Dec 3, 2013
Nov 25, 2013
What is Art? What is value? What is authorship? What is an expert? What is suffering?
Nov 23, 2013
Nov 16, 2013
Nov 15, 2013
Nov 14, 2013
Is that a victim of Hitler in your anatomy handbook?
And there was more: a link between university scientists and Heinrich Gross, the doctor who headed the infants’ ward of Spiegelgrund, the children’s wing of the Vienna Psychiatric Hospital, during the war. Gross did painful experiments on living children there, some of whom died as a result. One child who survived said the children called Gross “the Scythe”; another remembered that his arrival on the ward “was like a cold wind coming.” All told, 772 children were killed at Spiegelgrund, about half of them from Gross’ ward. In 1948, he was charged with murder. But the penal code he was prosecuted under did not define murder to include disabled peoplebecause they were “not capable of reasoning.” He was found guilty only of manslaughter, and when Gross appealed and won, the prosecutor chose not to retry him.
Gross returned to Spiegelgrund (it had been renamed) and continued his research using brain specimens from the children who had been killed there. He published 35 papers, some written with University of Vienna faculty. He also testified as a psychiatric expert in thousands of cases in the Austrian court. In 1975, he was awarded the Austrian Cross of Honor for Science and Art.
As the University of Vienna committee brought renewed attention to this history, evidence against Gross also surfaced in the files of the Stasi, the East German secret police. In 1999, he was indicted for murder again. But Gross’ lawyers said he had Alzheimer’s and could not understand the proceedings against him. The court accepted this defense. But Seidelman does not believe it. “Do you know what Gross did?” he asked. “He smiled and went off to a coffee shop with his friends and family to celebrate.”
Nov 11, 2013
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HORA
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PONENTE
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TÍTULO DE LA PONENCIA
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10:00-10:30
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INAUGURACIÓN
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10:30-11:30
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Elías Pérez (España)
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Ciudad, entorno y fotografía en la práctica artística contemporánea.
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11:30-12:15
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Mtro. Ernesto Rivera Barrón
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Las tocadas sonideras como paisaje urbano. Una experiencia académica
compartida
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12:15-13:00
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Dra. Marina Garone Gravier
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Las cartas de Artemisa: Comunicación escrita indígena y entorno
social.
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13:00-13:30
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RECESO
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13:30-14:15
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Cesar González Ochoa
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El papel del diseñador en la construcción del entorno.
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14:15-14:45
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Adrián Gómez (Colombia)
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Dinámicas Relacionales
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14:45-15:15
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Jorge Ismael Rodríguez
México
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Arte polen y apropiación.
(Dos ensayos de colonización positiva a través de las prácticas
artísticas de un bisnieto de Quetzalcóatl.)
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15:15-17:00
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RECESO PARA COMIDA
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17:00-17:30
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Mtro. John Lundberg
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Arte & entorno –Un acercamiento
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17:30-18:00
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Mtro. Luis Enrique Betancourt Santillán
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Contornos en expansión, aura y hado del
diseño.
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18:00-18:30
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Mtro. Yuri Alberto
Aguilar Hernández
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"Zoomatl: Zoológico de madera en Tlalpan"
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18:30-19:30
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Peter Krieger
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Estética de la contaminación atmosférica
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Nov 10, 2013
One of the most enduring and endearing aspects of the work of Swiss artists Peter Fischli and David Weiss is how it exhibits their fondness for everyday things. The video Büsi (Kitty) features a close-up of a cat lapping milk in a domestic environment. It was originally exhibited on an oversized video screen in New York's Times Square as part of a public art program, The 59th Minute: Video Art on the Times Square Astrovision. Given that this public space is usually reserved for slick commercials and news programming, it was an incongruous setting for a video of a cat deciding to pause for something to drink. While the lush, high-definition quality of the Büsi video suggests a commercial for a pet product, the lack of a soundtrack, deliberate overexposure, and slapdash framing give the work the look of an amateur video of a family pet. By simply changing the frame of reference, by restaging the commonplace within the landscape of art and/or commerce, Fischli and Weiss make the ordinary seem extraordinary.
Nov 5, 2013
Oct 31, 2013
Oct 29, 2013
Oct 24, 2013
Oct 22, 2013
Portrait
of King Willem-Alexander delivering his “monarch’s annual
address” on the day the government presents its Budget. September of the year
2013.
Short Open Story
Letter
to
King
Willem-Alexander-Fart-Nugget-Shit-Stain of The Really Really Low Countries.
By
A.N. Houx
Who the fuck is this motherfucking
bitch-fucking fuck-twit? Said a man. The French, they knew.
Just like a loaf of bread. Chopchopchopchop!!
And King
Willem-Alexander-Fart-Nugget-Shit-Stain of The Really Really Low Countries with his
portly wife Queen Maxima Cunt-Face-Arse, walked the grounds of their many
castles, farting and laughing, and kicking small children in the head until
their brains leaked out of their nostrils, while petting ever-so-cute little
kittens (mostly Asheras and Savannahs, but a few Peterbalds, also). Owh, my Deahr Queen, he said (only in
his own language, of course. Something like “Oh, mijn lieve koningin”? Maybe?),
as the blood was duly licked off of his $9000 loafers. Let uhs celebrhate beyhond what ihs called for, yesh? Old tihmes are
back agaihn, you knowhh. Finally we can act the pahrt. He gestured
majestically towards everything and everyone, as he felt, finally, that
wonderful feeling in his chest of knowing he was better than all the other
people and all the other things in the land. Queen Maxima Cunt-Face-Arse made a
sharp whistling sound out of her face-hole which caused a flock of doves to
die.
The celebration went on for what seemed like
forever, until someone, just anyone, got up and said, You know what, you fucking motherfucking child-raping fucking pieces of
shit. It’s fucking over. Kings are of the past. And the present should, really out of plain necessity, kill the past.
And everyone said Yes, why are we even listening to these fucking twats anyway? I mean,
really, what the fuck is wrong with us, taking a bunch of losers like this
seriously?! What the fuck?! And they all went happily to the palace at Nieuwezijds Voorburgwal and dragged the
fucking King and his fucking Queen and all their fucking children (they have spawned offspring,
I suppose? Right?) and any other fucking member of their fucked up family of fucking moochers,
and killed them slowly and methodically. And every year since then children, on
that very day, venture to the spot and urinate copiously and happily.
The End.
From:
“New Windmills” Work in progress 2012-
MS unpublished
To be
featured in the upcoming anthology “History Painting Just Now”.
LWBP Press.
Oct 14, 2013
Oct 12, 2013
Oct 4, 2013
Oct 3, 2013
”Som jag satt vid
mitt bord med pennan i hand, drabbade mig ett feberanfall som ett åskslag. Då
jag inte varit allvarligt sjuk på femton år, tog jag illa vid mig av händelsen,
som inföll olägligt; inte för att jag fruktade döden, långt därifrån, men efter
att vid trettioåtta års ålder ha nått slutet på en stormig bana utan att ha
sagt mitt sista ord, utan att ha infriat alla ungdomslöften, fylld av planer
för framtiden, var jag knappast förtjust över det inträffade. Efter att i fyra
års tid ha levt i halvt frivillig landsflykt med hustru och barn, höll jag mig
undan i en bajersk by, överansträngd, nyligen stämd inför domstol, drabbad av kvarstad,
lyst i bann, slängd på avskrädeshögen, och det var känslan av revansch jag var
besatt av när jag i sista ögonblicket sjönk ner på min säng.”
August Strindberg
En dåres försvarstal (1893)
Sep 23, 2013
Evolution, hurry up!
Certain they're pleasing
That for which no evidence exists
They kill children of all ages
In the name of that
For which no evidence exists
As an encore, demanding respect
For their belief in that
For which no evidence exists
That for which no evidence exists
They kill children of all ages
In the name of that
For which no evidence exists
As an encore, demanding respect
For their belief in that
For which no evidence exists
They kill more
Then more and more and more
And insanely often get it
Then more and more and more
And insanely often get it
Sep 20, 2013
Maybe apocalypse is, paradoxically, always individual, always personal. I have a brief tenure on Earth, bracketed by infinities of nothingness, and during the first part of this tenure I form an attachment to a particular set of human values that are shaped inevitably by my social circumstances. If I'd been born in 1159, when the world was steadier, I might well have felt, at 53, that the next generation would share my values and appreciate the same things I appreciated; no apocalypse pending. But I was born in 1959, when TV was something you watched only during prime time, and people wrote letters and put them in the mail, and every magazine and newspaper had a robust books section, and venerable publishers made long-term investments in young writers, and New Criticism reigned in English departments, and the Amazon basin was intact, and antibiotics were used only to treat serious infections, not pumped into healthy cows. It wasn't necessarily a better world (we had bomb shelters and segregated swimming pools), but it was the only world I knew to try to find my place in as a writer. And so today, 53 years later, Kraus's signal complaint – that the nexus of technology and media has made people relentlessly focused on the present and forgetful of the past – can't help ringing true to me. Kraus was the first great instance of a writer fully experiencing how modernity, whose essence is the accelerating rate of change, in itselfcreates the conditions for personal apocalypse. Naturally, because he was the first, the changes felt particular and unique to him, but in fact he was registering something that has become a fixture of modernity. The experience of each succeeding generation is so different from that of the previous one that there will always be people to whom it seems that any connection of the key values of the past have been lost. As long as modernity lasts, all days will feel to someone like the last days of humanity.
Sep 13, 2013
A Josh Bayer & Raymond Pettibon collaboration from ‘Suspect Device’ #3
"I mean, a big goal of doing these comics is giving myself a project that keeps me distracted from the horror of this modern world for seven months. I don’t know. Maybe that’s a horrible example to set for people, but that’s what I am doing."
- Josh Bayer
Sep 6, 2013
“No estoy en contra de la idea de “arte como expresión”, o
de la idea de “expresión”, solo estoy en contra de la idea de que hay un sujeto, “un alguien”, que estaría llevando a cabo
esa expresión. Pero, también, es posible que eso solo tenga que ver con mi
propio deseo de no existir. “
Todos los días de mis
mañanas y sangre. Entrevistas de A. N. Houx (Ed. Neuken Kanker, Amsterdam,
1996)
(mi traducción)
Aug 27, 2013
The
landscape was desolate. Under the huge sickly blue sky the desert extended
seemingly indefinitely. The air smelled of rotting refuse and industrial waste.
The people were mostly short, hunched over, grey-faced. No one smiled, no one
greeted anyone else, ever. The just walked on their short legs, looking down on
the ground, each lost in his or her own sad little world.
Han looked
at Souzza.
“What the
hell happened here?”
Souzza
smiled, instantly revealing hundreds of small sharp teeth in his mouth-hole,
and making the thousands of grey wiry lines on his face contort in a nauseating
manner.
“I told
you. The process to make me immortal had a cost. I didn’t pay it of course. But
these fuckers did. I made them all pay, so that I could go on forever!”
His voice a
metal screech that made quite a few people run off and hide behind some sickly
looking rocks or shrubberies.
Han smiled.
“Immortal,
eh?”
Souzza
grinned wider, nodding.
Han drew
his blaster, placed it against Souzzas head, and fired. A cloud of greenish
liquid and flesh was all that remained.
Place
of factories, place of tears.
The Apocryphal Adventures of Han Solo (vol. 5)
F. Gregory. (Chapbook. Undated. Printed in
Czechoslovakia.)
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