergo the above pro-
cess, provided that the problems under discussion themselves do not go
This press release was written by Am Nuden Da.

away. There is no way to support science with literature and vice-ver-

sa, 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
4th November to December 2010

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
luckily she landed yielding.

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
51-63 Ridley Road

which may befall humans or humanity. The boundaries of literature run at

London E8 2NP
FormContent

the bounds of articulated speech (ethnic speech). The boundaries of sci-

ence lie where no language, no code, no simulation, no modeling would
(Matters)

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.
11
WE SPEAK LAST And we forgot the rule about no speaking. NO SPEAKING. We like
by Aislinn Thomas quiet before 9 am. It seems we tend to forget things. Especially quiet. So
let’s try again.
The script is lost.
We could spend time looking for it, but the stage has been set, is set, was (Some things never sleep. At least not fully. Like sharks, for instance,
set many years ago and will change without us soon if we don’t begin. and fruit flies. Since they don’t sleep, they don’t ever wake up. Since
(We got up this morning, did we not? And did we notice that moment they don’t ever wake up, is it reasonable to conclude that they don’t ever
between sleep and waking when the moment had no weight at all? When get to be without themselves? That for some of us there is no getting
I wasn’t sure I was me, and you weren’t you either and the world was... away from the insistent press of survival, if that’s what it is?)
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 But NO. Let’s forget the stage. It doesn’t need us. (And we don’t need it.
we were, having no tangible identity or obligations or concerns. And how Right? Right.) Let’s wander for a bit and see what we find. If the script
the light on the ceiling and the shape and texture of the shadows cast does show up (it was hidden under a rock all along) we’ll shriek and
were absolutely complex and entirely stunning. Of course there can be no leave it there or throw it in the air and run to the water. Okay, I’ll run and
words for any of this until later. At which point we will wonder if some you can walk. Fine. Yes, of course you can stay there. Fine. Whatever.
things are more real than others; if that moment was more real than this I’ll find you later, at which point we can compare the contents of our
one. Or vice versa.) pockets. And it will be okay to speak then.

The coffee is bad, but since when did I drink coffee, anyway. (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.

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

14 15
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:
16
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.
17
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

Walker and Walker, Between i and f , 2010.

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 self-
satisfaction 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. •

18
Letter from New York
by Andrew Berardini

The actors took over.  the suburbs, but they too submitted to the virus. Actors were everywhere,
  the soap operas and commercials, theaters and television studios became
Like a subtle and discreet virus spreading slowly through newspapers mobbed with actors. The guards and gates held them back for only so
and magazines, internet sites and text messaging, from person to person, long before they too became actors, and the actors rushed the gates and
from contact both direct and indirect, the populace began in earnest to took over the studios. The studio heads and gaffers, the secretaries and
act. The first few actors were considered an anomaly, the normal turn of the webmasters all became actors. It happened at the same time that

This and opposite page: Andrew Kerton, Who's Afraid of Red, Green and Blue, 2010, Video still.
desire for all people to turn away from the tawdry and tiring rigmarole of the actors took city hall, that the remaining office staff became actors,
rat races and dog-eat-dogging and various pecking orders. Some attrition the street sweepers and liquor store clerks, the art curators and the
to the arts was natural, not everyone could stand the stagnancy of poorly aestheticians all became subsumed in the acting pandemic. Some were
ventilated offices with their incessant pop and hum of fluorescent lights, eager to “make it,” others just wanted to be free to practice their art, free
the petty politics and group-think of modern administrative work with its of the crass demands of commerce. 
shrill slogans and inane patterns of logic.

 One by one, the office workers and maintainers of administrations large The city infrastructure came to a stand still, the subway cars hung around
and small begun to leave the offices, just a few a week, then at least a the station, nowhere to go, street lights all blinked dumbly red, but the
few a day and then the acting really begin to get going. Street corners traffic had largely stopped anyway, and the lights just blink as beacons or
and subway cars became infested with actors, reciting Shakespeare and props in street performances, grocery stores became impromptu improv
Albee, Ibsen and Mamet, doing impromptu impressions of James Earl theaters, small unlikely groupings of neighbors started workshopping one
Jones and Rikki Lake, Lawrence Olivier and Angelina Jolie. Everyone another, every park bench became a platform for a ready monologue, all
began talking about their bodies as “instruments.” The offices grew actions became plots, all places scenes, all words dialogue. Misbehaving
desperate, droves of unemployed would-be workers were trucked in from children were admonished for their unprofessionality. This only lasted

20 21
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

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

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. •

22
The irrelevance of originality.
by David Deery

PART 1 In 1996, I was obsessed with graffiti. OBSESSED. I liked to write my

This is a very sticky topic and could very easily put me in a kind of name on things that didn’t belong to me in order to get other people to
pretentious quicksand, but I have to say this much. I went down to the notice it and say, “my god, that dude is stupid dope.” I liked lurking in
Akademie der Kunste today to see the George Grosz exibit. That has abandoned dark buildings. Climbing rooftops, bridges, train tunnels,
little to nothing to do with this story, but I did enjoy the exibit. The highways, you get my point.
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 I didn’t drink, smoke, do drugs, I had no girlfriend. I worked 20 hours
awesome street art, part 7” or something. These books have to be the a week, and when I wasn’t getting Krylon, American Accents, Rusto,
most annoying mosquito bites in the book world. I have to say this, and markers, giant cans of Marsh ink, Fat caps, streakers, phantoms, mops,
I mean it. If you’ve ever written a book about what you might call “street pens, and griffon, I was emptying those things on the streets with my
art,” that is nothing more than photos of everyone else’s art, please go friends.
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

Barry McGee, TWISTER, 2008, Tag on a priority mail label.

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 Barry McGee, AKA TWIST, was the undeniable god of San Francisco
free world, but there’s a certain code that comes with the “streets” that a graffiti. Again, where you might know him as a gallery, or corporate guy,
lot of people wanna lighten up with the word “art” after it. I bet if there I knew him from his ridiculous amounts of fat cap tags, huge straight
was a Cope piece on the cover of a book costing 15 euros in a gallery, letters, fill ins, trucks, and stickers.
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. 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
THE BARRY MCGEE PART had those red, “Hello my name is” stickers, ups stickers, priority mail
Let me try to explain it in a story. 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.

28 29
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
“crossing the atlantic”
sticky part with a black marker, then post the sticker somewhere inside
or
out. He did this a lot, and fast, so in about 2 weeks it was very noticeable.
“a voyage over the atlantic”
He was getting up with his reverse stickers. TWIST had managed to use
or something like that (2010)
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
script for a few minutes long sound recording
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
I had the idea to record the sound of a whole flight over the atlantic.
original idea, but he was for sure, most defiantly, without a doubt the
a dictaphone would be able to perform this task for me.
first person doing that in SF. I noticed it right away. He branded it! I also
I would start the recording before take off, and stop the recording only after
thought to myself how interesting it would be to see how long it would
landing.
last before some tool steps up and bites. In my mind, that guy is the
I would call the work “crossing the atlantic” or “a voyage over the atlantic”
culprit. He’s the weak link in the armor. Once he bites, it’s perfectly ok
or something like that - a title both concrete and sort of pretentious at the
for everyone else to because he already did it.
same time.
I switched on the recording while I was walking to the gate, but changed
I would never have been the guy to step up and imitate something so
my mind only a few minutes later, before reaching it.
obviously not my idea, but of course, in this fame starved world we live
I realized that I didn’t know why I should produce such a work, what the
in, where the idea of being original is less intriguing than any abuse you
work would mean, why it needed to be produced at all, so I restrained from
will never take for being a follower, it took no longer than those few
actually producing it.
weeks before some sucker stepped up and took a gobble of the TWISTO
it was very close that a moment of inspiration made me actually produce
steez. Wasn’t the first time, and wouldn’t be the last, I see a lot of TWIST
the work, but I came to my senses again, opened my bag, took out the dicta-
bites out there, but the saddest part of that story, is what happens in usual
phone and switched it off before I boarded the plane.
events as well. Everyone just accepts it and moves on. SAD. I said to a
I would not say that it is important for me not to produce the work in ques-
friend a few months later when EVERYONE was now tagging the backs
tion, but I would also not say that the work needs to be produced, whatever
of stickers, “Wow, crazy how EVERYONE just bit TWIST with those
need might mean in this context.
backwards stickers, huh?”
at the moment of writing this, I would say that not recording the trip was
the right decision.
He said, “You think TWIST invented that? Come on man, no one
invented that, everyone just started doing that all at once.”
sao paulo, brazil 24/9 2010
Makes me laugh even now.
henning lundkvist
New goal for 2010, do something no one has ever done before. Any
suggestions? •

30 31
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 concep-
tual 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 www.dinca.org web-
site 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 de-
fending 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 Aus-
stellungsmacher 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 dis-
32
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 ob-
jects 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 par-
ticipants. 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 Duch-
amp 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 un-
derstanding that the reason why one resonates conceptual works are not
because it is perceived as a medium to work within, or a movement that
33
 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.
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. •

34 35
 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 Later on another similar sculpture was placed in a street near the sea in
to see what happened, provoking the passer-by to practice stealing or the summer of 2007. A moment of collective euphoria exploded when
vandalism on a small scale with an object which is not too identifiable. the first person had the courage to take one. These photos are the only
All of them were stolen and none were seen in the village, so I couldn’t document that remains of the scattered remnants of the sculpture, which
take a photo. was installed as a block. I received the photos by e-mail from a friend of
a friend.

36 37
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
38
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
39
40 41
Unrecorded Interview

On Thursday 30th September, Maki Suzuki and

Yoyo Suzuki visited Exhibitions at Project Arts
Centre, Dublin. We asked them to record their re-
sponses 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 (art-
ist’s name, title of work, year) and texts describ-
ing the context, or story, behind the pieces.

42 43
 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, fleet-
ing 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 smok-
ing. 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 She did try to get in through a window. She thought, you know,
this guy. I say that because, you know, it’s not like a one-night-stand. “I’ve already scooped all of this shit out of the toilet with my hands – I
This is someone who she kind of likes. Anyways, they go out a second might as will make this little extra effort.” But the windows didn’t open.
time and she ends up having a great time and sleeping with him that I think that at that point she was willing to be like “You win, Universe.
night. They wake up the next morning and he says, “Hey, I had a great This is over. I just won’t talk to him ever again.” And she didn’t. He
time. I have to go to work now but you can stay as long as you need to. never called, and they never saw each other again. •
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

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

46 47
7-8 Session_11_Press Release
FormContent, London
www.formcontent.org

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
www.wilfriedlentz.com

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
www.projectartscentre.ie

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
www.silsprojects.info

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.

www.onethousandandonenights.info