our beginnings

never know our

ends

THE GREEN ANUS

Ever the aware equator; .....things rotation,

the turning, these combination, that cook,
the a know know, he diamond, and door.
It is clear that the world is purely parodic, in
other words that each thing seen is the parody of another, or is the same thing in a deceptive form. It is clear that art is purely parodic, in
other words that each thing seen is the parody
of another, or is the same thing in a deceptive
form. A doll defaced with laughter, a painting
of a black man, a blinking chair, a shelf shuddering under the weight of the dead, of books,
an amateur golfer, a mouse giving birth on a
discarded canvas, corporate fetishism (specifically Ford), the scratched back of Felicity. The
angry words of actors, the lost words of actors,
the smell of meat left to rot on doormats, the
clanging of a conveyor belt dragging bodies
backwards into hell. A frightened pig, a painters platform, a car door, the smell of green
grass scorched in daytime experiments with
creation, are, to desire what testimony is to disaster. We hover, flickering, always on the edge.
Ever since sentences started to circulate in
brains devoted to reflection, an effort at total
identification has been made, because with the
aid of a copula each sentence ties one thing to
another; all things would be visibly connected
if one could discover at a single glance and in
its totality the tracings of Ariadnes thread leading thought into its own labyrinth. But the copula of terms is no less irritating than the copulation of bodies. And when I scream I AM GREEN
an integral erection results, because the verb
to be is the vehicle of amorous frenzy. To be
me in the body of a cat, to awake on a Friday
as a robot, to act out the turning over of a motor engine, to scrape the skies and sway whilst
greedily devouring our wreckage of a future,
sweltering beneath lower city humidity and
smog as ice bites simultaneously at my spiralling head are, all of these, visions of a body in
want. An artist who finds herself among others
is irritated because she does not know why she
is not one of the others. An artist in bed with
another artist dreams of wearing them like a
glove whilst remaining I/my self. Such are the
mechanics of desire, as we see historically in
the flattening out of objects by urgent swells
of image-makers. Like the sea these images
liquify under the excitation of a building in
continual mutation where walls open smoothly into doors only to be seized and papered/
painted over almost as before; such is birth.
I get up as brusquely as a spectre in a coffin and fall in the same way.
I get up a few hours later and then I fall again, and
the same thing happens every day; this great coitus with the celestial atmosphere is regulated
by the terrestrial rotation around the building.

And if the origin of things is not

like the ground of the building that
seems to be the base, but like the
circular movement that the artist
describes around a mobile centre,
then a car, a camera, or a sewing
machine could equally be accepted as the generative principle.
The two primary motions are rotation and sexual movement, whose
combination is expressed by the
locomotives wheels and pistons.
These two motions are reciprocally
transformed, the one into the other. Thus one notes that the building, by turning, makes animals and
men have coitus, and (because the
result is as much the cause as that
which provokes it) that animals
and men make the building turn
by having coitus. It is the mechanical combination or transformation of these movements that the
professors sought as the philosophers stone. It is through the use
of this magically valued combination that one can determine the
present position of us in the midst
of the elements. Movement is a
figure of love, incapable of stopping at a particular being, and rapidly passing from one to another.
I know in advance of myself - seeking not deceptive satisfaction but
desire itself. I imagine always.
I think always that I have it. Blinded by belief in direct consequence
through action, I forget myself immediately and repeat; an infinite
hunt exposing haunted corridors.

no
When my face is flushed with blood,
it becomes red and obscene.
It betrays at the same time, through
morbid reflexes, a bloody erection
and a demanding thirst for indecency and criminal debauchery.
For that reason I am not afraid
to affirm that my face is a scandal and that my passions are expressed only by the JESUVE.
The building is covered with artists, which serve as its anus. Although this building eats nothing,
it often violently ejects the contents of its entrails. Those contents
shoot out with a racket and fall
back, streaming down the sides of
the Jesuve, spreading death and
terror everywhere. In fact, the erotic movements of the building are
not fertile like those of the water,
but they are far more rapid. The
building sometimes jerks off in a
frenzy, and everything collapses
on its surface. Artists only leave
to return, in the manner of phalluses that leave bodies in order
to enter them. The Jesuve is thus
the image of an erotic movement
that burglarizes the ideas contained in the mind, giving them
the force of a scandalous eruption. This eruptive force accumulates in those who are necessarily
situated within. The erotic revolutionary and volcanic deflagrations
antagonize the heavens. Love
then screams in my own throat;
I am the Jesuve, the filthy parody of the torrid and blinding sun.

In opposition to celestial fertility

there are terrestrial disasters, the
image of terrestrial love without
condition, erection without escape
and without rule, scandal, and terror.
The Sun exclusively loves the Night
and directs its luminous violence,
its ignoble shaft, toward the building, but finds itself incapable of
reaching the gaze or the night, even
though the nocturnal terrestrial expanses head continuously toward
the indecency of the solar ray. The
green anus is the body of a building at seventy-one years to which
nothing sufficiently blinding can
be compared except the sun, even
though the green anus is night.

loitering

ITS NOT EASY BEING THE SWEAT OF A FROG

2084.5
It was a bright cold day in April, and wispy
clouds raced passed the early afternoon
sun. Cameron Smith pulled his clothing
a little tighter to his body. Feeling a chill
run down his spine he wondered if it was
the cold or what he was about to do. He
hated them both. The entrance of TOB1
opened smoothly on his approach and
as he slipped inside he was shadowed by
the blowing crumbs and splinters of mechanical debris that had besieged the
streets for as long as he could remember.
The antechamber avenue smelt of oil and
chemical paints. Ancient technological innards and their skeletons had been clumsily stacked against one side of the avenue;
time had allowed a thick mat of dust and
spider webs to creep over them. Against
the other wall hovered the energy slab, its
green haze glowing and dimming ever so
slightly as it breathed to the same rhythm
of Camerons soul. He shivered inwardly and the slab stirred into a momentary
purr. Cameron knew that it was precisely
167 paces to cell i1, but who walked these
days, only old people and those who had
not mastered the new way. Cameron was
physically superior to most; his long limbs
were lean and muscular and swathed with
black shimmering flesh. More than that, he
was mentally superior; he was a swell of
pure energy and that made him a target.
Cameron thought his way into cell i1. Inside
an energy slab floated above his head, expanding and retracting in the familiar way,
its green glow feeding off his dark skin. The
cell was still and dejected, a scene of untouched chaos frozen like an ancient motion
picture cut off at the point of action. Tubes
of pigment and matted brushes which had
been long since abandoned left a messy
array of crusty colour across the floor and
tables. The metal legs of an upturned chair
were buckled and reminded Cameron of
the wilting petals of a flower. He could just
make out a Made in China sticker frailly
clinging to the underside of the seat reminding him of a world he once knew. He
averted his eyes quickly because longing for
anything nowadays was dangerous. Stacks
of paintings in differing points of decay or
destruction littered the cell. Voiceless crumpled faces peered from broken stretchers
and tatty canvas, sad faces, screaming faces, familiar faces, but voiceless nonetheless. Books and papers, and lead sticks,
and hundreds of obsolete instruments had
been hurled to a violent death and now lay
silently and finally across the floor. Outside
Cameron could hear the hiss of the patrolling point fives. The patrols did not matter, however. Only the green light mattered.

im with blanchot in rockland where

words shatter papers curse every
eyeballing starkness of paradox as
all my girlfriends stay home typing out new domestic death threats
and promiscuous ink continues
to splatter my glasses. what blanchot didnt know is that this paper
is already published and a million
messages migrate online in every
fraction of every single shortening
second. there are differences between a speaking language that falls
from beds naked filth and intimate
and those other words that we carve
into tablets. Chocolate Milk, and
glasses, tempered by youth, visions
of love, the gods, sweat, mouths full
of hair and gasping, brain dazed
and my crotch heats up with this
purring machine fixed upon it. jellyfish object unsettled these words
are inadequate but glitches are in
themselves productive. Celestial
Virginity is thus a blank canvas
upon which to vomit every word
smouldering inside your guts.

Lisa Barnard
www.lisabarnard.org
lisa.barnard@hotmail.com

Rob Hill
www.rob-hill.com / robert_a_hill@outlook.com

Olivia Stagg

WE ARE
WHAT
WE
BUY
??

Philip Parbury

Art + Business

These historical documents are examples taken from a research based project where Philip Parbury explores the
interface between art and business. He uses the Ford Motor Company as a resource and interprets its visual culture
using geometry, pattern, typography, colour and Bauhaus studies. Various points of departure are developed
including identity, products and architecture which result in artworks aestheticizing commercial attributes. This
points to an irony of post-Fordist immaterial labour being focussed on the previously Fordist industry and reflects
the changing nature of international business.

Images opposite: working drawings in crayon on tracing paper

Drawing numbers 60, 61, 62, 63, 64 and 65

A race of people is like an individual

man; until it uses its own talent, takes
pride in its own history, expresses its
own culture, affirms its own selfhood,
it can never fulfill itself.
Malcolm X

Sonia Olaniyan
e: spacegypsie@ntlworld.com

Produced with support from:

With thanks to: Alun Rowlands, Susanne Clausen, John Russell, Robert Garnett