INFORMING AURAL MEMORIES: A DIPTYCH (1)

May 4th, 2012 | Posted by Daniela Cascella

1. Woman with Chainsaw and Time

Over, she thinks. The sky, slate gray and uniform. Outside, at 7.30am, the man with the chainsaw cutting a tree bears an annoying promise: noise through the day will creep inside the room. The sound of the chainsaw cutting a tree annoys, yet the space cut away from that stubborn, uneven knot of sound is absorbing. On waking up inside the room she’d heard herself repeating, prompted by the dull rhythm of the chainsaw, I wake and feel the fell of dark, not day: remnants of far away readings emerged and roped to the refrain of today. In the room slate gray and uniform, this morning she sets off on the traces of the memory of that chainsaw sound. She thinks of the dead reassurance of its having been, a trembling outline now masked by a shroud of words: wake, feel, fell, dark, day. Not day. A reminder? What prompted and informs her memory was the chainsaw sound. So she begins to move: in the coils of that shrill sound when it hits the four walls, she begins to think: of the coils of that monotonous sound relayed by constrained waves of remembrance; she falls. Sidetracked into a meander of subordinates, she looks at the wooden table in the middle of the room, chanting to herself silly along the dull rhythm of the chainsaw sound: On ‘wake’ I cut a leg, on ‘feel’ I burn one, too. On ‘fell’ I’m feeling better, on ‘dark’ I’ll smile at you.

On ‘day’ I’ll stare, at who?

One day I’ll stare at who. Stare at the fall. Hear the chainsaw, its shrill monotonous hum as it slits a sharp line over the timeline of her time past. It opens time up against the four walls around.

She hears a bundle of words that stays and hovers, peeled off the four walls around: wake, feel, fell, dark, not day. What is this language few will understand? Feel the fell, fail the fall, of words unorchestrated disentangled. This chainsaw sound seems familiar but she can’t attach it to anything: it slides away, like herself skirting the perennial resurgence of the question: Where am I? What radiates on me? What a chance, to hear the chainsaw opening up a hole in her innermost memory – wake, feel, fell, dark, not day: empty, but deep. The buzz and the cotton-wool quiet around, the edges of this old table, the chainsaw sound and the softness of the quietude around. Chainsawed out of a silence she is beckoned to speak. Chainsawed out of a past, she sits. Even if she’d chosen to stay locked in here for days, even if she had not leaned out of the window, she couldn’t have erased that chainsaw sound and the string of words emerged with it: wake, feel, fell, dark, not day. This morning she woke, only to make the stillness of those words last. Over, she said, but she needs to make it last: the compression of this now against the weight of then. To hear for the first time happens at least on second hearing. ‘Is it because we apprehend a memory’, she repeats to herself. ‘Because we feel in one world, but we think and find the names of things in another: we can establish between those two worlds a correspondence, but not fill that gap’. She immerses herself in this moment. It weighs on her and is fixed. She looks at the table. She’d been so fond of it for so many years; she’d called it Time.

§

A giant bumble bee buzzing to the edge of irritation flies and looms in. It circles and closes in. Circles about the window, and around the room and in these walls and then inside the mind. Now she thinks of a city and its crumbling walls. The city immense, growing, amoeboid. Black silhouettes of trees, clouds like gags, a slit of deep orange dawn light first opened on the cardboard surface of the sky, then splattered all around till its edges are soaked with red and there is no time to brush it away, to dilute it with the tears of a watered past.
Her tongue knows no language to express what the chainsaw sound and that refrain of words and images bore within. Dried, it can only mock, reflect at best. The buzz circles and closes in. Stops for a few seconds and then again, it closes in. It trims the uneven edges of her rambling thoughts, and of Time: the table. Persistent, the chainsaw sound does not say a thing: it insinuates. It is a material thing happening inside the room and taking it over.

§

Someone has just delivered her a chainsaw. In her mind she hears the roar again and thinks of the last hours spent killing time. Joint together and yet divided by the diaphragm of her recollections, into and out of that sound, she builds a counter-chant to that buzz, against the old and seemingly immutable sound and the immobility of another morning, slate gray and uniform – wake, feel, fell, dark, day. She turns on the chainsaw and begins cutting Time.

[to be continued..]

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Dead Days Beyond Help: Route Master

April 20th, 2012 | Posted by DDBH

This piece of music, like the one posted in our previous entry, was an unpremeditated improvisation. Unlike the previous piece, however, “Route Master” was performed and recorded specifically with the intention of it being included on a commercially released/distributed album (it will feature as track 5 on “THE GAME FACE” by Dead Days Beyond Help, due for release late 2012). It was recorded by Ash Gardener at House Of Strange Studios in Bow, and mixed by Alex Ward at his home studio.

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Dead Days Beyond Help: Rehearsal Improvisation

April 6th, 2012 | Posted by DDBH

As a response to the Informal theme the music duo Dead Days Beyond Help proposed to contribute a number of pieces reflecting the different levels of (in)formality inherent in composed and improvised musical material, private and public performance, and recording as documentation and artifact.
The duo’s contribution will unfold over three blog posts, the first of which is here, Rehearsal Improvisation.

This piece of music was recorded at a DDBH band practice on March 19th this year. It was an unpremeditated improvisation performed at the start of the rehearsal as a warm-up, prior to our proceeding to work on composed material. It was recorded on an iPhone for documentation/reference purposes.

Till next time.

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Truth and Lies (Part 4)

February 29th, 2012 | Posted by Jennifer Steele

Democracy as  internet | Democracy as ideal

Discussions regarding democracy are endlessly complicated in this economic and social climate, where labelled ‘democratic states’ are discovered to be riddled with corruption, repeating hierarchies and decisions imposed upon its inhabitants without consent.

Let us consider democracy through this definition -

‘Democracy in its purest or most ideal form would be a society in which all adult citizens have an equal say in the decisions that affect their lives.[1]

In Western societies, we have the opportunity to vote for those that will lead us from above, we have laws that will intend to protect our human and civil rights and we generally have freedom to move and do what we wish.

I was aware that within the PRC this behavioural freedom was not possible from the short period of time I lived there.  Through conversations with artists, students and other locals – the government controls everyday thoughts and suppresses requests for change.  Physical evidence of discussion of governmental control is also highly censored – there is to be no mention of issues such as Tiananman Square or Tibet, and if there is, the perpetrator is severely punished.  The information board at my own exhibition in Chongqing, which explored issues of online ‘redirection and network timeout’, was amended when translated into Manadarin so as not to offend.  However, through quiet conversation with other artists we discussed these matters carefully.

Concrete hierarchies within the communities I met were evident.  I was most personally upset by how females still have such low status within society.  Challenging, opinionated and confident women, such as the few female University Art Lecturers I met, were kept in a separate category to the ‘beautiful’ submissive females destined to be homemakers from the age of 25 years old.  Men should have a wife, and mistresses are accepted as the norm.  Similarly, female prostitution is commonplace, with a tiered system of clients and prices on offer.

Most of the time I cant get in, June2011

Old habits die hard, June 2011

Other equality and safety issues became evident, although China has entirely avoided the overly sanitised bureaucratic approach we take to living our daily lives in the West.  In some ways, if was as if time had been rewound by 60 years or so.

Democracy is an ideal, almost utopian state of affairs, where can equally contribute to the formation and control of the world we live in.  The internet offers us boundless opportunities to communicate our own opinions, generate information, knowledge and form forces that are evidently powerful from recent political movements that have been carried on social networking sites.  Theorists such as Geert Lovink advocate the power of the activist potential of online space and communication.  But of course, you must be able to access the sites to begin with to be able to offer any personal thought or contribution.

Is there hope for a democratic or libertarian approach to digital space within the PRC? The governing of the digital space closely mirrors the governing of the physical space, but without the opportunity for antagonism can there be any possible development for democracy?  As China continues to trade globally it promises to adjust its internet governance to reflect this international position.  Time will tell.


[1] Larry Jay Diamond, Marc F. Plattner (2006). Electoral systems and democracy p.168. Johns Hopkins University Press, 2006

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The Excluded Middle

February 16th, 2012 | Posted by Nathan Witt

 

The law of the excluded middle is the constant demand imposed upon statements to be true or false, it is both the exclusion of abandoned facts and the affirmation of everything leading up to the demand. The poor thing is often outside of the finite conclusion- made by whatever reason, in whatever fashion; as a result of verificationism and the desire for meaning. Things that exist outside of the definition of the thing, the informe, as Krauss put it, put to one side in favour of an ancient simplified polemic.

Artists are in a constant state of availability, ready for a talk, to verify their intentions, or to confirm and allay the doubts of the audience who have claimed the artist’s ideas before the work was even made. Imagine the luxury of being an artist who can say nothing, who is not present; which is, hypothetically, what apparently exists in theory, where culture claims these things and the artist is left regretting having thought for that split second- or for having the temerity to trust in the idea. Usually it is a social pre-requisite to trust the idea- manifest in the expression “artistic integrity”, which is another social aberration that is claimed by the audience/ outside world.

The size of the middle in this context is obviously vast and impenetrable, although the latter rests upon the finiteness of language understood by individuals. Intuitively, though, the middle is both epistemological and humungous; it is the part representation of something inconceivable and overwhelming in comparison to ourselves- and people’s perception of the truth lies within that. The dichotomy is the easy bit; is the finite ontic phenomena and in this instance a utility for determining- and demanding- some kind of result or, rather, a utility that is analogous to a situation of demands that are ultimately our responsibility in accepting or rejecting. There is so much time at the extreme end of things and monolithic texts, continents, oceans, the atmosphere, physically and socially inhumane living conditions, vacuums, pressure, the literal length of time that exists, history; they all serve as a deterrent for thinking in the middle. It’s intimidating.

What seems evident is our willingness to try and attempt some kind of ontological epistemology, to become luminous beings and to, either in rationalism or intuition, submit as much of ourselves to the question and absorb as much of the question into ourselves. Defining the point where/ when this occurs seems a trivial thing in comparison to the potential- or suspected bulk- of the phenomena and the nobility and braveness required for people to participate in this difficult and ambiguous situation. That vastness is linked to knowing- or gnosis- a person suspects what things are- or may be and it is intuited but there always exists the doubt of being unable to prove or realistically comprehend as to what its actual size or value is and lots of other things we relentlessly ask. Asking questions is difficult; getting answers is rewarding but in a [perverse] temporal/ suspended way. The pessimist in me would say I have received no answers when actually I answered questions that have led to this statement, I suppose awareness, in this case, is a reflection of the person, whether they are grateful for what they have or not.

The emotional side of truth is difficult to reconcile socially, where one person’s burden is another person’s gain and art as an empathetic environment to the trials and tribulations of humanity. Personally, there is still a desire to fuck things up. In the middle there exists great swathes of judgmental and conceited behavior, the attributes of people being passed on to this ridiculous anthropomorphic form of art we invent when we discuss something phenomenologically. It is the guise of positivity as a form for change, which prevails in social behavior and art but where cynicism and negativity and skepticism, which are all essential and vital forms of scientific analysis, are abandoned, or discouraged- considered inappropriate. Science has an advantage over art in that it call really recreate the most destructive force of negativity for its means, placing responsibility of its users. The Internet moderates itself morally, outside of the realm of its designers and moderators, by the way it discourages certain aberrant social behavior- the troll, or the way a person leaves Youtube comments alone, who should know better, where a retarded sub culture exists (I’m not going to say youth). The Facebook page and the Twit feed and before that, writing itself, are all forms of socially moderated behaviour and it is easy to look for either personal conceits or the wider sociological conceits- or, specifically, conceits endemic to artistic practice. The professional versus the wannabee versus the nobody versus the anarchist versus the nice person versus the idiot versus the tourist versus the sycophant versus the genius versus the talented- ad infinitum. The judging continues.

How do you define responsibility as an artist who doesn’t own their ideas? Who is not needed to be present? Firstly it is a statistic miracle that a human can exist, secondly it is a miracle that a human can be happy when they look at certain aspects of the world objectively- and what happens to artists is a trickle down effect of a diminishment of being, where, if they were to be silent enough, an inversion would occur- like a social void or a black hole, where language and society is left with nothing to take and then starts to consume it self like ourobouros: the snake eating its tail. It is strange to think that this has occurred by talking, whether it pre-empts the scenario is a different matter.

 

Upside down x-ray of a snake that had swallowed a heating blanket

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