Often the work is mutilated in place of the artist.
Exodus.
We wash it until it bleeds.
Wait for pings across the surface to alert us.
Fixity. (Or affixed to, this object of anxiety)
Takes its place amongst our organs.
Entrails.
The welt in the desert.
Bitten into the black wing.
Each organ removed over the time it takes to complete the sculpture.
Or the removal was the work, rather.
Paradox is the method. As surface (broken).
Remade, approximates its previous gesture.
A cerebral hemorrhage, December 31st, 1970.
Washed hospital floors for money.

Remembrance.
Transmission.
Becomes unfixed in the study of itself, The Unfinished Building, red.
The cataracts which come unbidden like gnats.
Or the text, chalk, which built this.
Emancipated.
This could all be mistaken as parody.
Numb to the posturing so.

A vibration (the work maybe) that propagates as an audible wave (the story) of pressure through a transmission medium: that which must first be smoke, then fluid then solid (the air itself, then flesh). E said I was a pissant; that I should stop making work. M said my work was melanchoy-made-material. A jar once heavy with salt now swollen with rain. A trumpet bathed in milk. Shoes dissolved in gastric acid. Bodies charred and broken.

Used to say a true artist makes their work to protect themselves from the market and the hegemony that propels it. Disturbed by use of the word "true". So laid five dead wrens around the text. Filled the room with salt and gasoline. Ate the floorboards.

The work, the annihilation of the work: beginning with the eardrum, sound translated into pitch. And then shortly thereafter speech and music. The earring that sits just outside the eardrum. Tries to kill itself and fails. The innate urge to signal wedges its way up from the atomic. The innate urge for annihilation. What is synaptic about music, death, is a condition of electrified carbon. I eat the dream from your ear. Spill the wine from your shoes.

The walls are in aneurysm.

What you spoke of. Danger music sought to annihilate itself. For example, Takehisa Kosugi's composition Music for a Revolution directs the performer to gouge out one of their eyes five years from now. Sublimation in a system of total violence. Despite some of its contrivance, the limit which danger music seeks remains compelling. Exodus. 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. The exception is class. 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.

Nonesuch a surface or a painting as the brain which has committed suicide and is now spread across the table, the walls, the image. Memories have limits to how many times they can be accessed. And work that fails to reproduce itself through the mediums of the dominant culture will be forgotten. A misremembered paraphrase of something I believe Kerry James Marshall said. The art world is a place of total suicide. A place where vision goes to be mutilated. Self-hatred a form of self-defense in a culture that has made self-love its favorite opioid. 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. »

I always wanted to believe, maybe naively, that art was both a way of sensing and a sense organ, external to the body, sentient. The outer person to the inner person. That our bodies are the material object of art and not the inverse. Playing with knives near that which longs to be cut.


« 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. Tire screeches, breathes, chides. And sucking on the desire's cornerstone. Freedom, finally.

Brutality.
Torsion.
Expressionism.
Polarization.
The end of the human current world, the "thermo-industrial civilization" to make room for the next.



two views 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
metabolized by what we forget
more so by what we remember, dear Lorine,
the formulae: to keep what has passed
(sometimes through) the gut
in the conscious and thus to
deliberately make it present—
in the walls, as such, or in shapes of wood
Ideally, A Museum of the Illegible
How Do You Mourn Something That Leaves no Traces
And if Exodus Yields no Freedom?
—what is most terrifying though
Is not the presence of these ghosts
But the great absence of them—
for their sabot would soon be
filled with soil—all of us
of things that shine:
the laborer, the working class
Wearing their sabot to crush
the crops if they are
angry with their employers
Pour wine on the earth for the memory
disguised here as a metronome—
Poverty Misery a Vessel
as a room of red/the absence of all that.
—ploughs their mud as the moon clicks
—ploughs their currency of images
And are they not vanishing points, stars?
literal and figurative
thresholds beyond which every labor is forgotten— transmogrified. Or are they lenses, pendulums
A star is a shovel/
sheds enough tired light to dig by
What if
A fathers hands stained and greased
and a mothers pitted with needles
shed what blood there is, these paintings
for the crowing of the box—
that work from, or of which
we are inseparable
that work which, to her, is the parody of work
—like artists knead their
dead work into their bellies
Draw images of themselves inside images of themselves (“bell jar metaphysics”) the sum of all matter, continuous
one day turns cold and silent
The last and greatest joke being
all the art that sits in silent buildings
long after industry has wiped ourselves away
The lifecycle of a memory, a knot in the surface
determined by its mass.
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

“Homosexual desire” — the expression is meaningless. There is no subdivision of desire into homosexuality and hetero­sexuality. Properly speaking, desire is no more homosexual than heterosexual. Desire emerges in a multiple form, whose com­ponents are only divisible a posteriori, according to how we manipulate it. Just like heterosexual desire, homosexual desire is an arbitrarily frozen frame in an unbroken and polyvocal flux.

M.Sch.
@000.x63
m.schippa@gmail.com