I tried to mutilate the work in place of the artist.
Gutted—drink till dawn
Exodus
We wash it until it bleeds.
(the hatred of art)
Wait for pings across the surface to alert us.
Fixity—or affixed to, this object of anxiety
Takes its place amongst our organs.
Entrails "Piano Sonata" etc.
The welt in the desert.
Bitten into the black wing.
So that each organ is removed over the time it takes to complete the sculpture.
Or the removal is the work, rather.
Paradox the method always. As surface (broken).
Remade, even, approximates its previous gesture.
Washed hospital floors for money—If
there was something to believe
I would believe it

Remembrance
Transmission
Cataracts come unbidden like gnats.
Or the text, emancipated from its marksmanship, elating.
This could all be mistaken as parody.
Numb to the posturing so.

A jar once heavy with salt now swollen with rain a trumpet bathed in milk shoes dissolved in gastric acid.

Used to say a real artist makes their work to protect themselves from the market. So laid five dead wrens around the text. Filled the room with salt and gasoline. Bent it through the floorboards.

Tries to kill itself and fails. So I eat the dream from your ear. Spill the wine from your shoes. Let the walls sigh in their aneurysm.

Think to myself: permanently ignoring cishet people could be the ultimate piece of music. The moment I use the words I regret them. The moment I categorize the thing I recoil from it. Bring the curse into the house. I was misattributing class to heteronormativity. Do not speak to or publicly acknowledge rich people, I tell myself. Appreciate the silent music in the absence of their constant slurring. See: Lee Lozano, Decide to Boycott Women, 1971.

Although no two organisms decompose in the same way, they all undergo the same sequential stages of decomposition / praxis. The silken skilled dismemberment of song. The tyranny of exhibition.

Portraiture
Effluence
Telemetry
The under-currency of gore that levitates our transactional creativity
Extremity
Transfixion

None such a surface or a painting as the brain which has decided on suicide and is now flattened against the wall / the image. There the erotic knot of refusal and production reveals itself. Is tied around the tongue and pulled down the throat—asphyxiation—a talisman hungry as a newborn. Gnawing its volume. The Suicide of Images. And with them the artist.


« she bathed a trumpet in milk—Eduardo C. Corral » — milk, silver trumpet stripped of the parts which make it playable, plexiglass vitrine 30 x 17 x 17


« sculpture » — inkjet print on photorag, framed 8.5 x 11 x 1


« 16 Deaths for Edivaldo Silva de Oliveira and Jeovan Bandeira whose burnt bodies were found in their car on the tenth of June, 2006 » — metal plinth, plexiglass vitrine, velvet cloth, metronomes set to Grave, Largo, Lento, Larghetto, Adagio, Adagietto, Andante, Andantino, Maestoso, Moderato, Allegretto, Animato, Allegro, Vivace, Presto, and Prestissimo, respectively. The metronomes are wound once a day at the gallery’s discretion, 75.5 x 55 x 18.5



from « sentience of music » duet « Let the forgetting begin. » — brass clock movement mechanism in lacrimal solution (salt water made to mimic the composition of tears), plexiglass vitrine, 15 x 15 x 15



« staging the organism:processor (atoms are not atoms)(higher tensile strength than steel)(the bone which allowed us to exit the oceans)(there is a story for every bone in the body) » — assorted mammalian bones and bone tools, tumeric, cadmium yellow pigment, found shells and vegetal pods, dimensions variable

Outside of the surrender to the incommunicable
a geometry stricken with epilepsy.




installation view of « The stars are a mnemonic without object./Let the forgetting begin. »


« aneurysm » — stabilized lotus pod, enamel, blood 4.5 x 5 x 3.5

“thine”
“leafhopping”
“tongues”






« as the organism decays and the bones are no longer held together by the flesh » — Stradivarius Violin, likely fake, (C. 1726), burned until broken, inkjet print on photorag, dimensions variable


installation view of « The stars are a mnemonic without object./Let the forgetting begin. »

Transacts his gender and just rides. Like a brain stem into drywall. Blood calls them from a station wire. Tires chiding, swelling, yes I love a foaming at the mouth. A single loaf of bread to last the week. Freedom

Brutality
Torsion
Expressionism
Polarization


view of « on a few points of principle/ Item sabots/ blouse—/ I work in the dye-house/ myself » — aluminum plaque, wooden stage, collected wooden sabot (Belgian, Dutch, American, Spanish), collected bowls (Pre Columbian, 12th century Cambodian, modern Tibetan, Civil War Era American, 19th century Turkish, & originals by the artist), collected machine components, lacrimal solution (salt water made to mimic the composition of tears), 144 x 96 x 8
I think one could say of such a sculpture—
Let the forgetting begin.


from « sentience of music » duet « an unslipping knot, gender » — oxford men’s shoes dissolving in gastric solution (HCL solution made to mimic the composition of stomach acid), plexiglass vitrine, 15 x 15 x 15


« when mineral rich groundwater permeates organic materials and fills the empty spaces, a fossil is formed » Oscar Schmidt Menzenhaurer Autoharp burned until broken, inkjet print on photorag, dimensions variable


installation view of « The stars are a mnemonic without object./Let the forgetting begin. »


installation view of staged performance for « The Acoustic Universe »


« separation of pieces of an organism caused by natural events (i.e. floods, scavengers etc.) » Antique bowl back mandolin burned until broken, inkjet print on photorag, dimensions variable


Death mask of beaten silver collected pages from the collection of the artist, framed, 50 x 33 x 1.5 inches

Last ate a fish
Blind. Held
a plum fist terraced
Over cannibal
Noise for him
there is a country
stuck in the
throat

I get born
when the disordering
Of the perceptual
croons the woad—I only drink with sailors
In their backwash
When glassy teeth are cracked
over boats—
—the yolks of which
drooled into
the very moment of our
deaths (the banality
of music)
to move them and
to be moved
by them

M. Sch. — @000.x63
currently working on http://oysterclub.club
arc000x63@gmail.com