A labyrinth as evergreen as prejudice. Populated with white cone-shaped masks. There are no faces under the masks, just a pair of mute CCTV lenses.

Assigned to every tenth mask, there is a red femme with a white wonder nose. Now, every second femme is busy cradling a baby and every now and then they pick a mask and shoot it with a golden gun. The bullets make red flowers blossom on the masks’ bodies, but masks don’t seem to get troubled that much about it.

Unlike a handful of males crawling around, collared and leashed with latex balaclava pulled over their heads. They lack the privilege of getting a golden bullet and being spied on.

(oil on canvas)
artist and title unknown

Laughing? Even got a reason for that? Well, that certainly is not an excuse. Got anything in your defence, apart form that ridiculous wig, sitting on your skull? Nothing? Well. Well. There is a record of you laughing. We don’t mind things like that. We kindly allow laughing. But we cannot tolerate people laughing aimlessly.

Kindly remove.

Persuing a dream of impersonating a 1930’s welder? Well, that is a NO NO. Doesn’t matter if you wear a clown nose or not. That makes no extenuation whatsoever.

Kindly dispose off.

And, there is certainly no place for trapeze artists these days. Hard times. One needs to be serious and in possession of a proper and solid vision. Hanging around twenty metres above the earth is not considered a sustainable activity contributing to our neatly managed society.

Kindly eliminate.

In hold of a crystal sphere hovering above your hands? Rolling it around your shoulders employing your mental powers? Hm. Impressive, but highly undesirable. Please, be so kind and enter our waste bag without resistance, as doing so, would cause a serious damage to your existence.

Kindly terminate.

Dronte etc. by Krepsko

Scoop a handfull of people’s talks, raw and still warm, then shut them inside a soundman’s cabin. Make the audience sit the other way round.

Framed by a narrow stripe of the cabin’s window, there is a trio of faces who, lit from under, can’t but look like marzipan heads of selected Roman Emperors.

The three practice a dada decomposure of echoes of a day before yesterday. By a diarrhoea of words streaming the madrigals way, the men peck daily banalities to pieces – absurd fragments that get an entirely different shape.

Just add some lentils and sundried tomatoes, then rush a cage on the stage.

ridiculusmus (performance)

There in front of us, lays an alley which has no road to border, however, it still evokes an old bypass with wrinkled side strips.
The imaginary road ascents a little, revealing no more landscape, so the feeling of standing at the foot of the end of the world is admittible.
The light coming out of a garage is woven out of fine thread – it pours in a grey landscape covered with plastic trees that cast…woven shadows.
Michael Raedecker

Ins and Outs (acrylic and thread on canvas)

Ins and Outs

Tate

Staring at a pair of chocolate, roughly sculpted breasts sitting on a white board. Air hisses out of the nipples.
I’m advised to press my lips to them, as if they were a mouthpiece. The moment I do it I get a voice, which, instead of coming out of me, forces its way inside.

(acrylic paint on aluminium, kci air system) artist unknown

The usual thing about lyrics is that they need to say something memorable, such as “love is nothing but a rolling cherry” or “dogs will never let you down”.

The unusual thing about Erszy Kiss is that the lyrics carry no moral at all, they work as an instrument. Along with the band, she “plays” those words so convincingly you might feel they used to belong to a long lost culture that has just been melt out of ice. Such a way attracts a lot of freedom; it blindfolds you, spins you around, stops you, takes the scarf off, and it is just entirely up to you to name that landscape surrounding you. There’s a track that makes you feel somehow African, while another one brings you straight to what you think New Orleans might have sounded like back in the twenties or simply wherever you feel like.

Kiss Erszi Music

myspace

Taiyo KimuraUntitled
Nineteen figures most likely made of clay. Their naked bodies with no evidence of sex to be spotted are crammed in a box covered with a crystal clear sheet of glass. Standing there next to each other, they’re rather busy squeezing their necks with their hands as if trying hard to get some air. The thing is, none of them happens to have a head to do that job. Seemingly, the heads sit on the necks, but there is a little problem…the glass separating them from the bodies. Eyes bulged out, tongues stuck out. In the vain quest for oxygen.

coming soon

The Ebb and Flow

A living Thing

Winter, Autumn, Summer, Spring

I Rise, I Fall, I Rise

It was like flipping through a book. It was a canvas portraying an infinite number of mirrors. I was watching a woman sitting a row below me. Her fingers. The way she was putting them on her lips. One could hear the rustle of paper, but tears and the sustainable bitterness lodged somewhere deep in her throat belongs to the most silent things in this world. The woman’s lips disappeared. She had to paint them again. One or two strokes of her lipstick and that was it. (wish I could remember what was that about; no title or context surviving)