A Radical Cut In The Texture Of Reality

November 18, 2019

Ten quotations on fame

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Down in Atlantis the curator showed me around the space, gesturing to invisible artworks that will soon be expensively shipped from far away to fill the room. I am the least famous and the least rich and the least well paid artist; I am paid partly in the fame of other artists. I am paid pyrrhically in the currency of my desire to be seen on my terms. My desire has almost as many social claims and credit operations on it as a straight man’s sexuality; both are supposed to justify the movements of capital that provide the basic infrastructure of contemporary art. Overdetermined, my art-making suffers the fate of all socially appointed agents of desire; it becomes intermittently impotent, and terrorized by the threat of its own softness.
- Hannah Black, Dark Pool Party



By amusing myself with all these games, with all these absurdities, with all these puzzles, rebuses, and arabesques, I became famous, and that very quickly. And fame for a painter means sales, gains, fortunes, riches. And today, as you know, I am celebrated. But when I am alone with myself I have not the courage to think of myself as an artist in the great and ancient sense of the term. Giotto, Titian, Rembrandt, and Goya were great painters; I am only a public entertainer who has understood his times and has exhausted as best he could the imbecility, the vanity, the cupidity of his contemporaries. Mine is a bitter confession, more painful than may appear, but it has the merit of being sincere.
- Picasso, Libro Vero, 1952



I think it’s more obvious when the fame stops and the person cannot continue putting out and putting out and putting out – and so the public or the press stop being flattering, and then it’s very painful. People can spend a year being famous, the talk of the town, and then, gradually, there is a kind of lessening of it until in the end there is none of it. It can destroy people. Almost like someone they adored died, or something inside them died. I saw that happen with a couple of people who were friends of mine. And I thought, I certainly would not ever wish not to be famous but if I ever am famous I promise myself to be very, very, careful.
- Maria Irene Fornes



In a 1954 letter to Reina Reyes, his fourth wife, Felisberto Hernández outlined a story he had just “discovered”: Someone has had the idea of changing the Nobel Prize so as to give the writer who wins it “a more authentic happiness,” and prevent the fame and money currently attendant upon it from disrupting his life and work. The new idea consists of not revealing the identity of the winner even to the winner himself, but using the prize money to assemble a group of people – psychologists for the most part – who instead would secretly study and promote the writer and his work for the duration of his life. The conferral of the prize would be publicly announced only after the winner’s death.
- from the Prologue to Lands of Memory by Felisberto Hernandez



Success is the ethical quagmire par excellence of commodity culture because it jeopardizes our relation to dissent, to resistance, to saying no, as fame is precisely about what one is willing to do, how far one is willing to go, and how much (low in the form of high. Going low in order to get high) one is willing to say yes to. The road to fame is made up of assent. This is what gets you to the literal and figurative top. And this is why fame is almost always a parable about losing (not finding one’s way). About being led astray. “Making it” is not the struggle to become, as it’s always been said, but the willingness to be made.
- Masha Tupitsyn



I understood, but could not forgive, the temptations of celebrity hunger. I had my own “fifteen minutes of fame” in 1968-70 in the women’s liberation movement. Such attention can replace a fragile sense of self, so that only more attention can fill the void that remains, and more attention is never enough.
- Roxanne Dunbar-Ortiz, Blood on the Border: A Memoir of the Contra War



Make your ego porous. Will is of little importance, complaining is nothing, fame is nothing. Openness, patience, receptivity, solitude is everything.
- Rainer Maria Rilke



Work your ass off to change the language & dont ever get famous.
- Bernadette Mayer, Experiments



If you really want to know something about solitude, become famous.
– James Baldwin



I don’t need no fame
- Robert Forster, No Fame



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November 12, 2019

Another short excerpt from Chapter Three of the work-in-progress Amateur Kittens Dreaming Solar Energy

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A few weeks later, as promised, they were met at the train station by a young woman with two bicycles for them. At first Rana sped out ahead to lead the way, but it didn’t take long for her to realize that Petra and Veronika were keeping a much slower pace – they were doing everything more slowly around that time – and, being a good host, she slid back to match their rhythm. What would normally take four hours on that day took almost seven, but the extra time and slower pace allowed them all an opportunity to talk, a long and winding conversation that began when Petra asked Rana how she first ended up at The Vicinity and Rana replied it was really a long story, that she had spent most of her youth in a refugee camp, and there was a group of activists who would sidestep the guards, slipping under the fence to monitor conditions, report any human rights abuses to the media, and in this way some of the abuses of years past were at least partly curtailed. Another thing these activists would often do, whenever they had a chance, was teach children to read, as many children as they could gather, and Rana was one of the few children for whom these lessons basically became her lifeline, her only hope for staying sane within an often hostile containment. There weren’t many books on site but whatever books there were circulated widely, passed from hand to hand, and there was one book she became increasingly obsessed with in that way you can only become obsessed when you’re young and have not yet encountered enough of the world. The book was called Helpless Laughter. She was particularly obsessed with Chapter Five which was entitled The Uprising and documented an earlier event at a much different kind of encampment in which those interred rose up and took over, finding a way to organize the site (and themselves) using overlapping and multiple forms of self-governance. Later they struck a deal with the authorities allowing them to, in many ways, continue their experiment of autonomy as long as they remained within the confines of the fence along with a few other concessions. (Rana wasn’t sure why, but the chapter didn’t specify just exactly what these concessions were.) During those years, the more she thought about Chapter Five, the more obsessed she became, wondering if it would be possible to organize a similar uprising where she lived, in the place she had basically spent her entire life so far. So she went to work but because she was so young she was often not taken nearly as seriously as she wished. For many years she encouraged everyone she met to read Chapter Five as the book continued to be passed from hand to hand. She also regularly organized small discussion groups on the topic – it was important the groups remain small so as not to draw too much attention from the authorities – where they discussed all the many pros and cons of working toward self-governance, either through an uprising like the one in the book or through some other means.

And then came a day that completely changed her life. We’ll let her continue in her own words: “In those days, sometimes I would run. I’d run the inside perimeter of the fence over and over like a track. I told myself it was for exercise but knew it was also to tire myself out, since I did it mostly when I felt angry so that gradually the anger was replaced by exhaustion. Sometimes I’d imagine an opening in the fence that I ran through and just kept going. I was feeling especially angry that day, so at the moment I would normally stop I instead began running faster. It rapidly became apparent I had much more energy and stamina then I previously knew. I was feeling angry because I’d heard a rumor, heard it not once but three times, from three different people. It was a rumor about another uprising, something that happened in the past weeks or months, an uprising brutally supressed, where everyone was killed. It was only a rumor but there was no reason to believe it wasn’t true. People were telling me, three different people, because everyone knew how interested I was in the possibility of someday organizing an uprising. They were telling me to dissuade me and telling me perhaps to see how I’d react. Each and every time I responded with calm curiosity, saying that I hope we can learn more about it in the future. And if it’s true it makes me sad. But it didn’t only make me sad, it also made me angry. I knew if I seemed too impulsive or headstrong or angry my attempts to build resistance would be taken less seriously, would seem less credible. Already, even at that young age, I knew I needed to work carefully, through charm and logic and quiet confidant determination. And of course I also wondered how much easier it might have been if I were a man. (Not to mention how much easier it would have been if I were a white man.) But there’s enough macho bullshit in this world and I was dreaming about something completely different. There was so little wealth in that place and therefore no ostentatious displays of wealth. We all had about the same amount and therefore it cost us so little to share. At least with books, we were always sharing them, passing them around. I realized this was not the complete picture of our reality, but it was the reality I desired to work toward, and therefore it’s what I most often focused on. But on that particular day, as I was running and running, I was no longer sure if an uprising was worth the risk just because I read about it in a book. Books are beautiful things but, on that particular day, I was also asking myself if they can sometimes lead you astray. Or how often they lead you astray. Books are beautiful things but they are not reality. Reality was the people I saw every day sitting out in front of their tents and offering to share their tea. Reality was my closest friends who slept beside me every single night in the tent and who I would never want to see harmed in any way. And yet I remained convinced we should all continue working toward self-governance. The only question was how.

As I turned the corner running along the inside of the fence, for the seventh or eighth time – I’d actually lost count by that point – off in the distance, just a speck, at the far end of the site, there was clearly something going down. Even though I couldn’t see it clearly, I believed I already knew what it was. A group of activists were cutting away a single panel of the fence. They did so from time to time, when they wanted to load in things that were too big to slip underneath or throw over. It looked like they had a stack of large cardboard boxes but I had absolutely no idea what the boxes might contain. As I got closer they were cutting with their wire cutters and then just as I arrived they managed to pull the entire panel free as I ran straight through the opening and kept running as if for my life. (I didn’t see any guards then realized they wouldn’t be opening up the fence if there were guards around.) Many times in the past I’d imagined this happening and at that precise moment it seemed to me such imaginings were not fantasies but premonitions. For the first time in my life I had completely left the site and was running hard and long though I had absolutely no idea where I was going nor why. It was never my real fantasy to leave that place, or so I’d previously thought, though actions speak louder than words. My real fantasy was always to stay and work together to make something better for everyone. But there I was, a split second and everything in my life had completely changed. All I could think to do was run, keep running, I had no idea how far or for how long.”

As they pedaled, Petra and Veronika were both completely taken by the story. For a while they all biked in silence, with Petra or Veronika occasionally asking some further question which Rana ably answered before the quiet cycling resumed. Then Veronika had another thought: “You’ve told us how you escaped the camp, but that doesn’t really tell us how you ended up at The Vicinity.”

“That’s true. Maybe I’m not ready to tell you that yet. Maybe when we know each other better. But I just remembered something else. Something I haven’t thought about in a long time. I’m actually not sure I’ve thought about it since I lived there. Telling you the story must have triggered the memory. A good memory. Maybe one of the best from my entire childhood. Once or twice a week we all used to play a game. The game was basically soccer but for some reason we played it differently. After every point we would all stand together in a big circle and then everyone would take one step to the left. I’m not completely sure how to explain it. We were taking turns, one at a time, playing on both teams. After every point we each took a sideways step and the invisible division cutting the circle in two constituted the new teams. I never really asked myself why we did this but I suppose it was more fun that way. And of course it also made it more fair. At the time I just thought of it as something we did, I actually didn’t know any different, but now that I’m thinking back it feels almost like a small miracle: egalitarian children inventing a more egalitarian version of the game. Everyone gets a turn playing on both teams, but also the teams are constantly changing, every point bringing one new team member. That was the way I learned to play it and I wonder if there was ever a specific moment when I learned that it wasn’t also the way people played it everywhere. I must have come to know that more banal and less egalitarian reality at some point, since I know it now, but I don’t remember any specific moment when I learned it.”



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November 10, 2019

Second short excerpt from the work-in-progress Dry Your Tears To Perfect Your Aim

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After having read all four letters, after so much all-too-accurate criticism of my work, I have to ask myself the most difficult question: is there any real reason for me to be writing this book? And even if I manage to finish, is there actually a good reason to publish it? More than anything, I wish for any book I might write to concretely help those on the thin strip of land, or at the very least to vehemently express my infinite admiration and support for them. But will it? Does it? I think long and hard about this question and realize what I feel: so much guilt that I’m an artist and not an activist. Reading over what I’ve written so far, I can see that in so many ways this is one of the main topics. That I’m an artist and not an activist. A topic (and guilt) which of course helps no one. However, there is me with my tepid struggles. And then there are those on the thin strip of land whose struggles are considerably more important. I can’t tell the story from their perspective. I can only tell it from my own. Then there is also you, the reader. If I have been ineffective, there is no reason why you can’t read this, learn from my mistakes, and choose to be more effective than I could ever be. How you might do so is something I’m not able to tell you or even suggest. Why, having read this story so far, would you have any reason to listen to me. Of course, we all know you must never try to save anyone. Must always work in solidarity with others’ struggles, asking first what they need. (I’m directly addressing the reader while still unsure if I will ever finish or publish this book. Always getting ahead of myself.)

When I look back at the history of a certain kind of literature, I often see myself. In writers like Franz Kafka, Fernando Pessoa, Robert Musil, Robert Walser, Roberto Arlt, Sadegh Hedayat, Witold Gombrowicz, Cesare Pavese, W.G. Sebald; depressed and literary mostly European melancholiacs – often published posthumously – who could do little other than write and whose writing fed their alienated melancholia and vice versa. It is telling that none of these writers ever attempted to write an anti-war novel. Many of them never even got on a plane. Sometimes I tell myself: now is the time to change. If I believe, with all the injustices that surround us, that activism in our current moment is so much more important than art, then I must step up, transform myself, be the change I wish to see. (Like Prince at the end of Purple Rain except with politics.) But then I feel I’m only lying to myself. If I am good at anything, and of course I’m not so sure I am, it will always have something to do with art, it is only through some kind of writing or art that anything might happen. So here I am, again trying to write this book. From my own all-too-flawed perspective. Once again unsure whether I’m doing right or wrong. And I remember this quote from an interview with Myung Mi Kim: “The undecidability of whether I am making a difference or not – that ambiguity is part of the answer. Part of the work of answering the question of social efficacy has to include the ambiguity. If you actually had an answer, you wouldn’t be taking in the whole full weight of the questions.” For the moment there is no other way, finish the book first and only then decide if it should be published. Only then attempt to make the impossible decision as to whether it will do more harm or good. And when that moment comes, I very much hope it is a decision I will not be making alone.



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November 7, 2019

Short excerpt from the work-in-progress Dry Your Tears To Perfect Your Aim

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In the preface my friend writes: “Is it possible to write about my own death as if it were also the death of capitalism and patriarchy?” And, strangely, in the unreal way he has written up his travels, he (in some sense) does die four times, once at the end of each section. Unfortunately this last time was for keeps. Which makes me wonder: do capitalism and patriarchy need to die or do they only need to change? (If they change into something clearly unrecognizable as capitalism and patriarchy do we say they changed or do we say they died?) As we know, some people would rather die than change and I’m still trying to figure out whether or not my friend was one of them.



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October 31, 2019

A short excerpt from Chapter Three of the work-in-progress Amateur Kittens Dreaming Solar Energy

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There was a moment when I was working on this book when I started to lose my mind a little bit and thought: what needs to happen is that the telepathic kittens save us from ecological collapse. I became more and more obsessed with the idea. And it wasn’t clear whether I thought the kittens needed to save us within the narrative or outside of it, in reality, which I might have been somewhat losing my grasp on. And of course this thought is yet another variation on the kinds of stories where something – some entity or ideology or technology – comes to save us from ourselves. I believe such stories basically to be a form of despair disguised as hope, a form of wishful thinking that can be surprisingly convincing when performed with the right combination of insight and craft, which this particular version of it is obviously not.



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October 25, 2019

Patti Smith Quote

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When I was really young and struggling, the advice that William S. Burroughs gave me was, build a good name, keep your name clean. Don’t make compromises. Don’t worry about making a bunch of money or being successful. Be concerned about doing good work, and make the right choices, and protect your work. If you build a good name, eventually that name will be its own currency.

– Patti Smith



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October 24, 2019

In love with the movement of the world

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[This text was written for Ula Sickle's project Free Gestures - Wolne Gesty presented at the Ujazdowski Castle Centre for Contemporary Art. It is also published in the book of the same name.]


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I raise my arm. If I were to have done this in an auction I might have just purchased something. Something I most likely can’t afford. If I were to have done this in a classroom I might have had to give the answer to a question or my thoughts on a specific topic. Answers and thoughts I might not have. I raise my hand on the street, at random, or here in the gallery and perhaps it means nothing. It is bad pantomime. I reach for something just above me, just out of reach. A metaphor or analogy. I raise my hand with an open palm or with a fist. I have to decide if I raise my right hand or my left, if it makes any difference which one I choose, or if I would prefer that someone else decide. If you have to raise your hand before you are allowed to speak, and I would prefer not to speak, nonetheless I raise my hand. In the group, at the meeting, we decided decisions would be made based on the desires of the majority. After lengthy debate and discussion, these desires would be ascertained through an open vote, your participation in each vote would be signaled by raising your hand. All in favor: I raise my hand. All against: I raise my hand. I know I am not allowed to vote twice but I raise my hand.



*



Across the street I see a person. They are a bit too far away. I cannot tell if they’re male or female or some other gender. They are walking along with the rest of the crowd and during this time I do not notice them, they do not stand out. But then they do the thing. I can only describe the thing as suddenly, unexpectedly raising both arms. But the thing is not raising both arms. It is something else. The arms are involved but the rest of the body is involved as well. It is always only one person who does the thing but everyone else is involved as well. Everyone on the street and everyone in their thoughts. I am watching the street and think I see them do the thing but then believe I’m mistaken, that I haven’t actually seen them do anything. I have a theory. My theory is that the thing is a small form of everyday political protest. It involves lifting both arms but also involves the entirety of the body, of the person and of the social setting that surrounds them. I have no particular evidence or reason for believing my theory to be true. It is less like a theory and more like a feeling. It is true. When I have a few hours to kill, when I’m unsure what to do next, I aimlessly stare out my window hoping by pure chance to see someone spontaneously do the thing. I think maybe I saw it yesterday. I think maybe I will see it again tomorrow.



*



I said: I understand that you’re angry at me. And if you want to express your anger you can punch me in the face. You have my permission. You can punch me in the face gently or with great force. This is not something I’m saying to you now. I don’t want you to punch me in the face. I’m not, I repeat, not giving you my permission to do so. This is something that happened to me many years ago. I knew she was angry at me and wanted to give her permission to express her anger. To effectively and physically express her anger. I said: I understand. And what I understood was anger. I was wondering how to give it permission to become physical. She did not punch me in the face, suspecting that I most likely didn’t actually want her too, and she was most likely right. I told myself: these are all questions of relative freedom. It is misery to possess anger and yet have absolutely nothing to do with it. If we had taken a vote, a vote as to whether or not she should punch me in the face, she would have voted no and I would have voted yes and it would be a stalemate. She said: I don’t want to punch you in the face, I want you to change your ways. I said: I don’t want to change my ways, I want you to punch me in the face. This only made her more angry. Still she didn’t punch.



*



I lie down, stiff as a board. You have to lie down for what you stand for. You don’t only have to stand. You can also lie down. I lie down alone in the most public of spaces. I know what it means to be tired but that is not the reason I lie down. That is never the reason. Some people think lying down has something to do with sex but I know they are wrong. I’m going to change the topic now. The new topic is looking straight ahead but at the ceiling. Looking straight ahead at the future which also happens to be the ceiling. It is not the glass ceiling most known to us through metaphors of inequality. It is the ceiling you see while you are looking straight ahead as if looking off towards the horizon. It is the ceiling one finds by lying down in public but ceilinged spaces, by lying down during a protest, by letting ones body go limp. In this position you can raise one leg as if raising an arm, as if you know the answer to a question in the classroom or wish to signal your desire to make a purchase in the auction hall. You can raise one leg as if raising an arm but the gesture is significantly different. We have all raised a hand but not all of us have necessarily raised a foot. It is not the way we vote. Not yet. A mischievous flexing of the ankle. In order to vote I lie down. I put myself in the way. I put myself in the way of those who are not lying down.



*



She made an obscene gesture. And because she made an obscene gesture I fell in love. It was so obscene. It made me want to take off all my clothes and raise my hand. Ask for permission. She did not make this gesture in order to impact me. She made it for herself. Of her own free will and for her own free will. She made it to piss off the world. While I stood there naked with my hand raised high, I wondered for a moment just exactly what I was voting for. If I had a choice, I think I would scream: I am voting for the obscene gesture and I am voting for love. They are one and the same thing. (Everyone can see they are one and the same thing.) But I am making this about me when really it is about her. I always do this. We all know the real question is this: how exactly do you imagine the obscene gesture? And how would you make it yourself when the time comes to do so? An obscene gesture is like an army. I am avoiding the question of how I fell in love. But what is love when placed against the strength and fortitude of the obscene gesture. I am writing this in secret. From the depth of our most secret hideout. The secret society of the obscene gesture. Raising both arms in the air. Raising both legs in the air. Arms and legs that know nothing of love. Something to do with the fingers and pelvis and muscles and blood. A small, obscene form of everyday political protest. Of social process. The obscene gesture can also fall in love. In love with its own obscenity. In love with the movement of the world.



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October 10, 2019

Lindsay Nixon Quote

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So it was that MDMA, and queer love, forced me into my body: my mouth, and my sweaty skin pressed against the rest of the crowd. And it was the dance floor that facilitated queer love. Every weekend, without fail, my young queer kin and I would situate ourselves on dance floors of the prairie rave scene, in an abandoned warehouse or a rented community centre, chasing feeling. We had all been dissociated from our bodies too long, told they were sick with fem mannerisms and thick thighs that were just a little too plentiful, too greedy, for public space. As queer kin, we gifted each other the ability to name desires I had been told I wasn’t worthy of, and let me believe I’m worthy of love, worthy to take up space, and worthy of being fucked, in the small-town queer communities we birthed at those seedy warehouse raves.

Was it Hollinghurst who said the gay novel is dead, even though he should have just said that the yt dude gay novel is dead?

- Lindsay Nixon, nîtisânak



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October 4, 2019

Excerpt from a possible third chapter from the work-in-progress Amateur Kittens Dreaming Solar Energy

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A few hours later, Petra is sitting in her office alone. As she does most days, she is trying to write. Staring down at the half-empty page in front of her, she thinks hard about just what exactly she’s working on. Deep in her heart she harbors a ridiculous secret. Although she is almost unable to admit it, even to herself, there is a part of her that feels, or hopes, you can save the world with a book, with the book she is currently working, this idea made more ridiculous by the fact that she is writing a novel. But if Ayn Rand could help ruin the world by writing those terrible right wing novels, why can’t she help save it by writing books equally compelling but politically opposite.

Lately she has not been making much progress. If she ever manages to finish it, this will be her eighteenth book. Does any writer really need to write eighteen books? She imagines a different model, a different world, in which instead of some people writing twenty plus books and others writing none, everyone gets to write exactly one book and therefore has to make it count. She loves to read, sometimes she loves to write, and more than anything she loves books, but increasingly she has to admit to herself that books seem just as much a part of the problem as everything else in this world. It was the way they accumulated, every year more and more books filling the bookstores and libraries, more than anyone could ever possibly read. But not only that, there was also the strange way they seemed to cancel each other out. So many people writing books documenting all the violent and devastating ways that ecological breakdown is real and getting worse, and yet then all the opposing corporate interests need to do is covertly (or not so covertly) commission an equal number of books that in blatant or subtle ways call such scientific facts into question. And of course not even an equal amount, just a small number of carefully argued counter-factual books can do the job, making it ever more unclear to the undiscerning reader what is real and what is fiction. In such matters books weren’t anywhere near the most guilty culprit. In newspapers, movies, television and most noticeably online, facts and fictions could scroll by indiscernibly, but the idea that it happens even with books, even with that beloved object, brought along with it a palatable sadness that at times made it difficult to continue writing. And she loved to write. Or at least sometimes she loved to write. If it didn’t do any good, did it really do any harm?

She was getting nowhere with the page in front of her so instead let her mind wander, starting to imagine who Veronika might be meeting and what they might be saying to each other. And then she started to do more than just imagine, she started writing it down:

V was late again. She was always late. The front door of the innocuous looking building had a two-step security protocol: first her fingerprint then her iris, then down the long hallway, through a secret panel in the wall, impossible to identify if you don’t start counting the panels from the very first one, and into a completely unlit elevator which takes you down into the earth the equivalent of a thirty story building. Why all this security every single time, she thinks to herself, but of course she knows why as the familiar elevator sinking feeling lodges in her stomach and she counts the minutes in complete darkness it takes to reach the bottom. Eight minutes. Always exactly eight minutes. For the uninitiated, eight minutes in pitch black freefall might induce panic, but no one was more initiated than V. The elevator smoothly reaches bottom where a second iris scan opens the doors and she’s back in the place she feels most at home, most vital. A long, calmly lit room where they meet at scheduled intervals and effectively work. To the best of her knowledge they are not under surveillance here, though the possibility always exists they might be someday soon. 
– You’re late. 
– I’m always late. 
– That doesn’t make it unworthy of comment. 
– Repetition is the soul of pedagogy. 
Y is staring at a large computer monitor. He has been staring at this computer screen, off and on, for a long as she can remember. On it is the magnification of a single drop of liquid. The liquid they have also been working on for as long as she can remember, still not knowing if it is only scientific fantasy or it might eventually be possible. And yet just a few drops of this fantasy liquid into a tanker full of oil would rapidly transform the oil into a clear, harmless, non-combustible substance, making it financially worthless. (Or at least that’s the hope.) A slight variation might also work on natural gas. And yet it never quite works. Is this the fantasy worth having? Is Y any more convinced it will eventually work than she is? Devoting oneself so fully to the potential of fantasies can also be a backhanded form of despair. 
– Any progress? 
– I don’t know. I haven’t tried it yet. I was waiting for you 
Together they walk to the far end of the room where they can watch the experiment through several panes of thick glass. A few times in the past the experiment has rather violently exploded so they no longer take any risks. Y sits down at the other computer and begins typing the exact same commands he has already typed so many times. As he does so a robot arm carefully positions itself over a petri dish of oil, dropping a single drop of their ongoing experiment directly into the center of it. As it gently ripples outward the darkly viscous liquid gradually turns clear. They’ve seen this happen before, each time getting their hopes up and being disappointed in turn, but this time it looks different. As it is programed to do, the petri dish automatically rolls into a slot in the wall and they both walk back to the large computer screen at the other end of the room. Immediately they can see that something is different, different in a good way. Y is smiling like she’s never seen him smile before. 
– I want to try. 
– Don’t you want to do the rest of the tests first? 
– This looks promising. I want to try. 
– All right. It’s your money. 
Together they walk back to the large rectangular window as the petri dish slides back into its former position. The robot arm lights a single match, dropping it directly into the middle of the petri dish and the flame is completely extinguished as if it had been dropped into a glass of cold water. This has never happened before. Y begins to smile and then laugh. 
– I think that’s it. 
– Are you sure. 
– I’m definitely not sure. But you saw it too. 
– I definitely saw it. 
– I think that’s it. 
Of course there’s also a problem. This liquid is exorbitantly expensive to produce, even a few drops. But there must be a way to keep that information secret. To transform the largest quantity of oil they can find and then simply threaten that they will also transform the rest. To hold that blade over the neck of the fossil fuel industry in order to find out what concessions they can wring out once they have them in a compromised position. But is it really the best strategy? Because once they reveal their hand they will be hunted mercilessly and their days will be numbered. Might it not be better to covertly transform a few carefully chosen oil supplies, leading those in charge to suspect it’s a naturally occurring phenomena, placing every aspect of their self-understanding of their world into question? 
They were now one step closer to obtaining a weapon but what strategy might put it to best use? This was a question to be analyzed and debated for many months to come. Tonight they would celebrate. Y had already sent out the message and the others would be here soon. V couldn’t quite believe it. She now realizes she had never completely believed it would work and perhaps she was wrong. Hadn’t she just seen it with her own eyes? The oil had turned clear and extinguished the flame.

It is late at night when Veronika arrives home and, though she doesn’t completely know why, Petra feels slightly guilty. Guilty for writing about Veronika behind her back. (But, then again, if Veronika is having secret political meetings behind Petra’s back maybe it’s only fair.) And was she really writing about Veronika? Could such a magical and far-fetched story actually be said to be based on anyone from real life? Also there was something undeniably exciting about it, about imagining the love of her life battling corporations and saving the world. In the imagination of literature anything was possible, but was this literature or just some doodle in the corner of a page whose sole purpose was to procrastinate the book she was actually supposed to be working on. (Or could such a doodle eventually become part of the book, be folded back into it.) Petra then wonders if it’s politically irresponsible to write this way, suggesting a few drops of magical scientific liquid can solve the world’s problems, rather than the long, hard toil of activism, dismantling capitalism and collectively finding some other way for humanity to organize itself. She had never thought of it as her job to offer up solutions. And yet, in the current predicament, shouldn’t everyone be working toward a solution, doing whatever they could practically all of the time. (Then again, we’re surrounded by capitalist fantasies. Why not have a few gloriously anti-capitalist fantasies as well.)



[Unfinished]


As well, you can find my first attempt at a preface here.




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October 1, 2019

An excerpt from Authenticity is a Feeling

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[What follows is an excerpt from Authenticity is a Feeling: My Life in PME-ART from the chapter concerning The DJ Who Gave Too Much Information:]



There are a few stories we tell (and don’t tell) in The DJ Who Gave Too Much Information that so clearly resonate with my own ongoing struggles with collaboration:

A story about the Fall. About how the Fall had over sixty members, and the reason there were so many is that Mark E. Smith kept firing them. It goes without saying that many former members were less than happy about this situation. Mark E. Smith didn’t write any music and didn’t play an instrument. He only wrote the (generally brilliant) lyrics and spoke/sang them, and also gave commands in the studio and onstage as to how precisely the songs should be played. (In general he wanted them played with greater simplicity and more ferocity.) So members who were no longer with the Fall had written all of their best-known riffs and melodies, and then were later replaced with others who did the same. But Mark E. Smith said they shouldn’t complain, that if past members were all so great then why hadn’t they done anything as great after they left. For Mark E. Smith, himself plus anyone was the Fall. Or as he once notoriously put it: “If it’s me and yer granny on bongos, it’s the Fall.”

I believe, or at least hope, that I’m a much gentler soul than Mark E. Smith was. (Or at least more Canadian. And I’m certain that I drink exponentially less.) But the evidence on the table shows that there are many who have worked with PME-ART in the past who no longer work with us. I certainly didn’t fire them, but perhaps there were some who wanted to continue further than they did. Or maybe, on the other hand, they really, really didn’t. I don’t actually know. Over the years there have not been many conversations along these lines. In one sense, this is simply our roots showing: we are structured like an (experimental) theatre company that works with creator/performers on a project-to-project basis. We invite people to work with us on a specific project and then see how it goes. But most of the work is so highly collaborative that this way of explaining the structure never feels completely right to me. I do gravitate toward the idea of “projects,” artistic endeavours with a beginning, middle, and end (as one can see from the way this book is structured). And, at times, I have also felt that me and anyone (and yer granny on bongos) is PME-ART. But most of the time I realize just how untrue this actually is.

(Perhaps all of this also reflects a decision semi-made all those years ago, after sitting in on the Forced Entertainment rehearsals, when I asked them if we should stick with the same people or open up to new collaborators. But it also seems to be a decision I am continuously making and unmaking. I can’t quite let it rest one way or the other.)

The story we tell in The DJ Who Gave Too Much Information about Pavement has to do with their final concert before they broke up (and also a few years before they once again reformed). The lead singer, Stephen Malkmus, walked onstage wearing handcuffs, holding his cuffed hands high above his head, and said: “If you want to know what it feels like to be in a band, this is what it feels like to be in a band.”

But there are also two stories about Pavement that I’ve never told in the show. The first is about how, after Pavement broke up, I read an interview with Malkmus in which he said that Pavement was basically all him: he wrote all the songs, wrote all the guitar parts, and often had to teach the rest of the band the songs several times before they were able to properly play them. (In their early days Pavement recorded a number of songs that were a bit too obviously influenced by the Fall.) Malkmus has now released a number of solo albums (some with his new band, the Jicks) that, in my humble opinion, are nowhere near as good as anything he made with Pavement. So the other members of Pavement clearly must have been contributing a great deal. (Also, to give Malkmus the benefit of the doubt, that was just one interview, maybe he was having a bad day.)

The second untold Pavement story is more apocryphal. I believe my favourite Pavement record is Wowee Zowee, made while they were still high off their first somewhat mainstream success, Crooked Rain, Crooked Rain, and its single “Cut Your Hair.” Wowee Zowee was their most experimental and adventurous album, pushing in different directions with every track while still holding it all together. It was also a relative flop. And I feel they were overly stung by its reception. After that they were less likely to take risks, more likely to play it safe. Somehow I’ve had analogous experiences with PME- ART. Some of our most adventurous works (Unrehearsed Beauty-Le Génie des autres, HOSPITALITY 3: Individualism Was A Mistake) have also been the hardest to tour. I always need to push myself back toward taking artistic risks again. To remember that Wowee Zowee is still the best Pavement record and the world just needs to catch up.

These stories about Pavement and the Fall are perhaps ways for me to reflect on my different position within the group, within any given PME-ART creation process. How I am both one of the gang and the boss, and I suppose it’s not really possible to be both. And yet that is the struggle of the work. The ethical/artistic struggle that can never entirely be solved. Since, at the same time, I’m never only in charge. Within a PME-ART process it is always possible for me to be outvoted or to change course based on the desires of the group. It’s happened often. How to be transparent about my role within the collaborative dynamic? I often hate the lived experience of collaboration but somehow still so fiercely believe in it, knowing it would be so much better if it was the opposite: if I loved collaboration then I wouldn’t even particularly need to believe in it.

(Marie Claire writes that, yes, within PME-ART the leadership is pretty clear, even though it is subject to discussion. But also, it was only through her learning The DJ Who Gave Too Much Information that she came to understand just how much Claudia and Caroline hold and lead the work with me. For the HOSPITALITY/HOSPITALITÉ series, this has been absolutely true.)

The story about Parenthetical Girls is one we used to tell in the show but for some reason don’t anymore. When I saw the Parenthetical Girls play in Berlin there was one moment that will always stick with me. During a split-second pause in a song (I no longer remember which one) they all smoothly and effortlessly switched instruments. The drummer stepped over his drum kit and slid into the guitar strap that was held open for him, as the guitarist stepped over to the keyboard, the keyboard player was handed the bass, and the bass player sat down behind the drums without missing a beat. Or at least that’s how I remember it. This is also a story about collaboration, about those ecstatic moments when it really works, all the pieces sliding together without a hitch. I wonder how many times they had to rehearse it before it worked, or if it happened that smoothly every night. A moment of grace that can only be achieved through fully working together. (This actually isn’t the kind of thing I usually like in performance. Too virtuosic for my tastes. But in this case it caught me off guard and lodged in my memory accordingly.)

Another story about Parenthetical Girls. In 2016 I had a residency in their hometown of Portland, Oregon. And, while there, I would tell everyone I met that I loved the band. And everyone responded that they knew frontman Zac Pennington, or one of the other members, but no one had ever seen them live or listened to any of their records. (Parenthetical Girls put on a phenomenal live show.) As someone said to me: “Of course I know Zac. He’s really good at karaoke. Is his band any good?” As the French expression goes: you can never be a prophet in your own village.



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