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Who Destroys a Heterotopia?
"… I can see
that what I tell you isn't at all interesting. It's still theater. What
can one do to be truly sincere?"
Antonin Artaud
Forgive me
society for I have sinned. Forgive me my poor country for I have
misspent this money. Let me ridicule myself. Let me celebrate the
triumph of my failure.
It all started
when a co-curator - dressed to kill for the opening - made a miraculous
statement: you fucked up our budget, Barbad.
A certain order
on the plane of the feasible is our noblest offspring. We tether
ourselves in the boundaries of representation voluntarily. When a
jubilant opening gives an end to the process of making (not to praxis),
remorse comes creeping like the ancient self-reproach after fifteen
seconds of masturbation.
Working with
“real spaces” - in its best - involves the (im)possibility of stepping
out of representation. Protégés of Celant, aficionados of Bourriaud, who
make things in praise of intersubjective encounters, Live Artists and
all those who make temporary stands to serve life, merely delay this
representation. Or is it possible that representation has become a
creditable pseudonym for the object of our detestation - Art?
After weeks of exhibitionism, "A Memorial for Potassium Suppository" was
destroyed by the hands of its sponsors, patrons or hosts. No one dresses
to kill, no one disrobes for a closing.
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