each tender little ship (site, user) nestled in its own, unique, over-the-shoulder dock, tied in with ropes by the NSA
so I wonder if I can make some art— some deployable paranoia??
I took it down the other day. It coincides with some work that I’ve been doing for class. I’ve got a Raspberry Pi acting as a wifi-hotspot, running some proxies I wrote, to scoop up the HTTP traffic running through it and modify it before returning it to the user.
I will be back with process pictures, maybe some video, of my “deployable paranoia hotspot and trickery emporium”
sometimes you have got to learn to release control.
free television, north america.is an autonomous curation of people in disparate cities trying to get rid of their old TVs on craigslist. it is, also, my first attempt to pluck out an indexicality from the rhizome— the mess which happens at the end of modernist grand narratives.
so far as i figure, there are threads happening all the time within the rhizome. these tricky, inter-connected, similar things remain unseen until they are teased out, given context by each other, and their family portrait is made.
ultimately, the threads wear out— televisions may cease to exist, or craigslist may fold, but for a moment at least they are preserved.
I like remembering the times the sugar crystals crushed in my teeth, when the coffee was an overture of our riotous summer warmth passion, before the bitter gnash reframed every gulp— and I see now that it takes a few cups to learn how you love it, and a lifetime of upset stomachs to know it when it’s gone.
"I am sorry for the things I have done / thank you for coming" was an inaugural-cum-retrospective exhibit by Kevin Bott. His performance consisted of sitting in a red wingback chair and watching a digitally-projected slideshow of the collected photographs, animations and prints he made throughout his college career. He wore headphones through which ambient music, akin to Alvin Lucier’s Music on a Long Thin Wire, and as played through loudspeakers in the gallery, simultaneously isolated him from his immediate surroundings and mirrored the environment in which he sat. During the performance, he chose to speak freely about whatever crossed his mind in the moment; purportedly triggered by the combination of stimuli in the gallery. Throughout the night, he drank a six-pack of home-brewed beer labeled simply "mnemonic ails." After two hours and thirteen minutes, the performance ended when he stood from the chair, walked out of the gallery, and rode his bicycle home.