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MY CAVE OF FORGOTTEN DREAMS
PLEASE DO TOUCH
INTRODUCTION:
A decade ago, we created 'Scratchadelia' with Kassim Bay. An art vision for blind people. A lifetime project for us. This "book" is not meant to be read, just over consumed. I decided to publish it to turn the page after this "Red" episode. What follows is a mix shake of punch lines and photographs about a true contemporary art story happening in East London...
DEANO DE LA VEGA
NB: move "FORWARD" press "PAUSE" sometimes "REWIND" what you love they can't "STOP" us now >>
Summer 2010 / BabyLonDoN...
Old Street and the surrounding areas of Hoxton Square and Great Eastern Street: Shoreditch hosts a thriving night life including The Foundry bar and arts space White Cube gallery. Old Street station is located under Old Street roundabout, the junction with City Road. ( http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Old_Street )
The Foundry closed down in 2010, as the building's owner intended to redevelop the whole block. http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Foundry_(bar) Peter Doherty used to host its poetry nights, the band Hot Chip formed there, and artists from Banksy to Gavin Turk have adorned its walls and propped up its bar" http://www.guardian.co.uk/artanddesign/2010/feb/03/foundry-gallery-set-to-close
How it was supposed to be in the future...
Préface by Brendan Quick
"There’s two ways I can talk about Art made by someone I respect. First impressions, mine, my dumb outline of what for me is an expressionistic fusion of the passion and determination of an uncompromising individual. Or by compromising your own experience, creating a short-circuit feedback loop. I paint upstairs in a large building between Old St. and Shoreditch, which was supposed to be demolished over six months ago, erased, even the foundations as a site for a brand new skyscraper hotel. This indeterminacy attracted “Scratchadelia” deepening the groove... The ideal way to experience the work would be to witness its destruction. So, there’s some mad fuck in the basement banging away... Bam! Bam!! BAM!!! Morning till night, 24/7. There’s a lot of graffiti down there left over from different artists, parties,recent archaeological eras if you like, socio-social eras, the opposite of paleo-archeology or old old ology. It’s funny how the council 'cleanse' tags that deface recognised or sanctioned ‘street art’ but in the basement day'n'nite these delicate understated deep etched public images gradually define this defiantly exuberant underground music club into a true alternative art museum. Weirdly, it’s like Art taking on the public space.The same way house music crossed genres and changed the world for my post-punk post agenda DIY generation. I want to lam the irritation after a few days of Art. Fuck yeah” Bam! Bam!! BAM!!! and then, I love it. No choice. Art never works the way you expect, if it works at all there is no compromise. It becomes a reality, part of the furniture like you forgot what was in your zone before it existed. So obvious, in spite of expectations. These floors to ceiling shallow silhouettes obscured by pillars, club lighting... This Marseillaise guy cutting into hardened concrete by hand. Day after day, hard labour. Black sunglasses as some nod to protection against flying debris, Wu rap on headphones. Bam! Bam!! BAM!!! Got to be some agenda... It could be outlined by lasers, tarted up in UV, defined by any bullshit, some nights its burlesque cocktail cheeky, next the toughest grime core, an hour later the sex club you never got invited to but wish you etc... SCRATCHADELIA makes ghosts of us all, our own desires. This is not for sale!”
THE BASEMENT...
http://www.caveofforgottendreams.co.uk/
POUR L’AMOUR DE L’ART
In a decaying society, Art, if it is Truthful, must also reflect decay. And unless it wants to break Faith with its social function, Art must show the world as changeable and help to change it." Ernst Fischer
The building was going to be demolished for a luxury Art'otel chain with retail space and a spa. I decided to only scratch the basement as a symbol of "Resistance"....
It was supposed to be the last scratchadelia art show.
A tribute to our disappearing Culture... A violent and fragile timeless signature of Passion, The Beautiful Imperfection, an act of ‘God’
Winter 2010 The derelict building hasn't been demolished yet.
Prehistoric men back to the future...
Swimming with sharks...
I'm told to stop. I can't achieve what I started. Imagine the Frustration...
They paint it white before I do it. Sweet :)
The Scratchadelia m’art’dness can begin...
The Mona Lisa Curse by Robert Hughes
Art is a Luxury...
The only one I can afford.
Create out of nothing.
To share a vision.
Since then, I've been running a secret scratchadelia art show without telling them...
Cultural recycling and (re)appropriation,
Art museum for blind people during the day...
Aesthetic of deterioration for diner...
Another dimension during the night...
So, it was getting more and more interesting...
till a cold day of the summer 2011 when I noticed that they plastered the walls...
I won't mention names or talk about manners, this is not the point. The point is Respect. Nowadays people are blinded by Money. Nobody cares anymore. The last value is Possession.
You would think that people running an art gallery “One of the London’s most exciting cultural hubs” will stand for Art and not vandalize it...
But as he mentioned in the text message he sent me, they have to make money...
A donation has no price.
FIN.
.....................................................Grace Jones
.........................................................Carla Bruni
.............................Money £i$A
feat. Charlotte Michelle Eleventh + Trashed Mirror Ball by Brendan Quick
.................................................................Goldie
........................................................Bill Gates
................................................................................Kiss and Play
Copyleft images found on The Internet / Not stolen ‐ just shared ☺
The Conundrum of the Workshops" WHEN the flush of a new-born sun fell first on Eden's green and gold, Our father Adam sat under the Tree and scratched with a stick in the mould; And the first rude sketch that the world had seen was joy to his mighty heart, Till the Devil whispered behind the leaves, "It's pretty, but is it Art?" Wherefore he called to his wife, and fled to fashion his work anew -The first of his race who cared a fig for the first, most dread review; And he left his lore to the use of his sons -- and that was a glorious gain When the Devil chuckled "Is it Art?" in the ear of the branded Cain. They builded a tower to shiver the sky and wrench the stars apart, Till the Devil grunted behind the bricks: "It's striking, but is it Art?" The stone was dropped at the quarry-side and the idle derrick swung, While each man talked of the aims of Art, and each in an alien tongue. They fought and they talked in the North and the South, they talked and they fought in the West, Till the waters rose on the pitiful land, and the poor Red Clay had rest -Had rest till that dank blank-canvas dawn when the dove was preened to start, And the Devil bubbled below the keel: "It's human, but is it Art?" The tale is as old as the Eden Tree -- and new as the new-cut tooth -For each man knows ere his lip-thatch grows he is master of Art and Truth; And each man hears as the twilight nears, to the beat of his dying heart, The Devil drum on the darkened pane: "You did it, but was it Art?" We have learned to whittle the Eden Tree to the shape of a surplice-peg, We have learned to bottle our parents twain in the yelk of an addled egg, We know that the tail must wag the dog, for the horse is drawn by the cart; But the Devil whoops, as he whooped of old: "It's clever, but is it Art?" When the flicker of London sun falls faint on the Club-room's green and gold, The sons of Adam sit them down and scratch with their pens in the mould -They scratch with their pens in the mould of their graves, and the ink and the anguish start, For the Devil mutters behind the leaves: "It's pretty, but is it Art?" Now, if we could win to the Eden Tree where the Four Great Rivers flow, And the Wreath of Eve is red on the turf as she left it long ago, And if we could come when the sentry slept and softly scurry through, By the favour of God we might know as much -- as our father Adam knew!
Rudyard Kipling
Pour ceux”