itinerant practice

The Hotel

Sophie Calle: Suite Vénitienne

 (1980-96):

For months I followed strangers on the street. For the pleasure of following them, not because they particularly interested me. I photographed them without their knowledge, took note of their movements, then finally lost sight of them and forgot them.

At the end of January 1980, on the streets of Paris, I followed a man whom I lost sight of a few minutes later in a crowd. That very evening, quite by chance, he was introduced to me at an opening. During the course of our conversation, he told me he was planning an imminent trip to Venice.

dans la décrépitude

Vous n' êtes que le premier dans la décrépitude de votre art

Beaudelaire to Manet

1865

stranger

                                                             

                                     A dictionary begins when it no longer gives the  meaning of words, but their tasks. 

 

                                                                                                                                           Georges Bataille,  A Critical Dictionary 

craving

The Craving for simplicity.

People would like to say: " What really matters is only the colors." You say this mostly because you wish it to be the case. If your explanation is complicated, it is disagreeable, especially if you don't have strong feelings about the thing itself.

-Ludwig Wittgenstein

?

suture

                                                           „Images are not created to express imaginary unity, but difference. 

             The ontological difference between image, object and subject becomes the point of departure, the suture.“

                                                                                            valie export

aux plages de reverie

                                                   http://www.floatermagazine.com/issue01/Micro-organisations/

pensees

He lives on the other side of the water.

Pascal

a hell of a tester

i was the third brother of five,
Doing whatever I had to do to survive.
I'm not saying what I did was alright,
Trying to break out of the ghetto was a day to day fight.

Been down so long, getting up didn't cross my mind,
I knew there was a better way of life that I was just trying to find.
You don't know what you'll do until you're put under pressure,
Across 110th Street is a hell of a tester.

Across 110th Street,
Pimps trying to catch a woman that's weak
Across 110th Street,
Pushers won't let the junkie go free.
Across 110th Street,
Woman trying to catch a trick on the street.
Across 110th Street,
You can find it all in the street.

I got one more thing I'd like to y'all about right now.
Hey brother, there's a better way out.
Snorting that coke, shooting that dope man you're copping out.
Take my advice, it's either live or die.
You've got to be strong, if you want to survive.

The family on the other side of town,
Would catch hell without a ghetto around.
In every city you find the same thing going down,
Harlem is the capital of every ghetto town.

Across 110th Street,
Pimps trying to catch a woman that's weak
Across 110th Street,
Pushers won't let the junkie go free.
Across 110th Street,
A woman trying to catch a trick on the street, ouh baby
Across 110th Street,
You can find it all in the street.
Yes he can, oh

Look around you, just look around you,
Look around you, look around you, uh yeah.

another day

temenos

‘The cinema, too, has to be destroyed.’ (Guy Debord)

well, no one told me about her

Well, no one told me about her
The way she lied
Well, no one told me about her
How many people cried

But it's too late to say you're sorry
How would I know, why should I care?
Please don't bother trying to find her
She's not there

Well, let me tell you 'bout the way she looked
The way she acts and the color of her hair
Her voice was soft and cool, her eyes were clear and bright
But she's not there

Well, no one told me about her
What could I do?
Well, no one told me about her
Though they all knew

But it's too late to say you're sorry
How would I know, why should I care?
Please don't bother trying to find her
She's not there

Well, let me tell you about the way she looked
The way she acts and the color of her hair
Her voice was soft and cool, her eyes were clear and bright
But she's not there

SOLO

But it's too late to say you're sorry
How would I know, why should I care?
Please don't bother trying to find her
She's not there

Well, let me tell you about the way she looked
The way she acts and the color of her hair
Her voice was soft and cool, her eyes were clear and bright
But she's not there 

As far as Chō-fū-Sa

The River-Merchant's Wife: A Letter

by Ezra Pound

After Li Po

While my hair was still cut straight across my forehead

I played about the front gate, pulling flowers.

You came by on bamboo stilts, playing horse,

You walked about my seat, playing with blue plums.   

And we went on living in the village of Chōkan:

Two small people, without dislike or suspicion.   

At fourteen I married My Lord you.

I never laughed, being bashful.

Lowering my head, I looked at the wall.

Called to, a thousand times, I never looked back.

At fifteen I stopped scowling,

I desired my dust to be mingled with yours

Forever and forever, and forever.

Why should I climb the look out?

At sixteen you departed

You went into far Ku-tō-en, by the river of swirling eddies,

And you have been gone five months.

The monkeys make sorrowful noise overhead.

You dragged your feet when you went out.

By the gate now, the moss is grown, the different mosses,

Too deep to clear them away!

The leaves fall early this autumn, in wind.

The paired butterflies are already yellow with August

Over the grass in the West garden;

They hurt me.

I grow older.

If you are coming down through the narrows of the river Kiang,

Please let me know beforehand,

And I will come out to meet you

                        As far as Chō-fū-Sa.

                                                         Soliloquy Series (Water over Head) 
                                  1999/2000, Photo, 51 x 61 cm, Courtesy of the artist

bridge

“Isn’t that like a bridge, of which only the beginning and the end exists, and which one nonetheless so confidently walks over as though all of it were there?”

Robert Musil

Joseph Kosuth

Alain Leroy

The sensitivity was in my heart, not my hands.

Don Fabrizio

We were the Leopards, the Lions,

 those who'll take our place will be little jackals, hyenas; 

and the whole lot of us, Leopards, jackals, and sheep, 

we'll all go on thinking ourselves the salt of the earth.

                                                                                                                                               Don Fabrizio