My part of the exhibition will feature a number of new works, including a large mural installation called The World Wide OneUpmanship.
Under Digital Rain is part of an ongoing project (dialogue?) between myself and John Wright called The Retro Bar at the End of Universe, and on the opening night this coming Friday we will be performing our piece Non-Stop Inertia: A Stuck Record, inspired by an Ivor Southwood book of the same name.
[Quaint] Rings Around The World
There’s a noise that is silent. How can a noise sound like silence? It can when the screaming noise of life today momentarily falls away/or collapses in on itself, leaving just a quaint drone, as if the Noise at The End of The World was a lone TV that somebody forgot to unplug at the mains.
“And Relax! the residual noise of the 90’s died when those planes hit those towers….the feverish scream of the subsequent years hasn’t yet begun….”
Or so it seemed in the wake of 9/11; a sort of quiet/restbite moment that resembled no sound at all, to the extent that I’m beginning to wonder if the entire world wasn’t affected by some sort of equivalent to the temporary deafness you’re likely to experience if you are caught in an…
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With the last day of 2015 coming to its midway point, I felt like I was momentarily occupying space on that final day of the twentieth century, due to their likeness in the way I’ve been behaving; a general inability to move, and to leave the house, until the late afternoon. I finally manajged to leave the house, and went for a run (that daily substitute-for-a-greater-purpose-to-life that I have been so-bitterly-reliant on since some kind of deadlock gripped my 15 year old self in the said year, 1999). Whilst running I became gripped by the emotions I had on that day 16 years back.
I’d decided to go running one hour prior to this, but had forgotten to charge my Ipod (relative issues and all that). And, due to the dark night already beginning to close in, the day began to echo that…
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I cannot tell you how happy Urban Hymns byThe Verve can still make me feel, as I wear off the previous evening’s alcohol-orientated-endeavors, by going running through the streets with my Ipod sticking my hands on a warm sunny morning. Momentarily full of guile, I’m transfixed and Transported.
It’s 1998, I’m youthfully gliding through all the good vibes of a time that had not yet paused for breath to question what it was really about. New Labour, the bubbly birth of the Internet, my home town’s footballing representatives spending a season in the top flight of that respective sport for the first time ever – you absorb all this, before you understand it, before you start questioning it, before you accidentally take the wrong junction off momemtum-way and suddenly all the colour begins to fade. Something chemical collided with the culture; like a switch this person in this…
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In the ever-same future that I occupy of the year 2015 I wrote of how my ‘final true futuristic vision [in life]… was conjured listening to ‘climatize’by the Prodigy, from one of the last true popular-yet-landmark albums ‘The Fat of The Land’, whilst driving past the outer-high-rises of Birmingham on the Motorway in the family car in summer 1997. Well, tonight something occurred whilst my eyes were fixed all trance-like on my current work-in-progress that seemed to join it up with this point in summer ’97.
Somewhere between the album sleeves of Radiohead’s OK Computer and The Prodigy’s The Fat of The Land, between Airbag and Climbatize, lay my last moments I can truly call futurist; an ability to imagine something beyond a recognisable present. Perhaps I am alone in being unable to evade the slow-motion world-freeze of continuity – that constitutive…
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The future returns from the past. Yesterday’s future left unchecked, comes back to haunt. Not the great expectations of that high modernist period, but those dangerous potentialities and instrumentalist horror that ran alongside it.
Nothing much feels real any more, at least not in the way I’ve grown to expect real things to feel. Even events that directly concern me are experienced as if they’re behind a screen placed there to transmit the spectacle. The anguish of unreality is most acute when you try to sense the sadness and horror caused by “the planet’s little wars [which are] joining hands” (Sweet Bird of Truth, The The), and the world’s little climate disasters which are joining hands, and yet it somehow doesn’t feel like it’s happening. You know our species has a shared interest in preventing such things, and…
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