Saturday, December 29, 2012


Who the fuck wants to read a story. I want a pure unadulterated feed plug your Tweetdeck into my vas deferens. Subject the people the syn waves subject the people to millennial biennials I dont care how dandy your vocabulary is or that you so very whimsically dropped wen at the end of a second page sentence. We need a biennial in Mexico 33 people agree. We need to stop feeling guilty about being in Mexico we need to tell ourselves that god mens fashion needs some fucking color and I will never listen to a spoiled Upped East Side curators opinion on social politics Artists are better curators than curators could ever be. Its a chill narrative but its irresponsible William Burroughs set the bar and you lept, slowmotioned quadriceps wobbling in the stadium lights cleanshaven mid-flight reflective, dashing your temple on the bar and heap on the floor. Give me the pure I need the pure We need the pure. The Internet has trained us to unapologetically log in to our Gmail accounts we have no fear of our gallerist's emails. What is the argument against a biennial in Mexico? The only ones arguing against have already shaken hands with the Spanish banks the American politicians’ sons and El Chapo to build their credit limits. The irony of not shitting where you eat but eating shit literally for breakfast lunch and dinner. Build a quote unquote progressive school charge tuition dont give degrees spread your agenda reinforce your pithy Art Ideas. Not on my watch. I can already tell that David Foster Wallace didnt fuck with Twitter what a shame and what a door slam on the big toe of his potential fuck being a great linguist you are no more than a Bard College Bard. A court jester the West Village coffee shop of writers let NYU students Mary Kate and Ashley snort Ritalin off the back cover of Infinite Jest. There are no books in Mexico its part of this nifty little unfolding contemporary enslavement epic Ill get back to you in it once Ive found a salient way to co-opt it for personal financial gains.

This is my Breadbasket Painting. This is my Soundfield in the desert of Baja California. This is my Sketches of Spain. This is my commandeered farmhouse dragged down the bald roads of South Dakota past Andrew Jackson past scrutinizing customs agents dumped off a Freightliner bed into a half-dug hole on the far side of the Ajuscos.

Paintings should not tell a story. Paintings should emit sound. Richard Serra understood the sound of painting, the sound of Diego Rivera's murals, of which Rivera had no awareness, upon which Richard Serra's whole sculpture series was predicated. A book should concern itself with sound the narrative is irrelevant any information unfolding over time combined with the human brain produces a narrative. What is the pitch what is the hum have you accounted for static? Allen Ginsberg and William Burroughs got it, this thing that my generational constituents have failed to grasp. If there is no sound purge everything.

American Art has been augmented by the Devil. American Artists worship the Devil. American Artists have made blood-pacts with the Devil. American Art has never had a soul because American Artists have never had souls because America has never had a soul. There is nothing buried in the American grave. Hedonistic American Artists dancing on the grave of a nation that never was. Hedonistic American Artists pissing and shitting and copulating overdosing and masturbating and vomiting and slitting their wrists and earning Master Of Fine Arts degrees on the grave of a nation that never was. Hedonistic huddling masses of Americans shivering in piles and asking for forgiveness to the grave of America that never was. America, a pre-ejaculate notion, which never bore fruit. America, a whorish, glistening, stage-lit, post-produced Dairy Queen hamburger. I am a sinner I am an American Artist and we are muckrakers and blasphemers.


Tupac - Temptations

Worshiping the Devil is a dramatic way of worshiping God, which is a dramatic way of worshiping America, which is a dramatic way of worshiping Money, which is a dramatic way of worshiping the Devil. Worshiping Money is the real worshiping the Devil. A practice established, defined, and maintained by American Artists and Stockbrokers #Artists. Jeff Koons is the real Devil worshiper. Jeff Koons is the real abject, diabolical, human-heart-eating manifestation of America. American Art is the Crack to the Cocaine of Money. American Art has been cut with baby laxatives. #Give American Artists More Methadone. #Give American Artists American Apparel Editorials. Washing Money with Art is the New Art. Money is the real American president, the real American virtue, the real American freedom, and, ultimately, the real American God. The kind, gregarious, sewing and baking, suit-wearing America of the 50's, the Caucasian America the Clean America aka the Proud America, the Brave America, the real America that never was, the real America that only existed in pamphlets distributed on the beaches of Vietnam #Send Em Against Charlie. and Normandy  #Send Em Against The Krouts. and Cuba #Send Em Against The Commies, the America that bleached the colors Black and Brown to Bone White, the America that struck the colors Black and Brown from its records, the America that erased the colors Black and Brown from its Pyramids and Phallic Obelisks, The America before the Towers fell #Send Em Against The A-Rabs, the real America before we slaughtered nations #Send Em Against The Injuns, and before we slaughtered our own nation. America as a noun. The America that has never been a person, place, or thing. That one American word Freedom which has never been manifested by anyone, least of all you reading this. That one American word Freedom which has never been manifested by anyone, least of all you writing this. American Artists are the best propagandists that the world has ever seen.

If the World is so fucked and American Artists are so fucked well it makes sense that American Artists are the fucking best at being fucked up in this fucking fucked up World. #Contemporary Sentence.

Beyond stasis archived regal unflinching gentlemen foreverness faded yellowing stiff-lipped crocuses slow silver hunting dog holding pheasants by their scruffs, an outcropping of dutch hovels and poplar lines linseeded under amber glazes ceiling trim hanging floorcreak harpsichord yawning eveningtime tea how were they good at war madam patriarch paintings.

Old Testament American locust swarms fled in droves from European Churches, crossing the Atlantic free of guilt to practice their paganistic ablutions. Non-Missionary and Killing and Worshiping False Idols and Burning Witches and making Abstract Expressionist paintings and being Gay For Pay in New York City to get shows at Gagosian and having a baby in a desperate Bushwick gallery in a free new land. American Artists practicing Nothingness and Alcoholism and Scientology in Hollywood California are amongst the most relevant Humans of our time. Rich American Undergraduate Artists coughing into eachothers' Heroin-chapped mouths in a post-Internet context under the umbrella of a 50,000 dollar a year education comma James Franco comma etcetera.

David Sedaris put Van Gogh on his cover so I cant fuck with it. That shitty fake American Artist Zak Smith illustrated Thomas Pynchon's Gravity's Rainbow so I cant fuck with it. Its important to have standards. Unconventionally large books whose ownership and ensuant public reading is a statement shouted from mountaintop that you rep the shit out of this author and that you identify with the brand of this author. Id rather put a picture of my testicles on the cover. It would be a more straightforward way to appeal to the cult. This is not a literary gesture it is a Fine Art gesture and keep me the fuck out of Book Forum. I will send one copy to Lil B and one copy to my Mom and everyone else will pay.

Young French curators still write expansive curatorial essays, maybe using type-writers, under the muffled din of candlelight, maybe including physics into their antiquated diasporas. There is such an aesthetic as too European aka TOO Old aka Rembrandt will always be better than anything you can do. If your essay could be dated before the Industrial Revolution #God Bless. #Yale. #Columbia. In Berlin 1938 Nazis burned piles of Klimt.

Sunspotted viscera.

American Artists have no conversational-golden-parachute of history because America has no history because America has never existed. Chinese Art that can do nothing but look five-thousand years backward with their webcams on while their government beats them egregiously #Art. How many of my Art Assistants have to die in explosions before I get a retrospective at the Gugg? German Artists will never get out from under the thumb of Hitler, who may or may not be the Greatest German Curator burn your bridges. Mexican Artists are busy solving (laughing at) (paying for) (contributing to) the suppressive slave-culture of their country aka Not Rejecting The Catholic Principles That Made Their Europeanesque Family Rich And Thus Allowing The Luxury Of Being An Artist In A Third-World Country. If you call it a museum its a museum. Norwegian Artists are dark and brooding, Twilight Is Trending, but there are no black people in Norway, so fuck that. The End.

Plagiarize the Bible turn in Genesis as your graduate thesis on everything listen to Swans record church bells play them out of stadium speakers at pagan Art shows. Run over the top of moving taxi cabs in the frosted dead months unbridled unkempt snow over hard brown frozen Chinese slaughter blood where Bobby got caught tagging RIP three times.
Call your work your wellspring “stuff” or “trash” or “shit” or “garbage” or “I can do better.”
America's only Saint is Michael Jordan.

Nothingness is the hottest Graduate Theory Summer Seminar Subject Since Duchamp. American Artists based in Los Angeles are advised to buy a star on the walk of fame next to Sam Cooke's for a measly 10 grand.  American Artists based in New York are advised to fuck a rich girl from the Upper East Side or Napa Valley or take the next train to Mexico, we kno ur all graphic designers newayz #RISD #The ultimate Art Stigma #A Straight Caucasian American Male Artist With An Athletic Build In 2012. American Artists based in the midwest (undercase) should dig a deep hole and bury themselves #Performance. Blasphemous Female American Artists are willing to have babies in gallery birthing-pools. No one has killed themselves in a gallery yet--they really don't want to be the Next Dash Snow Art Star. Blasphemous Male American Artists are willing to fuck and suck their way to a feature on VBS Television. Either get me on Vice Dot Com or get me in to the Urban Outfitters Catalog ASAP. Americans in Mexico who label themselves Ex-Pats need to run further. American Artists are on a facebook frenzy in the following European cities: Berlin #Internet Art Is Getting Me So Famous On Twitter. Parisian Artists focusing on reading Foucault and pronouncing words like Foucault and writing words like Foucault and thus compiling their poorly-endowed curatorial nothings. Duchamp #The Ultimate Art World Get Out Of Jail Free Card Forever. AA is the best connection circuit in all of the world. I will be gone for 3 months I'm going to a residency at the bottom of that cave under the New Mexican desert. American Artists are willing to intern unpaid to supplement their six-figure Parsons Bachelor's of Fine Art Degrees. American Artists are willing to take on shooting New Jersey junk in their McKibben Lofts, it looks so good on a resume. Female American Art Professionals are getting shows all over this great nation for being *HOTTT* on camera. “Hashtag, The New Feminism Is Making Myself Look Like An Idiot!”

They say that this is a utopia it is glistening like the smart car Taipei skyline and everybody knows your name and everyone identifies with the brand Apple and everybody wears touks and doesn't shave and I better set myself apart asap entering the purgatory of relating to this place. If this is human progress I don't want anything to do with it turn us back into animals let us form a real utopia all nature and no mutiny. And I have never seen the space and I do not know if the piece will work and that is the piece and sometimes we just have bad ideas but I could go for the press. 

IRL is the hottest buzz word in the Western Hemisphere for good reason. Page Six is the New Art Forum. Hashtags are the new Footnotes #You Heard It Here First. American Artists are willing to go to residencies in Summer Lake, Oregon, Population: 35, where they will make video Art combining The Sound Of Music with The 36th Chamber of Shaolin. American Artists are willing to make lo-fi imitations of Ryan Trecartin en masse and everyone is in on it. Post-1990 Marina Abromavic #Fake. American Artists are reading about Lil B in Art Forum magazine. Jerry Saltz is putting together a draft pool based on his Sunday-Painting Facebook subscribers. Todd Levin's morning breakfast (Yellowfin ceviche w/amaranth, pecan + cilantro; Sablefish w/lap cheong, pea tendril, shiitake +yam; 70% guanaja chocolate w/lime + avocado) costs more than my rent in Mexico City, and American Artists will namedrop to survive.

Its just Paradise never having to take over Daddy's portfolio management company. They blew out their knees on Northwest mountains and now theyre financial advisors behind bank counters and we all lose our lore. Naked hanging plants all day painting walls yelling in traffic fucking hard in mazatlan blue gallery projection rooms and talking about what we hate. The Sonnet was the inventor of Twitter. Language is Dead? The last time Ill ever write with a mechanical pencil at a McCafe in sunglasses under a tree filled with birds squawking. For Mom. 

The American Art Institution lost all its juice. All of our dreams have collectively deflated now that Cooper Union will be charging tuition. Don't worry, there are no schools in Europe that ever had juice/will ever have juice. Just go to the Prado and sketch with charcoal in your leatherbound Moleskine and you will turn in to a fine, boring, Euro Artist. Isa Genzken is better than Gerhard Richter but thats our little secret. These days if you're getting your MFA it means you want to be a teacher which means you don't have what it takes and All The Better For Me. I truly never heard anyone talk about Mike Kelley until he killed himself. You can Wikipedia the Art looted by the Nazis and you will realize that Curation was Hitler's Primary Objective. #Are American Collectors More Ostentatious Than Nuevo-Riche Naco Gold-Gilded Pushing A Baby Stroller In Neon Green Loubs At Maco Monterrey Mexico Art Collectors? As an American Artist save your tuition Money and get a studio in Pittsburgh Pennsylvania or Detroit Michigan and make sure the Art World never hears your name. Move to Bushwick Brooklyn 10 years behind the wave and DJ at Tandem Bar and you will be off to the races in no time if you look just bougie enough outside of the right coffee shop on Starr street.

Through a blizzard to El Anatsui's tapestries negligible compared to. A graduate show in a tall studio building in Chelsea the sun glinting off the wall God smiling all the Art into inane mute. And I called my mom for the last time and there were police cars ambulances and buses doors open and skewed across Manhattan avenue. I caught him and took him outside and slammed his face against the granite wall and his sweat dripped onto the floor and a crack pipe fell out of his elastic waistband. There is slag and weld also dropping the ground is smeared with human shit grinding my teeth in the scared blue purple now.

Beware that any Art professionals outside of New York and Los Angeles may be putting a gun in to their mouths at any one second #Performance. Especially Boston. Mexican Artists are making Political Art to prove to New York Artists that they too want to be rich. #OMG. Every Artist is making Documentation Art its called a Website its called a Tumblr. #I Saw That You Pinned The New Jeremy Scott Collection Is He Just So Post-Ironic Or Whut! #Documentation Art. American Artists are still dancing on the rotting grave of lost souls. American Artists are burning Bibles and using Google Translate to speak Arabic. American Artists have the most Facebook Friends per Capita the most Lawyer Fathers per Capita have worn more American Apparel and have sucked Terry Richardson's cock more times per Capita than any other demographic. When will Mr. Brainwash and Damien Hirst procreate? #Art.

Growing old lost nude on a glossy parquet floor. Cheap laborers hit hammers against hard things. Rip people off in the foul twilight. The only time you have Ideas is when you dont have time to think. There is a gaping foot-long slit in the backseat of my boxer shorts. I have no one to finish the legacy that I havent even started. Electrified. Hanging from the ceiling the world sagging slow boleros playing  cruise missile underwater hum of the Metro pushes a shaft of clean air through the room. A red-eyed baby in a pink dress shrieks inescapably and there is no solution and that is the new solution for these days's humans. Impeding weight of no more ideas ever drives through the back of the eye sockets and out into the must of the world clumped in a soggy corner, warbling black.

American Video Artists believe in their eating disorders. American Performance Artists believe in their Speedball addictions. American Painters rest assured that they are moving backwards in Time. American Sculptors are making impressively bad pavilions at all Biennials. American Feminist Artists are now leading the Art Universities below the water line. American Conceptual Artists cannot stand to make Objects but they can stand to wear circular-framed glasses #Trend Topic. American Conceptual Artists are sitting in rooms having conversations about sitting in rooms having conversations.
American Chauvinist Artists have all defected to play Baseball.

American Critics are telling American Artists that the situation is fucked and that this problem needs to be investigated internally. Hang tight lil' baby your Facebook Friend will soon feature you on Rhizome. International Gallerists are doing all the drugs they can to get as fucked up as possible. Ever since the bubble burst in 2008, the children of American Art Collectors have been Non Stop Beer-Bonging Champagne. International Curators are getting bankrolled discovering #Ethnic Art in the German Coal Hills while American Curators are living in the Hollywood Hills because My Daddy Says I Can. American Artist/Stockbrokers are snorting lines in plaid shirts in Soho, the contemporary Babylon, the contemporary Den of Iniquity. Mexican Hipsters are robbing all of their steez from Brooklyn Hipsters who may or may not be robbing all of their steez from Portland Hipsters. The World has turned a blind eye.

Twenty crisp minutes shivering on the mud edge of Hood River and my soul will be doing yoga to Cumbia on Vargas with seven wolves. The floodgate to Plagiarism is agape.

American Artists are bringing Poetry back from Oblivion's Edge.
American Artists are printing large format vinyls of their Mantras.
American Artists are trying to explain New Ideas to Canadians.
American Artists are looking for Purity, building Meth Labs and destroying everything with hammers and fire to make the World feel more like home.

If you Google James Franco you will not find any Art: #Art. Wow did you see her she just had a baby and she still looks like a Model #Career. #From-Old-Money-Fucking-Your-Way-Into-New-Old-Money. American Artists falling off the wagon double fisting at the opening and destined to soon meet their Makers. American Artists have seen enough geometrical shapes to last a lifetime. When the shit hits the fan American Artists call their modeling agents. The children of Trophy Mothers buying knockoff Ed Hardy gear while walking-dead sun-embalmed empiricists in starched suits investing in prehistoric Artwork from the 70's maybe.
It's All Bad.

American Artists don't give a fuck about respecting their elders or history or the educated, the silver spooned, because American Artists are Egotistical and Cocky and Arrogant and Brimming with Hubris and feel Unapologetic and believe in Honesty. And should have been lawyers and they are flying too close to the Sun and their wings are melting and go have another suit tailored and then lay down your time is over. American Artists ran away from their parents house at 300 Central Park West before they hit puberty and ended up sweating in the back of cop cars. American Artists derive philosophical theory from electronic music and no longer follow MLA regulations. #Twitter Is The New MLA. American Artists dream about being buried in the corncropped outfield near Dyersville, Iowa, or their ashes scattered in the shadow of Haystack Rock in Canon Beach, Oregon. American Artists have embraced Oneohtrix Point Never as the second coming of Jesus. American Artists like cigarettes.

A list, a resignation letter, a pitchfork album review, scripture, an incomplete essay on the verge of insanity under the cranial weight of the task at hand. The communist manifesto was unnecessarily long.

Facebook is the new Cedar Tavern, the New New Museum and the New Neo-Art School. The Artists that you are in dialogue with on Facebook represent the new global Art world. In 20 years time, we will be running the show. We will be the museum curators, we will be having retrospectives, we will be running alternative spaces, probing collectively into the unknown. We will be the power, and as such we already are. Most of us have developed ourselves and our work on Facebook. Developed our marketing and PR schemes on Facebook. Have used Facebook to tweak and master our Ideas, to test and sample different demographics. Have used Facebook to promote Ideas and to receive critiques. Have used Facebook to shine light on dark corners. Have used Facebook to develop relationships and collaborate and curate and produce. We are changing the Institution by being here talking shit about Art all day. I look forward to everything and congratulations. When the current blue chip Artists's livers and lungs and hearts and egos burst from their excessive lifestyles We are the coming mass. The fog is rolling in. The smarter breed. The plague. The strike breakers. The bearers of bad news and the bearers of new fruit. We are the new moon and the surging tide. Land Ho! When the critics shrivel in their West Village age we'll be the new guard. When the gallerists are gone and their sons and daughters prove incompetent we'll usurp the throne. When the deans and professors and thinkers with white beards and white wine bellies and italian suits and crocs have all defected to the third world insignificant European villages to sip espressos and talk about shit to no one cares the reigns will be in our hands. When the Gagosians and gaudy English fuckers of the world are admitted to the geriatric ward we will be the new eighth wonder the new racehorse the new bluechip the new culture pushers. When all the darlings of page six are found in their bathtubs we will be the new darlings of page six and page seven too. When Murakami dies in real life, far outliving the 90's death of his relevance, he will take his shallow Ideas with him to the forever deepness. Will we amiably inherit the current infrastructure? Hearts swelling with Ivy League and KKK pride? Or will we carefully mount c-4 to the basement pillars and watch? In 20 years how is Sotheby's gonna figure out how to auction Brad Troemel's “whole foods period” works? How is nothingness going to find a bidder? It always does.

American Artists' Dealers will never fail to disappoint, for American Artists are egomaniacal pricks who read anti-Oedipal doggerel and think themselves to be worth a damn. Unfortunately all American Artists are lying jag-offs. Every American Artist has the right and privilege to look down on serfs from their well-manicured hill-topped rear patios. Most American Artists cannot throw a baseball through a barn door and shame on them and they are losing their religion. #Is Chuck Close A Bigger Dandy Than Julian Schnabel I Don't Know But The Competition Is Neck And Neck. American Artists are stealing gallery lists from their Intern acquaintances and sending well-endowed Art compendiums in email blasts to the Directors of the Serpentine Gallery and are auto-responsed with UNSUBSCRIBE.

What does it look like to see something fail? When I went to the Lil B concert I watched a metamorphosis from an Idea into a butterfly. I am watching an Idea fail right now and I think it is one of the most beautiful things imaginable. Do your lecture and DJ a set at the same time. Let them see the light. Have you ever seen someone get desperate trapped inside a bad lecture? Myles put a camel light in his mouth Debora is tapping her foot manically and I have to Fucking piss. The cliché that Primates only eat bananas has got to go. The dagger that goes through the heart of the lecture crickets silence hearing the repeated clicking of a lighter outside the exhales of the viewers the screeching of the cheap metal outdoor wedding chairs across the concrete floor and how everything is slowed down. Having inspiration is the greatest part of being alive. I will miss it when I am no longer here.

American Artists have been spotted on Tabasco Street chainsmoking two dollar Camels and expounding in sweaty outbursts to German Law Philosophers about Muhammad fucking six-year-olds between their knees. American Artists are comparing the United States of America to Rome and English to Latin they are exhibiting their findings in small towns around Mexico to the disapproval of Everyone. American Artists who used to sag now wear boating shoes and MONUMENT tattoos and you dont have slow down Lana Del Ray it is the voice of Satan slow Vivaldi to diabolical wailing and slow Cyndi Lauper to diabolical wailing and slow Wagner to the sound of a woman bound and gagged in the trunk of a Big Body Benz. American Artists prefer the smell of Campfire and Engine Grease to Acqua Di Gio by an infinitesimal margin. American Artists cannot afford rent in any major city in the world though they are buying every goddamn Cumbia compact disc available to man and sifting through every street in China Town New York for a pirate version of the Patriot dubbed in Mandarin to no avail. American Artists want you to respond to their emails tell them they are not yet fallen stars tell them they are like Anakin Skywalker tell them they too have a choice tell them they have a direct booking in Milan and send them their flight information. American Artists read too much Howl too much Hemingway and don't drink enough scotch to be writers and aren't bi-curious enough to be poets and know that Naked Lunch was the birth of Twitter. American Artists know their work will only be complete once its on Contemporary Art Daily and maybe VVORK, this piece, for example, is destined to be in the next big NuMu show or god really doesn't exist and American Artists were right all along.

American Poets like Steve Roggenbuck are turning the hivemind of the Artworld upsidedown. American Artists are the New Tony Robbins we are on the Internet giving free inspirational seminars titled Get With It or Dig A Deep Hole and lay down inside it and cover yourself with soil and stay there contributing to plant growth. American Artists are combining all the Rap music made before Mac Dre's demise and playing walls of noise in 3rd World Countries where there is NO African American influence can you fucking believe it. American Artists are using sound to define Monumentality and they don't give a fucking fuck if you're not in to it and they don't give a fucking fuck if you say they are mad of course they are mad. When you say Tupac isn't Holy when you say even the Sky isn't Holy only jesus is Holy. American Artists re-route their changeovers through George Bush International Airport caught smuggling Mezcal and defining the Prison Industrial Complex of America drunk off of one beer eating a $40 hamburger. American Artists go to George Bush International Airport for the same reason they go to the Ground Zero: To Witness The Mortal Wounds In The Recently Deceased Cadaver Of A Nation.

I cried hard when my girlfriend's dog died.

Nothing is gonna stop American Artists. Everything is trying to stop American Artists. American Artists are rolling Amsterdam Shag in pages of Genesis, the only chapter of any book. American Artists are contemplating the impossibility of 9/11. American Artists are willing to lose all their connections to make a valid point. American Artists desire to build cabins in woods, covered with moss next to a brook and say goodnight to everyone. American Artists might rather be a sleeping planet. American Artists wake up to Hood Anthems crossing the desert on camel-back through the infinite dust through the infinitely redundant particulate of the Universe and shed tears during the last scene of Field of Dreams and feel like deeper humans because of it. American Artists draw lines in the sand and have probably blacklisted the Whitney Biennial and 2nd floor gallery-hopping in Chelsea. American Artists are hallucinating going deeper down Vietnam rivers. American Artists are cast concrete, driving as fast as they can in old dirty Mercedes Benzes to the valley where they shop at discount army supply and fabric stores and buy the wills of dead actors.

Everything is trying to stop American Artists including American Artists and it just ain't happening, because American Artists, Jersey City Artists especially, have learned to sit and wait. Burying pictures of sports heroes in caves in Greece. Opening Oxygen tanks in Toronto and destroying everything they hold dear to them in Mexico City. American Artists are experimenting with merchandising in New York and are getting kicked out of studios from Sixth Street to Johnson Avenue. American Artists have read Arthur C. Danto and his story checks out. Make Art every day of life and forgo punctuation. do you go tomorrow to the openings in Chelsea? do you like to join for a marianne the balkony ? or we meet before at the opening of gelitin at greene naftali? #I Don't Have Time To Critique Your Critique.

Teeth and Towers and Financial Security are crumbling as if any of these things ever existed.
How not to have an apathetic reaction. Feet sinking into moist cool sand. A testament to everything everyday and shines its light on everything and on nothing trapped in a glass bowl in the loading program I too would learn Kung Fu. Burned-out tanker trunks on Johnson Avenue spill oil and Humans pay twelve dollars for Korean Deli sandwiches and lay gasping on sawdust planked floors shadows moving across the walls with cigarette butts scattered abound. Sun blaring through fingerprinted acid-etched windows rolling over rickety bridges in the dawn. Readjust your stance on politics and rub your forehead and fix your thinning hairline in the reflection of the tunnel moving. The tombstones of a country that never was vanished into a plume of black ether and my soul is still ravenously binging itself with impulses trying to find reason, heels long ran-over, dashing the posture of American Artists into a thousand pieces. Lungs blackened at exponential rates these days, the New days, the Old days, and everyone at burning man I wish would stay there in the desert forever. Nature is beyond Man's thoughts. Can you tell me what the difference is between what I am writing and a painting? Can you tell me that there is a difference between what I am writing and a painting?


Drill me down to my petrified calcium deposits cloud smatterings blanch the high plain it is never winter. Babylon is being flooded as we speak. Sprayed gloss lacquer in a Duane Reed bag listening to demented Lil B based codeine I Look Like Jesus while my studio neighbor plays Coldplay and tattoos whores for his misogynist confederate reputation. In the height of the sun Zola Jesus white flame barbecue jet propellant lick off my shin right eyebrow gone dousing everything in nonpotable sewer water exhaling carbon dioxide. Surviving aneurysms seizures whooping cough scarlet fever Harlem mononucleosis recent pregnancy scares pneumonia Telenovela Oregon insane bouts of making classical oil paintings with three parts gum turpentine three parts cold-pressed linseed oil three parts stand oil and three parts waiting forever for nothing. Lawyers above waking with headaches plummeting down grass knolls arms full of stolen electronics plowing through dryrot farm fences over greenhouses crashing straight through 1-ply door veneers hiding on roofs in frozen rain. The embarrassment of your MySpace page still standing typos proudly printed 8 feet high badly inane group shows robbed of any integrity by their own faulty gesture. I lived next to the gaping pit to hell ground zero and called in sick and watched boats. Lets try digging holes to China Im still considering it. I almost moved in across the street from Trump Tower on Wall Street I was vanquished to a tenement building I was vanquished to a couch a floor a sleepingbag a nighttime studio to meeting the janitors to being a janitor. I was vanquished to a state of mind I am still vanquished.

American Artists are cutting circles into their chests and re-purposing and co-opting Gangster Rap and drawing infinity on their hands and making their fashion pop on Mexican Gossip Blogs and I couldn't have made these paintings without Gatorade and I couldn't have made these paintings without Siddhartha.

Lil B - Illusions of grandeur

American Artists have a tough time letting go of their oppression. Walking down the street shoulders sagging lazily and comfortable limp feeling safe for the first time in a long time and wondering if that's a good thing. Is there a point where cells become depressed under long lengths of duress and stop adapting exponentially? Spilling your guts at the speed of light and using Jurassic Park metaphors in a state of introspective stupor. I prefer to put all my eggs in one basket everytime and I met some North Northwest Artists who hate white man, what a predicament, we all agree. Such a clean civilized ninety-degree angle swept street glistening white marble white west coast they're all the same. Putting speakers inside the walls to prove that you can do something and nothing at the same time. Picture painting is done and the kind of dust that can not be superglued together and cannot be resurrected. And I do not remember writing those last few words.


My word processing program demands that the word jesus be capitalized religion is hardwired into machines what say you on the matter? Put your stake on whatever horse will take you to the promised land. Julian Schnabel is forsaken. We will meet again on the 8th layer. Nothing fitted capped sad asians sad blacks and the saddest whites ever alive ever pulling scraps off the worst the oblivion and acknowledging Whitman and Joyce and not #s and not the Internet. Sorority accents rise above diffuse baselines. Forever 21 purgatory Ice Cube is playing and the street growls.

Cortez Nikes Scientologist Will Smith and kill yourself deeply. Actively Aggressively Forgetting Everything you ever saw with your eyes and thought with your brain and maybe surely this is not the place or the time to talk about Art. Wherever we must be to hear 125 pseudo punk wavves punk biting San Diego neu age punk graphic designer I miss Spanish. Outside of a simulacrum of a place where a simulacrum of a Human might attend if he hates himself as much as Julian Schnabel. Does anyone still care about cleanliness in spelling. no longer bedfellows with Godliness, thats for sure. #Alt.Lit. Semi-trying-to-get-drunk-drunk outside of the most lackluster hiphop club that my eyes ever did see in Canada now on Chapultepec listening to the honking overcompensation of slavery that intellectuals and failed metalheads discuss over 30 beers each feeling in fucking peril and my heart is telling me thats why Im more badass let me return to my hardwooded granited countertops and intentionally misspell. Dont forget about the utopia of the drunk Indians with brothers dying of cancer old rich tweed caucasians buying acrylic double bad Native paintings well give them something at least forever or the streets literally teeming with meth insanity. Published poems are better than shameful painting shows and I gave a lecture so can I have my honorary Hunter MFA? Spray it in black or red enamel on canvas “I dont want to make paintings anymore” than wipe it with turp so they can see the ghost what a cheap move I am the cheapest cheaper than u are. Coughing without satisfaction the remnants of soul or humanity walking on the deathbed pavement til im sure I can win a fight against any drunk thirteen year old in the San Miguel. It is okay to change your mind.

I read five drawn out boorish pages and I knew this wasnt the painting I was looking for. And as the sand falls we are all looking. Power out candled opium cushions taking tequilla from ram's head weathered silver nortenos please change my life. Listening is the lost form I saw that it was charred out of respect boleros again streaking cadmium red light expecting ambling over cobbles of works burning gasoline Catholicism. Caffeine and Enriques and disparities difficultly escaped nude silhouette mudflap omnipresent haze much more to hear than to say.

Send your children from the South of France with your diplomat I.D. let them go to a top flight Art school in Manhattan America let them blend in wear second hand and slum it near the Bedford stop let them pull the chord and glide away into Picasso forever getting tan and Art Forum articles.

Spoiled American pseudo-Artists are running amok the whackest ones are winning Fulbrights the country is up in flames. Trust not the benevolence of our governmental benefactors the same government that made its name on the carved back of slavery that continues etching its name into the spine of today. American Artists have the deepest debts and are taking out credit lines for their credit lines digging out of slavery's trench without the help of freewheeling neohippy fauxintellectual Europe or ironic third-world bourgeois Latin America. Single malt earth salt with hairy chests and broad pale shoulders who can reach velocities approaching 90 with their dominant throwing arms and have developed late-kicking sliders got kicked out of University identifying with construction crews Pabst Blue Ribbon pour sweat on subways finishing trains of thought.


American Artists are crashing teraflop harddrives waking up freebasing cocaine from toilet paper tubes looking to shoot up New Years climbing radio towers and want to live earnestly like Anasazi ruins. Floating down rivers up the Vista Hill to carve their name into green park benches and barstools in the grass of Oregon. Grew Hydroponics and quit total lifestyles. Clouds traffic-jammed hanging above corrugated siding Monet paintings and take us back to the jungle where American Artists belong. I can't believe how bad Jerry Saltz's fashion is. It is important that you assume my Art sells. How will this object affect my rep?

Dipping my arms in turpentine until they shake of their own accord. Bleed on pieces of Art and wear hats that rep places dear to you. The smell of American muscle cars is important to our heritage. Praying for a Gummo reality. A Mexican sunburn. Banging is the new curating. I told her dad he chuckled. You will die. Worry your family members. Move away from where you moved away to.
Muammar Gaddafi twit pix. Hot ones echo through the ghetto. Pissing in the sink. Pink shoulders. Snake in the Eagles shadow. Sleep sniffing horse of the apocalypse for president holier than thou. Ether ethos. Freud says. A Timeline of Muslim History. Did you go to the Alexander McQueen show?
God bless. Bible Brutality. Transcendental Black Metal Cactus Pedal. Hypodermic Subdural Whatever Forever Game Over.
Not taking anything seriously being in complete denial hating nature and fucking and killing ourself with drugs. OMG guys Im so blacked rite now I might finally lose my virginity. OD in a Gallery. Get your Rapture game up. Children demonic power love authority music Portrait Of Tracy. And watch the Internet break everything apart.

Dear New York Ill be back you sick fucking bitch. This is a song for u. 

Cross out the best Ideas projected from airplanes choosing the right path in the fork in the road building a tower of contextually correct decisions a million times over until you make a Perfect Object a Perfect Song a Perfect Painting a Perfect Poem a Perfect Series of Decisions. Perfection is the frontier of Human abilities and the frontier of Human limitations. Does a Monument by its very definition have to be permanent? Is that one of the bedrock features? Is it possible that a Monument be completely and utterly and essentially and formatively and definitively temporary?

Fill a gallery space with the original atmosphere prior to the Great Oxygenation Event. Let your collectors become asphyxiated for Art. Let them choke on the Earth's original air let them return to some worthwhile state of existence let them decompose into humus let their energy be transferred from their bank vaults and their conservative pop Art collections back to the Ocean. Those Rich Old Men want to be like Young Kids making Art for fun again but they are Too Rich and care about Too Much and have Too Much on the line and have Lost Everything Real to Art. How never to become an Institution ever: Don't ever be Right. Don't ever be Right enough to convince other people. Don't ever be Right enough to generate funding. Make sure that your Ideas will not turn out to be congruent with the times according to later appraisal. A study in pure irrelevance. A Mastery of irrelevance. An Institute of Irrelevance.

I dont think people or the world or the universe need help. I dont pity humans I dont think I am the rescuer the deliverer. Quit coddling us. NASCAR is the purest manifestation of the DEVIL on Earth. What about that one girl that said she went to Pratt and I thought immediately when I heard the word Pratt wow you're a fucking bad Artist. Itinerant runway shows between the temple of the moon and the temple of the sun and this book is gonna be superb.

Ritual transition from Primitive to Contemporary Man. The body primitive the soul primitive the public portal to society shaved primped powdered gelled aftershaved cologned dressed ironed creased steamed tweezed plucked enslaved emasculated and halfway lost or three-quarters lost or all lost while you sit at your graphic design gig testing fonts or teach English to graphic designers who test fonts. Looking for something new to covet and Jets Football is not doing it for me. I am going to teach these Mexican businessmen about The Art Of War Im going to give them something to covet Im trying to covet lime green Im trying to covet tropical houseplants I used to covet stealing Montana Spray Paint and Windsor and Newton Paint Sticks and Double Thick Black Sable Brushes and 8 by 10 canvases and I will covet how fucking backwater that corporation is because American Businessmen From Suburban New Jersey would be far better plumbers than whatever shit businesses they are peddling and I approve that America is digging a mass grave for itself and Id rather throw my back out throwing home from the fence in Left-Center and when you connect and you know its going out of the park well that my be the closest to God that I will ever come. Break your painting hand on your sand-filled punching bag and there is no doubt your paintings will get better and what do you use to be out of control after you've mastered fire idk. Lose control of your motor skills.

Walking in and out of hospitable shadows. 

I wonder if DeKooning knew he was losing his mind when he was losing his mind.
Richter's work has gotten so fucking bad because his sallow old body still has a sharp mind poor guy hes thinking too much I wish he would give it up. A damn good reason to admire Guston. When you read Catcher In The Rye in 5th grade you knew. What about these Internet Artists that honestly cant hit a baseball and that honestly cant get good pussy wtf is with that shit I cant relate to the Woody Allen character that you've become and I blame your parents' poor breeding choice for all of your problems and a lot of my problems, too. That would have been a good place to end the paragraph but I cant help it for real how the fuck are you going to model yourself after Woody Allen I dont give a shit that he made a lot of movies that mothers of girls you know really love.

In the beginning God created the heaven and the earth. And the earth was without form, and void; and darkness was upon the face of the deep. And the Spirit of God moved upon the face of the waters.
And God said, Let there be light: and there was light. And God saw the light, that it was good: and God divided the light from the darkness. And God called the light Day, and the darkness he called Night. And the evening and the morning were the first day. And God said, Let there be a firmament in the midst of the waters, and let it divide the waters from the waters. And God made the firmament, and divided the waters which were under the firmament from the waters which were above the firmament: and it was so. And God called the firmament Heaven. And the evening and the morning were the second day. And God said, Let the waters under the heaven be gathered together unto one place, and let the dry land appear: and it was so. And God called the dry land Earth; and the gathering together of the waters called he Seas: and God saw that it was good.

A very fucked up heavy state of lost simultaneous Vivaldi and Sunn O))) blasting for eternal hours New York feels thousands of miles away and people feel millions. The One Idea so profound a person can bankroll a family on it. Deliverance. A ghastly mark. Rolling fog. Unequaled pastures. A blaring of trumpets. Pestilence. Rising berm of sewage. Fears of never-had nocturnal emissions and Tri-Met tuck-ups subsided by severe road rash sliding-home strawberries Internet Art emblazoned with post-teenage Acutane prescriptions. Rippled African sands toppled Nazi firefights versus the Id in the desert. Vacant. Incurable. Coughing fit brought on by I knew that slick bitch guy wanted to fuck you and enough of this the rain shuts it up. And Poetry is so Romantic and Art is so Nostalgic and that philosopher said he was studying how to die and we are too. These words are my bomb shelter. Disbursed to Chinook Winds Casino paying apologies for the morbid obesity trampling Buick parking lots into the tide. Catholic gay caress on the lower step of the Tacubaya metro that one song by Oneohtrix Point Never forever unconstrained genius first page of Genesis whatever the fuck that feeling when you rub Icy Hot smelling Swiss aftershave gel into your cheekbones.

Literary nothing.
Post-breast-implant Marina Abramovic nothing.

We have moved into a new phase of Art, not where if you say its Art its Art, but where if you say its your Art its your Art. James Franco's paved the way pushing the idea that his whole life is his Art and not the specific objects created under the umbrella of his life, but his whole life. He has commandeered his being as his Art piece: something he did not create, nor was put into existence with intention as Art. Therefore, if James Franco is able to commandeer the life of a human as his Art, there is no reason why you cannot commandeer the Freedom Tower as your Art. Continuing, it is not  impossible to commandeer all the Art ever as your Art. Nor would it be impossible to commandeer Time, or all the energy in the Universe, as your Art piece. In observation of the James Franco model, this artist, Andrew Birk, as recorded in this print before you, has commandeered God as his Art piece.
Does the length or the depth of an Idea correspond directly to the profundity of said Idea? Does the newness or oldness of an Idea correspond directly to the profundity of said Idea? Does the profundity of an Idea relate directly to who the thinker of said Idea is? If an unknown human has a profound Idea in a cave apart from everything is it as profound as a big name business entity having the same Idea in a highly populated urban context? If an Idea cannot be liquidated into a bank account is it as profound as the same Idea having been liquidated into a bank account? If no one ever hears sees feels tastes smells or thinks this Idea can it still be a profound Idea? Who determines an Idea to be profound?

In accordance with vapid dissolving times:
Who wants to bet that the frame stills of Twilight: New Moon do not adhere to the Golden Section.
Who wants to bet that Twilight: New Moon has not generated as many screaming fans as the Beatles.
Who wants to bet that Twilight: New Moon has not been as formative to the Internet Generation as Rembrandt has been to pure oil painting.

Destitute dirty violently honking train-hopping sirening flashing lights whistling billows yellow greybrown diseased voices suspended in hair gel. Peddling squealing children pissing the wild inside Starbucks. 8000 peso apartments grease floating stray dogs cigarettes and peach-colored peanut panhandling chickenwings from every crack smiling toothless. Hole and alley raise your family here. Honest straightforward misery. The president kills bitches. America, God, Mom, The Devil, Irrelevant Antiquated Freud, The Overcompensating Blithering Blatherings of Julian Schnabel's Id. The shed skin of an animal. The cracked, rocking bell of freedom. The boatman. $1 napped blue underwear on a conveyor belt as the guard looks over inflamed throngs of acne with a four foot shotgun tilted towards the air. What revolution?

The Old Man and The Sea is 100 pages sopping wet. But it is a perfect example of the Golden Spiral. A wave building then cresting then returning to the watery primordial mass from whence it came. All great Art all great music all great movies all great thoughts all great stories all great civilizations all great everything follows this equation. Do we need to tell an antiquely expansive tale do we need to write a tome cant we draw points on a map make a bulleted list string together dinosaur DNA and fill in historical gaps with African Bullfrog's white noise Internet blood? A Coltrane wall of static. Ive stopped comparing the peso to the dollar. Making paintings is the most anarchistic gesture that an Artist can do in Mexico. When I woke up this morning I had no hope.

A twitter feed compressed into a book printed and penetrated into a chosen market West Village Art book snobs owning small elitist Nate Lowman zines and abstract contemporary but powerless Belgian paintings. We got drunk and you grabbed my dick hard and I yelled at you I told you about my dad hitting me with a belt when I was a kid. Throwing mattresses at 4 am in the hills. Pass this car. That one too.

What makes you think that converting your twitter feed, which is a piece in itself, into “Art Object,” is a good idea? Graphite on 100% Cotton Rag. Every undergraduate American Artist has been talking about facebook and twitter for the last semi-forever. OMG the NuMu already covered it OMG I saw it at PS1 like forever ago. This season features everyone making Art documenting the history of Art everyones arguing this is the most relevant movement take a nap out of boredom. Put your iMovie Net Art on a usb drive bring it to your gallery give it to your gallerist they will project it on a white wall put some ironically branded objects in the room your will become IRL famous and change the world good job.

I watched this video of Jeff Koons walking around a gallery with a full face of mascara on and a ton of blush what a fucking actual psycho. I watched a porno by his ex-wife soft blown out sparkly glittery and endearing and Ilona Staller is a better Artist than Jeff Koons. Ilona laid the blacktop for all of Jeff Koons' preteen virginal fantasy psychobabble doldrums. Her porn is literally everything that Jeff sought to achieve. The disparity between his first works (the basketballs and vacuums) and his later work more kitsch more irony more aggressively diabolical and robbed straight from the 80s Europorn aesthetic--what a biter. Still, the Versailles show was genius. Still, the supermarket in Cuernavaca reminds me of my childhood.

If its something that you notice that doesnt sit back in the ambiance. If its something that makes you realize that you are not a good human or father or friend or statesman or collector; the image of yourself that you have used your wealth to secure. If its something that affirms that your whole life has been meaningless and that God wont save you in the end and that youve been lying for a long time. I am going to whisper into your ear that You Will Die while you are at the next urinal over. You will die and the lights will go dark cold dark and you wont even know and dont be scared and fuck you and fuck the scientists that think that when I use the word God I am talking about the white guy oilpainted and hanging illuminated somewhere near the intersection of 41st and Long in South East Portland. Its a metaphor for the blessedness of being temporarily sentient. How lucky we are to touch that we are alive. Yet humans are the only thing interested in hierarchy we are a hyper realist painting that can never succeed we are a photographer that can never succeed we are imitating reality and floundering in our imitation. Artists: Become Real Estate Agents! Everything else is a magician's cape. Posturing as reality. Metaphor for your subject reality. Fake. What is Real? The Big Bang? Marina Abramovic's Tits? That Life is a short open window of opportunity? That all life dies? That all energy transfers? 

That Life is beautiful no matter what.

That I want to stare into your face for a thousand years.

Salvador Dali was no nothing. Frank Auerbach in a black mold basement making oil carcasses Francis Bacon really couldve used his guidance. Female Artists instead of Artists talking about Female Issues instead of Issues. Enough. American hordes are flocking to Mexico like transatlantic swans crossing vast socioeconomic divides ready to bullshit your way into English gigs and honorary MFAs and Painting-101 Essays that are falling on deaf ears from an airplane forcing the tyranny of the American Value System: rich-parented slightly-artsy Caucasian, the safe, the pleasant, the hermetic, the violent, the pagan, the bestial, the bloodthirst, the goat horse pig sheep donkey and dog fucking Mennonite Masonic Methodist Americans scaling the Amway pyramid outside of a pretzel factory in the frozen rural Pennsylvania road. 

I ran into a guy last night who presented the most fallacy holed make me wanna break all proof that the academy is doomed lecture. Flatness. Lack of psych. Ive got a friend whos got a zip car. I think its chill for us to start writing as Humans and making Art as Humans and thinking as Humans. Braindead. No where to go. Free in the minds jail. Jump off something forget yourself. Watch this poem degenerate into true hopelessness to prove that Americans have no hope to prove that American Artists have no hope neither.


How much is a breakthrough worth? How much is an orgasm worth? How much is a homerun worth? How much is love worth? No better than those fucks but no worse. Are we missing grit and tooth in the post-typewriter post-print age? Should we bleach our clothes our books our hair our skin our tits ass and irises? Should we bleach our anuses and our Ideas? The endorphins of destroying it all throwing up in cold showers human possessions hydroponic nutrients sprayed under the tongue in old people's basements masturbating to clan of the cavebear rape scenes in monoprint Hawaiian shirts on masstransit shoutout to American Painters Im biting you dump jaded language into her children's brain  and dull bicuspids and I saw you passed out at Metro Insurgentes with fifty tar tracks and white ashes and the smell of a bandsaw and Mexican Indians pouring concrete all is right. Retweeted by a wild yung vato.

That fucking part of the Idea where the Idea falls apart that fucking part of the Idea where you know the Idea was wrong and then that fucking part where you tell your self not to listen to your self and keep on driving through the storm after the bonfire is over you wake up and pull something real out of the carbon heap its your fucking dignity.

Ron Graff decrees young men are not to read philosophy it skewers their spongiform nothings daunted barbarisms vapid addled lite chalk, like, MTV eviscerated. I have not seen a single great mind in my generation. My generation has repossessed all the cottages in the western night. My generation has self-immolated in private Facebook chatrooms and on this day Fuck the beatles Fuck bob dylan Fuck michael jackson once and for all. Lost Boys sweltering gasoline fumes sweat dripped polyester degenerative bus bombing lecturing parks edged with empty fountains and curbed spastic Grand Mal seizing nervously on the side of the highway towards Bisbee Arizona. I left my mitt in Durango and I never saw the Smashing Pumpkins live in their prime what a knockout gust. A great spew of chatter arose starlings above brown Dakota what is this poem worth what is this sentence worth what is this word worth what is that breath that you just drew worth and what is the final breath that you will draw forth worth and is it more expensive than the others and what is this time worth Ill never get back coiled on the fake granite steps of a mall waiting for cowards. My generation has given orders taken orders rolled over a bearingless cask of flesh waiting to stop. Permanent Dog Days.
Permanent Doggerel Days. Not much at all. Same shit, no challenges, no goals. faint dreams and aspirations but mostly sheer boredom Wash your face in broken glass.

The Market waants Pussy The Market wants to jack its cock and jump off a cliff and still not die. The Market lost his virginity when he was 26 The Market is getting horny just thinking about this now The Market's mouth is salivating through his speech impediment and wears houndstooth sportcoats and coaxes boys over to his penthouse and sticks his tongue out like a monitor lizard free drinks and The Market is touching himself again as we speak. The Market expanded its Upper East Side apartment by leveraging The Board it used Damien Hirst dots and Josh Smith's Hamptons paintings by stiffarming Demand by blackmailing Good Taste and redefining it as What Roberta Smith Says. Onetime I almost went to a show at the Whitney. I liked the New York Art scene when I liked Dali when I was a more naïve idiot. Rich still reading the Journal a basket of New Yorkers in the entryfloor guestbathroom topped off by oleander potpourri and a controversial painting by Kehinde Wiley hung over nineteenth century floral wallpaper you researched in a Met period room. The Market will come knocking on your studio door at seven thirty a.m. and do not answer. I once went to an Upper East Side show the whole thing was essentially a guestbathroom or the purple waiting room of psychoanalyst's office with the faint aroma of old ideas and Saks Fifth Avenue. I once did cocaine in an Upper West Side mansion and a Portland mansion and a Mexico City mansion with white bred white bread white boys the sordid children and grandchildren of stockbrokers with no taste and no style and no joie de vivre listening to Drake.

The Breadbasket Paintings by Salvador Dali. Backlit by let there be light. A Rembrandt portrait. An anchor; justifying ridiculous sweet nothings, copies of Miro, and pre-street art intellectual culdesacs. The only proof that Dali had a soul. The only thing surviving the bumbling collapsed black star void of terrible Art Historical Treasonous surrealism (undercase). Weed smoking illustrators (undercase) and tattoo artists (same thing) everywhere thank Salvador Dali for his gaudy spittle-in-the-wind piss-stains-sweating-on-hot-concrete oeuvre. Crisp loaves the only thing tacking his Vaudeville moustache to the ground. Keeping his bloated glib everything head from floating away. The breadbasket paintings are the Art equivalent of shooting the moon. They somehow validate all of Dali's massively fraudulent ventures. Proving, despite a severe lack of supporting evidence, that Salvador Dali found a basal profundity. Proof too that his heart pumped blood and circulated oxygen. Proof that he was able to sustain a good idea long enough to manifest it. We should all be so lucky.

Bombing studio visits. Fucking bombing them in a day-glow pink hat.

The kind of relevance that makes you sweat and palpitate and leave the lecture. The kind of relevance that finds you staring into your pupils in the amber bathroom mirror, drip-faced, reestablishing reality everything outside of your glance shifting dimensionally. That forces you to agree two years later, haunting your every notion, the seed, the Idea, the Monument of the Idea, we cannot evict truth from our own brains no matter how psychopathic weve become. The wrong path. The long game. That forces you to make changes that forces you to be cavalier that shakes you down in a dark alleyway and drops your soul into an icy midwinter mudpuddle call your Mom in case this might be the last time. That makes you see dark energy gather in the corner that makes you unfurl new stamen and rise from the ashes of your former self before the Idea was cast that forces a vacation that forces everything to quit that forces all production to a screaming smoking halt that makes leaves drop from Ficus trees that makes you find and subsequently reject Buddhism and in the end you may just believe in October Baseball and Oxygen and Remembering how beautiful Rap Music was.

Mac Dre - Lifes a bitch

Arranging raging fire in a rented studio only smelled patchoulli 1 time in 13 months thank the heavens the last bastion for Blockbuster Video. Philosophy made my brain's cock grow huge and inept. Lowrider rootcanal. I hate white bitches in Mexico halfway Artworld getting rich off objects telling their pupils not to make objects the King of the Mountain. The King of the Mountain on this side of the electrified cyclone, beckoning his subjects to the fence dismantling them poking Gerber sharpened guttural broomhandles through temples and they fell became disenchanted misguided romantic india ink on paper scrap Mexican Artists heaved into the lye-sprinked mass grave mass communist filthy irony a thumb up the asshole of the overlord, teetering on the the invisible brink of irrelevance. The misshapen flock worshiping an effigy of Putin and Calderon. Rock On. No lets neither have MFA's nor Biennials as our American handlers decree. New York is drowning. I dare an Art critic to throw a baseball as hard as me. Progressive Mexican Artist Manhattan Project missionaries curling up and freezing in the headlights and better not move and better to die embalmed in this spot than risk failure.

Dear Sir / Madam,
As I expected, my work was not displayed, your website has the wrong image attached to my profile...typical.
So thank you but in the end no thank you. I understand that your company had a particular agenda to push and Im sorry that I could not have been more help.
I explained to my Mom that the most important thing about this piece is that it is inconsistent but not consistently inconsistent. If things are getting too beautiful insert ugliness if things are too abstract interject with narrative if the tone and pattern and tempo are too synchronized write fuck or the word love if the writing is too mine steal someone elses if the writing is too someone elses use words like like use words like hashtag and slash and dot com and et cetera and quote unquote to pull it back to now if its too now talk about Danto and Arthur C. Danto and things foreign to the Human mind like Art or Reality and if its too Artsy talk about Money and The Devil oh wait. If there are too many words there must stop being words. Admit who I am biting Admit what I am trying and failing to do Maybe God will salvage this project I dont believe in God. Why do we expect Artists to put out coherent bodies of work when Artists are the most oversensitive overdosing overthinking overflawed intentionally inconsistent unintentionally inconsistent people weve ever met. I vow to maximize the use of the word I I vow to call out names I can distance myself I am just a vessel as critics say Artists have no Art Historical awareness of their contribution I would say that nothing on this green earth is more false.

Husalah - Pray for you

The world wants talent beyond talent the world wants pretty beyond pretty the world wants and demands charisma. Thats all the world is clambering for.  If you have none of these things congratulations you get to enjoy life for a good clean 74 years. You have nothing to lose. You can have a house a car 2.5 kids and a golden retriever. Move to the Upper East Side! Chris Wool knew it. Is okay to be honest. Move to Berlin. It will be a great way to understand the transient nothingness of everything and 17th-century feudal samurai agree. Find a way not to burn through your lecture in 20 minutes. Oxygen still subsides in your lungs and everything still comes from China.

Willem DeKooning was born in 1904 and had his first solo show in 1948.

Ugly really is the new pretty. Grainy is the new hi-res. Sludge is the new crisp. The colors bleed cowboy aesthetic oiled cold rinds thick and pure thumping through arteries staying alive thrust open. I want to cough I want to choke I want clogged windpipes I want to get hit by car and fly into a tree and live I want to have abortions I want to hide my scars under cheap tattoos and feel meaning. Backwards adaptation moving forward towards South American leaf-cutting colonization. It feels amazing to be able to think. Faith believes in perfection. Fuck god. Pandoran Mexican women forcing the invent of new adjectives. I cant fight like that. I have a gaping wound in my mouth that hurts like shit and I need to breathe.

Please come home tonight.

Martin Kippenberger has helped concrete the new notion of the new body of work. Make anything you want. Try to make it as honest and as yours as possible. Know what games you are playing and who you are playing with. If you are going to bite someone that better be part of the concept of the piece. Artists dont have to worry about developing a style anymore. Make whatever. Investigate everything. If the buyers are confused find smarter buyers. If you were a boy scout or an athlete or have any belief in yourself you can weather any storm. We dont have to be restricted to online or offline. We dont have to be restricted to Object or non. I am a painter writing a book that is a better painting than any of my paintings. It is all grey area. The Idea that “it doesnt look like your work” is one of the more naïve and presumptuous Ideas in circulation. Thousands of Artists are being lured into this spiked-pit as we speak. A pit that is based on the resounding fallacy that people, Artists included, have any fucking Idea what they are doing. Dont be so dense. When Philip Guston starting gaining steam with his Ab.Ex paintings, he dove back into the woodwork, emerging later with something completely different. Fuck his Art, the grace and courage and foresight of that gesture is what he should be remembered for. Stop being scared. Stop listening to what your Moms your Professors and what your Gallerists are telling you. As a rule of thumb do the opposite of what your Moms your Professors and your Gallerists tell you. How could they possibly know your path better than you? Dont be scared. Dont be scared. Dont be scared. Remember how much more fun it is to be alive than dead. We must keep moving because there is nothing else the Sun always rises.

When I die, fuck it I wanna go to hell
Cause I'm a piece of shit, it ain't hard to fuckin' tell
It don't make sense, goin' to heaven wit the goodie-goodies
Dressed in white, I like black Timbs and black hoodies

Black night face down on the curb tattered audience gingerly clutched a baby and slaps a toddler taking a pull of the diet squirt. Northern tubas blaring matted coagulated oxide hair homely wife giggles. Blind singing clinking coins against nickel plated pillars there are a thousand. The marble floor is too polished to walk on and nobody is wearing shoes. Emptiness slowly with yellow morning eyes small birds talking.



Andrew Birk is a 27 year old Artist living in Mexico City who was in 20 shows this year and lost his mind and this is what he made. It is not the finished product. It is the bare bone, the blueprint, the cotton and wood. Before the manifestation. Before action. A framework A list by which to approach making a decision. The show must stay righteous. The show must be unapologetic and thankful. The show must emit only monotone sounds.