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’ve
been looking out more and more windows lately, hoping to see something worth
seeing. It’s not enough, you know, to have this rich and infinitely wondrous
inner world… since that’s all solo, and sometimes you just want to riff
on someone else’s theme. You want to maybe even just repeat these three
chords along with the drummer for some number of bars—or maybe you just
want to sit this whole number out. Dance while someone else plays. Richard
fucking did it this time, so I don’t get to. I’ve got to write my section
when there’s nothing left for me to say. Nothing relevant anyway, nothing
that hasn’t been said in other sections.
We’ve
found our binding, I don’t have any more decisions to make there. I can
tell you that I experimented with different degrees of tension, I can tell
you about the various types of thread I’ve played with, only to come again
to the conclusion that Irish linen thread is really the only, and I mean
the fucking only thread to use for bookbinding.
Okay,
I’ll tell you about that. The refinements. But, for form’s sake, I’ll give
you a brief rundown on our methodology here, with possible and occasional
commentary on what a real binder thinks of our binding.
ORIGINS OF THE SPORK BINDING:
What we did at the very beginning was basically a repair of a double
fan binding for single sheets. Except, of course, we weren’t repairing
a failed binding. A double fan binding is done basically by locking all
the sheets together, bending the pages one way, then applying glue to
the spine and exposed area, and then bending the pages the other way and
applying more glue. It’s similar to perfect binding, only much stronger,
and if done well, can lay flat at each page. When that binding fails,
the way to fix it is to cut channels perpendicular to and along the spine
of the book, and then to either simply put glue in the channels or to
then lay cords in them and apply more glue. This is what we did. Cut the
channels, then glue, then cord, then more glue. For the first issue I
did this one book at a time, clamping a stack of sheets between two boards
and going at it with a hacksaw, cutting maybe 8 or so channels in each
spine. The cord we used was usually the kind used for baking, though occasionally
we had access to better stuff—which, incidentally, made absolutely no
difference, so we stuck primarily with the cheaper baking twine. This
process was extraordinarily time-consuming, but I got it done.
After the cords were laid in and the glue
at least mostly set, I glued the covers on, and lo, there were sporks.
For the second issue, I built a press, a
box designed to hold things exactly the size of a spork. It could
hold up to 15 copies at a time, potentially cutting production time by
a significant margin. The hacksaw didn’t work for that, so I acquired
a neat little circular saw with a blade about the thickness of a hacksaw
blade, and used that to cut the channels across the spines, a whole shitload
of them at a time. Then the glue, then the cords, then the whatever and
etcetera[1]. Add covers and there you
go.
Third issue: Rinse and repeat.
Perfect binding is the most imperfect kind of thing and I dont think
it can even called a binding and its not somthing you should really
be teaching people to do. The books made with perfect binding arent
worth repairing anyway. Sure some of them have sentimental value but
I think people need to care more about buying wellmade books instead
of whatever junk just anyone puts out. If you have to repair a perfect
binding I would definately not reccomend doing it this way. You should
scrape all the glue off it and do a fan binding. If the person doesnt
want to pay extra then you shouldnot do the job.
Issues 1.1, 1.2 and 1.3 all had “floppy” canvas covers, silkscreened
at Johhny’s shop in South Tucson—kinda southeast, kinda south-central…
kinda I don’t know where, but we went there late at night and stayed there
really really late and got them done. Then Johnny joined the Air Force,
with the hope that he’d become a pilot and one day, during maneuvers over
Tucson in his A-10 Warthog, happen over Convergys, where tech support
and customer relations phone people for much of America resides, he’d
just happen to completely lose his fully-armed mind and wipe out both
locations. I asked him to please let me know beforehand when he was going
to spontaneously lose his fully armed mind, as my place of employment
is directly across a parking lot from one of the Convergys installations
and I didn’t trust his aim. There’s also the sewage treatment plant a
couple blocks from there and we’d all be sad indeed, and for so many reasons,
if Johnny were to accidentally hit that. Both locations are still standing,
but still we no longer had access to industrial-scale silkscreening equipment,
so a change was necessitated.
For issue 2.1 I attempted something monumentally
stupid. I mean complex. Full-cloth covered boards and a traditional Japanese
4-hole binding, but sewn through the hinges of the covers, rather than
the covers themselves. Not only did this consume vast amounts of time
and material, those materials we used were horrendously expensive. We
upped the price of the issue to try to offset it, but it turned out that
12 bucks was just too much to pay for a unique and wonderful hand-bound
piece of book. Add that to a brief but disastrous liaison with a distributor,
and we almost saw the end of spork. Not just as we know it, but
altogether. We’re still waiting for payment on the 100 copies given to
the distributor. Or, failing that, the return of the unsold copies. Not
that I want them back, I mean, what the fuck would I do with them? But
something would be nice. Money would be best. See, we borrowed money to
get the stuff to fill that order, with the understanding that the first
100 would sell immediately, and that more orders would be coming shortly.
We have yet to pay back that money. And brother, it’s a lot of money.
We do things a few copies at a time, as our wallets will allow. It scales
up a whole fucking lot when you have to do lots and lots of them all at
once.
Issue 2.2 saw an evolution of the binding
for 2.1. The sewing was much the same, except that we did not run the
thread over the head and tail of the books, as is done in Japanese bindings.
The idea was to make it look more like what folk expect when they see
a book, and to save on thread cost, as Irish linen thread, as you may
assume, is kind of expensive. The idea for the covers was to use Plexiglas,
and it seemed like a good idea, except the distributor misquoted the price,
so it cost a lot more, and then the manufacturer stopped making the stuff
anyway, so after the first 120 copies we couldn’t make any more. So I
cut a block of linoleum to say “spork 2.2” and printed up a whole
bunch of pieces of bookboard with it, and used them for the covers.
To attach the book blocks to the covers
I’d cut an endpaper that would extend onto the covers about two inches.
We sewed through that, and then applied glue to it and pressed the covers
to each side and, Hey, would you look at that? It’s another fucking spork!
I got that method down. Brother, did I get
it down. I like it best. And that’s what we did for issue 3.1 and issue
3.2.[2]
DISCOURSE ON TENSION:
Okay, so you’ve got four holes about half an inch from the spine, spaced
kinda evenly. Now what you usually do is start at the second hole, wrap
around the spine, come back up and move to the third hole, wrap around
the spine, then move to the hole at the tail and wrap the spine. Then
you move up, reversing the process and passing the initial wrapping to
hit the hole at the head, where you then wrap around the spine again,
head back down to the second hole and tie off. If you also went around
the top and bottom, on the horizontals, it would be a regular Japanese
four-hole binding, but you didn’t do that, because this is spork
and you’re trying to look all American and shit. Also you don’t want to
look like you’re trying to be all obviously arty, since what you’re trying
to do is just fucking get the book to stay together, and you’re trying
to do it relatively quickly and inexpensively, and in such manner that
it is easily reproducible for purposes of scientific corroboration.
What you’ve got there is even tension all
down the spine. But what you’ve also got is the use of more than twice
the amount of thread (expensive thread) than you’d really like to be using.
The wrapping around the spine gives it strength, but then, so does the
glue, and you’re going to use a lot of glue. Do you have to wrap at every
sewing station?
No, no you don’t.
Just do it at the top and the bottom… then
in 3.2 just at the top. It still works. Everything still holds, as long
as you made sure you pulled it tight throughout the process.
If your going to do a japanese binding you should do a japanese binding.
Its done that way for a reason. You think that you can just floute hundreds
of years of tradition and subtle refinements? You do less your not making
it easier your doing a shoddy bnding. IMHO of course but maybe my O
isnt that H bc Ive been doing this for twentyfive years myself and know
what Im talking about. Its kids like you thatll be the death of binding
once and all.
But then you end up with it being tighter at the top than it is at the
bottom… how do you solve that? Reckon what you do is go traditional again
and start at the second station [3],
doing the wrapping around the spine there, making the tension at both
ends pretty much even. But then when you do it you end up with slippage
between the signatures at the head and tail, and that’s no good. No good
at all.
So, with this issue, what we’re going to
do—and when I say “we”, you all of course know I mean “me”, since I can’t
seem to actually let people help with the processes—is wrap for tension
and stability at both the head and the tail. Everything else is much the
same…[4]
Everything, that is, except for the thing
glued to the cover. Oh yeah, this fucking rocks. Donovan White, the guy
who did the art for this issue, painted a big canvas for us, for the express
and explicit purpose of that canvas being cut up into hundreds of pieces,
each piece getting affixed to a copy of spork. When I first had
the idea, everyone I mentioned it to said, “No way will anyone let you
do that…” and I thought, Why not? Why won’t anyone let me do that? And
then I talked to Donovan, told him the idea and he proved everyone wrong.
He loved the idea, and immediately produced a painting large enough to
provide pieces for far more sporks than we can realistically
produce. It rocks, he rocks, and really, we rock.
AND EVERYTHING ELSE:
In pulling this issue together we slogged through the usual morass of
impossibly bad stuff, things we loved but couldn’t publish, and then the
stuff we had to have. In this issue there are a couple pieces that really
struck me—they seemed at once wholly original and insanely derivative.
The voices seemed their own, but still evoked so many authors with whom
I have an intimate familiarity… but still there was something, something
I couldn’t quite figure out. What it turned out to be is that a couple
of our authors this time are younger than our usual crop, and thus present
to us the beginnings of our new voice. Them what have been shaped by our
world of today, not the world of their university lit classes, but by
the world that is the product of the writings of our contemporary authors,
good or not, the ones being made into films that are then shaping the
society of the world of these people a few years before they enter it…
so they don’t have any reason to suspect that the world wasn’t any other
way than this, this is what they know, this is how they see it, this is
how they relate it. I don’t know how[5]
to express exactly my reaction when I came across the first indication
of it. It excited me without my understanding what it was I was excited
about. Follow that with my recognition of all the authors that went into
it, and follow that with absolute incomprehension as to how someone could
so blatantly rip someone off and yet sound so genuine…
I accepted the stuff anyway. Despite the
fact that there was no room. I figured I’d just bump someone… and then
I figured that hell, it’s our freaking magazine, and we can fucking well
do whatever the fuck we want with it. So. So there it is. There you have
it and there you are.
More issues. I’ve wanted to quit so many
times. But the more and more we do it, the less connected I feel to the
literary community and the more I come to love what we’re doing. I went
down to Crescent Newsstand before coming here to the Grill to do my drinking
and writing, intent on picking up the most recent issue of Daedalus,
but they don’t carry it. I used to buy it there. I didn’t buy it there
today. So, wanting something, I looked at the other offerings, the lit
mags and whatever, attempted to select one. The first one I opened to
a story by an author previously appearing in our own pages, and thought,
Hey! Maybe this… and then the story began:
Paragraph 1: “It was…”
Paragraph 2: “She had…”
Paragraph 3: “It was…”
And I’ll let you know, anything that comes
to us that starts like that, well, it doesn’t get read past the second
paragraph. Do it once, fine, all right, maybe you got a reason. Do it
twice and you’re just being lazy. But three paragraphs all starting passive
like that! Shit. Who the fuck are these editors? Have they no pride?[6]
Yeah, yeah, I’ll usually read all the way through a story, even when they’ve
shown me they’re not gonna give me any reason to read… but so you accepted
something, still at times you have to help the author say what they meant
to say. Not everything’s perfect. But just accepting stuff because it’s
good enough—fuck, I’d rather put out an empty issue. Not that
that would actually happen. What we’d get in that instance is an all-poetry
issue. And that, maybe, wouldn’t be such a bad thing. We had an all-fiction—or
at least “no broken lines”—issue. Mayhap ‘twere not unwise to reciprocate.
There’s a girl at a table nearby wearing
one of them Liz Taylor-esque ideas of what them Romans wore kind of dresses.
All gauzy and clinging and low cut. She’s got one of those low-cut thongs
on, clearly visible through the sheer fabric of her dress. I want to tell
her it’s not working. But I don’t know how to tell her. Sure, fine, thong
is great. She’s a pretty girl and it’s not unpleasant, but overall it’s
just not working. Maybe it’d work better if there was more of an angle
to it, if it didn’t throw such a harsh vertical when everything else was
all curves… and maybe I’ve said all I have to say here. Maybe it’s time
to get this issue out…[7]
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ime
out. Whatever. I do not understand what I've been doing, and I've been
doing it for years now. Years. This… this—what the fuck do you
call it? I don’t know, all I know is that it’s intentional, and despite
the fact that I can see no overarching clear or definable purpose to it,
I have been consistent. I have cultivated and put forth, beginning in
2000 and continuing to the present, a persona that, while bearing my name
and likeness, and sharing many of the qualities people who know me generally
attribute to the person they know, is quite unlike the person I know myself
to be. In the beginning it was purely that I was bored and desired to
be contentious, and I would argue from absolute and fundamentally flawed
positions, knowing all the time that I was wrong, and never actually proclaiming
myself to be right, but that despite all else, everyone else was, as well,
wrong. My arguments were in the most part of a grammatical variety, and
I would put them forth in wholly inappropriate venues. Signed them with
my given name, but had no sense that it was actually me who was doing
the writing and arguing; rather I felt that Drew Burk was an adopted pseudonym
that merely happened to be spelled and pronounced exactly as was my given
name. It occurred to me only later that not only was Drew Burk, as I signed
it, a pseudonym, but that the original to which it obliquely referred
was a flimsy and fantastical thing itself, not grounded in ours or any
other reality from which to speak. Blandly put, I had no sense of self,
and thus it never crossed my mind that when a person met me, that individual
might associate the fiction, or the reference, to the person addressing
them.
As the years have worn on I’ve been at times
overwhelmed by the persona, not able to effect any escape from the fraud,
as there was nowhere to escape to. This is important only in that, some
years later, I’ve grown tired of it. I’ll attempt here, briefly, to describe
what I imagine I was doing.
THE CHARACTER OF DREW BURK: AIMS AND METHODOLOGY
Drew Burk, fiction editor and binder for spork, is not the most
pleasant person. He’s contentious and critical, always ready to attack
for any displayed failing. His rejections to several authors who submitted
their work to his magazine have gained something of a legendary status
in small sectors of the independent publishing world. I think he’s proud
of this. Yes, he is. Very, almost inordinately proud, though it’s tinged
with some amount of regret that his intended meaning went unheeded. Despite
which, in all but two instances, even his most violent and vitriolic rejections
received heartfelt Thank-yous in return. It should be noted that with
regard to spork at least, he strove to be somewhat correct, if
not exactly right. Perhaps, though, it was right rather than correct.
The idea was to give an honest reaction
to the work submitted. Not a simple yes-or-no, but to express exactly
what whichever piece had inspired. Part out of respect for the idea of
an author, that most did desire an honest appraisal of what Drew perceived
them to have or have not done in their work, and part a desire to do what
he could to impress upon people the idea that even though they may have
written something, that did not necessarily mean that their writing was
worth reading, let alone submitting to journals for publication. Most
work falls into the category of “Good, but not good enough…”, about which
there is really very little to say, especially considering the infinitude
of journals out there, both print and electronic, who are desperate to
fill their pages, and who are in many cases staffed by people for whom
Good really is Good Enough. That this results in a self-perpetuating cycle
of ever-increasing mediocrity causes all of us pain, but it’s not something
that Drew felt he could do anything about, save for presenting work he
felt was emblematic of an alternative. And even these emblematic pieces
did not always live up to what he hoped, but there were always hints,
signs, that these authors, if encouraged, would eventually produce the
work which he felt their submitted pieces implied.
The rest of the submissions fell into two
categories: “Almost great and then you fucked it up”, and “Please God,
STOP THIS NOW!” The latter would invariably receive a request that they
look into other means of expression, often questioning just what the hell
made them think they could do this in the first place, and why it had
never occurred to them that writing was something that required skill,
discipline, and at least some degree of command over the language in which
they purported to write. Though fun to write, these rejections eventually
began to take a toll on Drew’s sense of well-being, and the endless stream
of awful work coming in daily threatened to overwhelm what little time
he had for the rest of his life. But even in these cases, the responses
to the rejections were almost invariably positive. Some were angry, but
not at Drew, instead they expressed their wish that someone, anyone, had
been honest with them at any point over the time they’d spent going so
horribly wrong. Certainly that was at least a small mitigation, but coming
always after, it did little to help in the overall. And that there was
always something else, always more and more… he could spend every minute
of every waking hour and never deal with them all. In the end the predominant
emotion changed from anger to sadness, which then welled up in a renewed
anger, directed elsewhere, which shall be dealt with below.
The former category is the most painful.
The pieces that fall therein often bear the reek of workshopping, of someone
having been taught to screw up in just the way he screwed up. What does
one do then? It’s like they’re tattooed. Big dragon right on the face.
There’s nothing you can do about it. Even if the tattoo is removed, there’s
still scarring. It’s never what it was, you can’t ever see what it was.
There’s no fixing it. These attacks would be personal and very angry.
Trash the piece, do something else, this is ruined… “Whatever the fuck
made you think this was the right way to go…”
I can’t bring it up. I can’t make Drew rear
that head. It’s simply not there anymore.
What it was supposed to do, the intent there,
was to force these authors to confront either Drew or their piece and
fight it out. He wanted to be proven wrong. He desperately wanted to learn,
he wanted to know why these things could be right. The
argument most often employed in response was: “Well, what the heck do
I know? I only go to Columbia/Yale/Oxford/Harvard… what do I know compared
to the sad little editor of a nothing journal out in Nowhere, Arizona?”
And I don’t think I need to say that such is hardly a convincing or useful
argument. Exactly the opposite, I think, proving Drew’s point that if
the sad little editor of a nothing journal in Nowhere, Arizona saw such
fatal flaws, then maybe there was something wrong with the piece after
all. Many authors confuse publication with validation. I can attest from
personal experience that this is not the case. Drew says what he wants
in every issue, however he wants, and in many instances it’s said poorly
by design—as is the case in this issue, where he sat down, ordered a beer,
started writing, then drank his way through the rest of the section, running
slipshod and careless through all the things he didn’t necessarily care
about saying or not saying—and then it’s published. Standing as shitty
and angry counterpoint to the patiently thought, careful words standing
sentry at the opening of every issue.
Sometimes the fights yielded wonderful results,
but that was rare. And again, it was sadness and then anger. And we’ll
get to that presently.
When it’s not you doing it, even if he shares
your name, you don’t care so much what people think. You’re just a tool
to be used for whatever purpose you’ve been designed. And maybe you, you’re
a hammer, but you’re not the right hammer for the job, so another is required.
The question I cannot answer here is if
this is merely a refashioning of the old pose, fresh for a new age, or
if it’s a new pose altogether, or whether this is me, really discussing
what I was trying to do. If we accept the idea that I really have no sense
of self, then this surely cannot be me, as there is no me, but still I
wonder how much of a pose this is. Guess we could say that whatever you
do, it’s always a pose, just that some poses resemble you more than others.
AGAINST ART, AGAINST INDIVIDUALITY
Let us predicate all entire of the following upon the premise that children
will continue to be born. And that we are not going to die today, tomorrow,
or even next year, but that we are going to be around for some time yet
to come…
Contrary to the hysterical pleadings and
dire statements of many arts organizations in our country today, there
is now more art surrounding us than at any other time in… well, ever.
Never have so many aspired as they do now, and never has there been such
charlatanistic complicity on the part of so many Artists, colluding with
museums and educational institutions, to foster an undeserved and farcical
belief in unfortunate individuals as to their prospects as an artist.
Parallel to this, and really the same thing, where once upon a time, a
liberal arts education was simply the core of any course of study, it
is now, and has been for some while, a course of study all unto itself,
producing for us a disturbing number of people wholly unsuited for meaningful
integration into society. And when they do integrate, as they must, the
employment opportunities open to such are rarely such that any significant
amount of their education is useful in any manner whatsoever. There is
the argument that in the art world, as in the world of business, that
it’s all supply and demand, and that if the work of any one artist is
of sufficient merit said artist will find success. This argument is so
stupid as to not deserve any further discussion, just as the idea of the
business world actually functioning anymore on the laws of supply and
demand is ludicrous to such a point as to be beyond laughable. And really,
the art world and the business world are so inextricably linked (as perhaps
they have been for a long time), that there is no meaningful difference
between the two, as both are concerned primarily with product and brand
dominance. And again, this isn’t news, only a statement here to make sure
it’s been said, in case there are any who need for it to be said.
Art is a thing, as oil is a thing. Both
of which we need, but the need for which we could transcend if only sufficient
effort would be applied. That effort is in some small fashion underway,
but in a less than halfhearted manner, thus to maximize opportunities
for capital and profit while the illusion of need still persists.
Art serves as a filter or a magnifying lens
by which we can make some sense of our senseless world. Or it did, some
years ago. Even more years ago art served the world itself, not seeking
to make sense at all, but rather to enhance and reflect—and yes, often
the reflections and enhancements were all pure illusion, but yet they
translated nothing. What we see in that art is what we want to
see. We cannot know with any certainty just what they were doing, or why
they were doing it. We can suppose, and we do, and the arguments never
end. I’m probably wrong too, right alongside everyone else, but that doesn’t
change anything.
Art, in its capacity as filter and lens and
translator, serves to further complicate and magnify our incomprehension
of our increasingly senseless world. And with increased incomprehension
comes the need for bigger and newer lenses and filters, more skilled translators.
And so we see the rise of fiction. The rise of abstraction. Escapist means
by which we can look away from, rather than dealing directly with, our
incomprehensible world. We get new and newer skews and we feel like something,
at least, has been handled. But how does a painting, a piece of sculpture,
a book of poetry, or some escapist novel make for a better world? These
things that force us further into solitary isolation while ingesting them,
even as we congregate to discuss our own solitary impressions… isn’t it
in some way better to strive together toward a brighter day, a more comprehensible
tomorrow, rather than laboring alone to create things to light up—and
with what frail light—small corners of our shared darkness?
So much of this art we have is the product
of pain and anger and injustice and horror, disillusionment, loss, loneliness,
fear, incomprehension… What I want is to work toward the eradication of
art. To eradicate the need for art. The work itself shows us the results,
displays the symptoms of our growing sickness. I want to step above it
and remove the cause. And no, I cannot do it, but I want to try.
Because art is a business, it does not do
to have the same style of incomprehension as everyone else. We can go
to Borders or Amazon and pick up the accepted and established versions.
What we need is new forms of pain, new kinds of misery, novel ways of
taking you away from the stupidity of your existence. Go to a massive
retrospective in Bilbao or New York or London or Los Angeles and chart
for yourself the progress of our absurdity, our willful descent into ever-deepening
pools of nonsense. No. We need new levels of degradation, new heights
of fantasy, bigger and better ways of looking away, and so much the better
if you can use some current atrocity or other as your springboard from
which to leap further and further away from a reality we’re all blithely
ignoring. Our artists compete to give us more ways to not understand.
Even as we are busily not understanding,
our need to be understood grows keener with each day. We need
to make everyone aware of how we see things, and we scribble it all out
alone in our caves rather than engaging with each other, so desperate
to be recognized as we are, apart from everyone and everything else. So
desperate to have an identity separate from our brothers, sisters, this
solipsistic arrogance… the explicit statement that this is how I see
it; and not just that, but this is how you must see it, else
my self receives no validation and I simply do not exist. And that’s a
load of crap. You are alone because you want to be alone. You are alone
because you want to stand apart, to have an identity separate from everyone
else. But you are not different. We are all like you. You are not individual.
You manufacture this individuality from nothing to ensure that even if
your existence is grueling and unrewarding, it does not go unremarked
upon, even if only by a few. Your pain is not your pain alone, and if
you’d stand up and go outside you’d see that yourself. We’re all hurting.
It’s not okay, but maybe we can work together to see what can be done
about it. We don’t even have to address this pain, we can just move on
away from it. It’s not that hard, if you’re not doing it alone.
Common struggle? Bullshit. We’re all trying
to outdo each other, and we’re ruining everything with it.
It is not acceptable that we now thrive
on escapism. It is not acceptable that we have created a horrendous reality
for which the only option open to us is avoidance and denial. We exist
in this art-fueled unreality, this pretentious examination of everything
that gives us no insight, no understanding, no cure, nothing of value—except
for a monetary sort, which is of no real value. When art attempts to address
reality, it does not bring us closer to what it addresses, it does not
bridge gaps in understanding through circumventing or subverting our expectations—even
when we are subverted, what have we gained? We receive for our efforts
only another layer of confusion, another massive occlusion murking up
the discussion; and the problem here isn’t so much that the discussion
keeps getting more convoluted, the problem is that we’re sitting around
just talking in the first place. The problem is that we are actively not
living, we are actively not participating in existence, in life… the worlds
of art and business have in common the desire to shape our reality as
it suits them, to enforce perceptions upon viewers/participants/workers/whoever
that don’t make any sense outside the gallery/office walls; certainly
they do not want you to provide for yourself, or to have anyone else offer
up an alternative that cannot be easily subsumed into the whole.
I harbor no illusions that any wholesale
or sweeping change can be effected, yet I do believe that we can, each
of us, consciously disengage from the fraud that is daily heaped upon
us by the companies, individuals, organizations, universities, colleges,
presses whose existence depends upon our continued and increased need
for the means by which to escape the world which will only continue to
worsen if we do not look up and take stock of just how stupid it’s all
really getting. Leave your studio, abandon your desk, get the fuck outside
and take a fucking walk. Look at that new strip mall, that new housing
development and consider whether it’s really doing anything that needs
to be done, in the all-encompassing betterment-of-existence sense. Spend
more time with your friends, your children. Do not do the morally ambiguous
thing. Do not take the easy way, though it saves you time. You have more
than you need and so little of what you want. Do not ignore those things
you have seen before, what you’ve heard already: pre-existence does not
preclude validity. New is not better. New is marketing hype, and it’s
infected everything.
There is no self, and the problem with that
is that people think it’s a problem.
What I envision, someday, is hordes of Working
Artists, actively engaged with our world as it is, as opposed to legions
of effete consumptives with corporate sponsorship languishing the days
away. A universality among efforts, everyday utilization of motion, color,
sound, light, language, by all participants toward a collaborative and
continual, continually evolving environment, reshaping moment by moment
our world in acknowledgement of the ephemerality of all things, that all
is in flux and that we are not subject to the whims of ephemeral flux,
but active participants in the instantiation of all things. A shift away
from art as product toward art as existence.
Strange thing here: I’m embarrassed now. To have said this. But just as
I let Drew spew and then publish whatever he spits out, so too will I
place these words in the only place I really feel safe. What I think I’m
asking for—since I intend to continue with this spork thing for
some time—is that maybe when your pen goes to the paper, or fingers to
the keys, or brush to canvas, or whatever, that maybe you try, rather
than inventing something new to distract us, to instead chart our progress
toward a sensible tomorrow. And I guess I’m also asking that you participate
in that activity.
This embarrassment is probably also due
in part to space limitations. Room to list the grievance, or at least
one part of it, but not enough to explore all the facets and ramifications,
nor to offer up anything really useful in the way of workable solutions
or alternatives to the problems I’m moaning about—and what is it, other
than further refinement of what I’ve been saying in almost every other
issue anyway? To do it justice would require many hundreds of pages and
many more voices than my own. I don’t have either at the moment. It’s
been suggested that this might not even be the proper venue for this discussion,
attacking art in a magazine that’s devoted to the idea of art… but then,
maybe it is. Whatever the case, we’re still doing it, and are going to
continue. The magazine and the arguement.
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