every rock is a little bit more than a pile of sand

november 2022

“The stones weigh down the paper, the paper dictates the direction to take,” Farocki

—every rock is a little bit more than a pile of sandits a way of knowing—
as a voluntary cleanse we enter the space of the stone

—it feels like an internalized riverbed that has been solidified into a rock. It is a monster, and when you look in it, and I don't mean stare at it and do this tacky thing with your embalming eyes, I mean look at it, the illegible, the stone, look at it departing from any wet dream of disposability and it would feel like it surrounds you with all its bruised unconditional past —-

its babbles of terrestriality
tales of
ongoing reconfigurations
extractive wounds
and unscripted erosions

fused together
into a solid lump
granular and specific
haunting our fabricated present
where the paper gives the direction to the stone

i see your palm scrubbed by geological time finding the wind in the stone

—in a time when scrubbing roughly embodies the conditions of self-actualization, i see your scratched palm looking beyond the strata, tense, aiming at a relief between the situated markers of the rock formation, outgrown, and the intractability of your fingers into the stone is hard to see—-

((((((( please don’t turn this one into a kitchen floor

When the Nigh mocks you @David Noro

Curating Text for David’s Noro exhibition ‘When the night mocks you’
at PTT Art Gallery, Taipei, Taiwan 

”I cannot tell you much, I can't really tell you much at all. I spend my days doing not much at all. I wake up, I make plans and I break with them as soon as possible. Lately, I have been wondering, if I have forgotten where I’m going. Am I going anywhere at all? Everything seems on a collision course, and I can’t hold onto these movements. I simply collect the scraps before they vanish down in a spiral bottomless hall. The places I go to, they remain the same yet it’s beautiful to watch each of them crumble and then stand perfectly by the next summer or fall.” David

’When the night mocks you’ consists of a series of paintings, collages and sculptures reflecting on different variations of the same subjects. It begins as an attempt to wander in ineffable spaces of collision, as vehicle of making and unmaking. There, the possibility of borders and integrity unapologetically breaks apart. We are left with some fragmented subjects as dazed floaters across time, space, and obscurity, wondering if they have forgotten something, amidst the dissonant interferences of self-expression and selfdissolution.

This show seeks to expose the recycling of ideas, happenings and images throughout history, as vivid processes of constant {re/de}composition. It may be regarded as a comment on the act of making art and the endless cycles of image (de-)construction, developing along contingent natural and societal dynamics. Processes of recycling naturally involve prior fragmentation, where matter is stretched until a point of blank matter, raw enough to be new point of departure. You may glimpse these fragments returning to haunting the canvas, as process-ghost: erotic paper bodies, cheeky dog heads, vaguely inhabitable meshes, frisky frogs, beer-in-the-sky, hovering heads, pickle-vagina, etc., all ostensibly de-territorialised, are slipping between spaces, medium or centuries. Dots, sort of fragment-archetypes, are also a recurring form, being alternatively snow, stars, poppies, heads, food, animal spots, city lights, urban scape, etc.

Collisions may be here regarded as encounters. Sometimes accidental, sometimes divisive, often insurgent. On the outskirts of their illegible gestures, they gradually open the way for new formations of matter which can haphazardly sprout from the scraps of what has been. In their disoriented flux, collisions become difference. Difference becomes hope, hope of branching along and away but not towards. Substantially co-inhabiting on the canvas, these differences —in bodies, species, activities, textures, medium, seasons or centuries— are here mobilised as a force of emergence, but also as an expression of both resilience and vulnerability. Muddled human subjects are regularly overlayed with candid nature or intrusive architecture in some equivocally symbiotic juxtaposition —houses outgrowing from heads or haunted by luminous bodies, out-scaled lizard over silhouette, branching trees witnesses of carnal intimacy and tragedy, etc.

Collaterally, these works challenge our understanding of how the cryptic cycles of collision/fragmentation/encounter/emergence —from scattered bodies to bold yet elusive whole, and back again— nimbly disrupt the enactment of identity and memory. There is no status quo to be found. Any subject-point on canvas is endangered by being swallowed b this flux. To enter these cycles suppose recognising the dissolution of the horizon, and embracing the contortion of twisting a line back onto itself. It suggests new pathways for making-from, for repurposing material and immaterial bodies across canvas, while resisting the violence of a direction. One could have in mind the scenery of the Danish country, and its cycle of fall and redemption, where these works have been painted. David underlines himself how the seasons weave their way into his workflow. There are works birthed in summer, works birthed in winter, and those that fall in-between. In these clandestine inbetween spaces, his work vividly unfolds from the meddling of the world-in-construct and the world-in-reflect. While you wander through the works, the small jokes and quirks complicitly nested within the frames are crackling the gravity of the night, and the tension of the cycle. Their presence is outlining a terrain of breaches and quakes from where you may hear a choir of frogs gently cluck: Have you forgotten where you’re going, are you going anywhere at all?

Rumeurs d’espaces

A promenade along different ways of seeing space through modern mathematics.
For Zhang Ding exhibition’s catalog, High Speed Forms, 2021

Extract below:

Rumeurs d’espaces
/ some topological chiaroscuro which don’t hurt your photosynthesis but your integrity

What is Space -the unbuilt space, this thing around you denuded of all the things populating it, scraped of the ‘lived’ and ‘socially constructed’- this thing which is not something else ? In turns and by pieces, inhabited, mapped, traded, haunted, occupied, exploited, engineered, damaged, designed, colonised, fetischised, or domesticated, yet relentlesslywithdrawnfromtheveryactionstryingtopossessit. Unfathomableand-still- unsecularized, space lavishly fed our beliefs and spiritual practices, from myths to rituals via sheer geometric urban and cosmic ideals. Both through our everyday spatial practice -what is lived- and our projections -what is internalised-, not only are we constantly surrounded and permeated by spaces, but by enacting through and on them, we also make them. In Zhang Ding’s exhibition ‘High Speed Forms’, an uncanny racing space is emerging both from the participant’s eluded act of driving and the labyrinthine physical space. Quite cinematically, it seems to inquire speed as both a societal and intimate form while transpiring some automated death drive. 

---the space of depressurizations, the duty-free-attitude space, the space for semicolons, the space of stuttering fetishisms, the space of online polarization, the space where your neighbor winks, the waiting-for space, the space of the thoughts born while your gum bleeds, the space of flip-flop citizenships, the space of invertebrate twerks, the space of bureaucratic imbroglios, the space for perforated commons, etc.--

Where does it begin? Can I take it away? Does it resonate? Would it harm? Could it heal? How can I occupy it ? Which otherness can emerge from it? Our .mis)(understanding of space, tacitly tangled up with our comprehension of time, matter, energy or sound, also informs our way of perceiving any body embedded into it -ours, some styrofoam fragments, or a vagrant CO2 molecule-, and reciprocally: if you imagine a -literal or figurative- space, both as agent and being acted upon, what can the bodies wandering within it and their possible trajectories tell you about the space itself, its structural spine, boundaries, reliefs or singularities, or the shadows it casts? Here, by introducing some ways of seeing and inquiring space in modern mathematics, we seek to decolonise certain visions of sameness and coalesce dialectical movements of opposition between objects, transformations and spaces. Could some of its geometric or algebraic features make it more hostile, familiar, corrupted or affective to you? Can it steer and stew you through other readings and alterations of the space? As going outside the tangible is a way of entering more alien districts resisting flaccid politics of optimisation, we propose you to shatter the known-or-felt matter, and follow this initiatory walk through topological heterotopias and their non-commodified forms.

More details coming soon.

Angel, inverted pyramid


—The way we refer to our life here is like an inverted pyramid

These days, I’ve been looking for someone to take me
With the help of a handkerchief

‘Hey, come on over over
I think my tits will get a shine if you do’

it started from not being able to put the full peach in my mouth and ended up in drops above drops melting all the excitement the farce the ambient humidity as an extension of this tangible dripping yet lactose-free feel pulling towards the early quakes of the once-harvested things and the course of its roughness- which may mushily encode something about bent spines or rusted mechanics

The soft cotton slipped off
Fragmenting the subject away
I felt her tongue curl into a tight, smooth shape
what I saw in her eyes was
All Naked and Chewed
By these backyard modulations

i tried to look above my shoulder to see-through the persuasive anarchitectures of summer what may not melt what may disfigure the usual into a great outdoor something which hold the disclosure and the cognitive windbreakers the ones which would shut the seasons down

my chest shivered along the whole
’The girl in the girl’
i felt some unmentionable bends
and a vanishing point

shall i tell now the overripeness we affect while peeling our unnecessary crust and the non-yet-exhausted things while your arythmic breath transpires the rhizomes of desire whose architecture still has to collapse— as the vectorial channel of unrest navigates your spine, it slides around the edges of the being-line—it is pointed inward at the top, and directed outward at the bottom, swaying under the volatile fields constituting now our only referent milieu
ripples of agency and vulnerability

All of a sudden
the sun came up  from the dead sky in front of me
and it fell on my feet t
he sky was choke burnt honey

He kept his eyes on me as I licked
My cum from his lips, slowly

what is the world which remains after love is made

And yet still I feel I have not entered the human world If ever there can be one

contingent birds 0603

March, Berlin, 2019


¿semantic, acupuncture or balconism?

[things that won’t slave you]

while you channel some inwards tunneling of significance and air

brushing past insipid lexicons and warrants overburdened over there predominantly unintelligible at the antipode of what should be considered as a possible therapy -not your Google historic- a place a space a world for the odyssey you deserve not a readymade 11 by 11 grid not even a diluted domesticated version of www.WHY that splashes crisped consensus screened from the regrettably non sensitive knee point of view broadcasting practices of unblinking while asserting lists of crippled bullshits which open wounds of communication -hunted for what they aren’t- expurgated through the kind of laugh questionnably admitted into this unblemished society officially ready for a factory RESET back to the oh! darling, the presence of origin can not yet be assumed in this stage of tenderly woven apocalypse and telos -darling should we smuggle all the way over to bless the resistance off the hysterical anticipation of their cynism -darling I saw you adopting the ethereal allure raging through the discretization this underlying alphabet stabber of a possible alternormative depiction of everything -darling I saw you radical sonor incarnation at the bottom of any metaphor ready to CALCIFY a moment your mind your animated self made vernacular and evolutive -but oh, moonshiners imply albeit reluctantly laws which brings some turgid legitimacy question like the substantial PURRS of the geologic processes whose economy still indiffers their consecrated necrophilic consumerism- or if not law it recognizes a willingness that may be a simple appetite for symmetry or any phantom of justice, supposed to stand partial filling the political cracks with vaseline -cracks exposed to data and denigrated states of incoherence like when our legs plummet and rubs some slice of open ludicrous sky where you decipher the future as in an oracular spit – and this real af not like their snickers calling yelling staggering a thing soon unborn -inside all the time- yelling they couldn’t keep the mix blend-aspirational SHIT- whilst they didn’t stop harvesting ASCII overidentification how hollow how sinister the echolocation of their thoughts encapsulated in -assumed alien- equations of digital ex.sanity the medicine for software leprosy greased and supple like french wax on a purulent tibia along the bits stream sounding as an underbelly cosmically rescaled which includes opaque maximisation and starry obsolescence - think how the precariousness of a tail would there sculpt some extra burden -a certain urbanized though obsolete figuration among olympian digits whilst being the thick memory of nothing junkier than the impossibility of a fair far-sighted justice performed in the leafs freshly birthed inverted conceivable only sun-bleached or as an alternative organic fact -strip of irony: the event horizon this kind of causality gaze on the existential blackmarket is looking for pardon and I understand you standing still upwards elusive facing the conjuration soundtracked by spring-reverbed rheumatism and lofi distortion something petrified as are dialogues now-excuse this cynism crested with lichen and obfuscated beetles full and boiled overnight-certainly my love there is somewhere a partial.full.fillment out of straight time the drag time with round corner for lipstick sake through ellipsoid aluminium foil light - it's not alarming it's reflective- the hips which may not have the luxury of being posthumanist are still a mossy experience an action of stripping the guilt asking whether the fingers should retreat or crotch -why is it still a question ?- the therapeutic secretion in which we glare peek and see through the scalp is reductionist but purgatory for the body of amnesia we worship- if facial is the perspective in which the vicinity is swollen along honesty closer towards clairvoyance in the midts of reckoning -why don't you fit in an eyelash, my love?- both the self and the sedative couch the comfort lazily laid on the objectification soon compacted into a vandalised layer of your cortex -eligible, nah?- a few inches deeper maybe the location of a redemption after waking up beneath unembarassed particles dis.embodied underwear you know something like this fractures the self referential simulation whether they are lunatic or simply arranged on screened for grinding until exhaustion the once-secure conditionned rope concocted for them to feel on their very throat the tension of their egregious loyalty turned into dispassionnate gaze to the other typically terminal though unhatched behind the spoiled details -mites sewed with iron pitching themselves in the name of hippocrate- wrapped as these diy kits for surgical pre-carbonated post-capitalism being - a kind of caligulean rendering to support contemporary mattressed spleen -well, finally we are on display, babe.

contingent birds

More to come (march 2023)