Smoker

Chris

Look at You

Models: Akila Sekhet & Tatiana Pereira

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Masses oh, masses you are the heart.

,,

lead us through the valley of the shadow of death.

hadoock and this isn't

...

homeless and scattered as ashes in a truculent wind.. therefore we shall go forth leaving little remnants, pieces of tattered cloth, hand written stories. spreading memory across the barren lands.

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Let’s defend our homes, defend our shops

defunct

"Ich und viele Kollegen behaupten, die Avantgarde ist schon lange tot, gestorben vor dem Ersten Weltkrieg. Die meiste Musik wurde zum Zeitpunkt ihres Entstehens nicht verstanden. Popmusik lebt davon, zum Zeitpunkt ihres Entstehens verstanden zu werden. Meine Musik ist auch Popmusik, aber wahrscheinlich nicht für diese Zeit."
Elliott Sharp, 8/11

The avantgarde is dead, long live the avantgarde, or: old garde against avant-garde...
As long as it is possible to gain consciousness of a certain social status quo, a socio-economic, political nexus of cultural actions and reactions in a certain state of historic vacuum, unconscious collective forces of destruction, leading cultural movements sustaining artlike expressions excluding art as an exception, there is the possibility alive to set advanced positions: these advanced positions mean self sufficient art itself - not "art pour l'art" - but art that is subversive and political by itself without any impositions. Every crucial act of life is "avantgarde" transgressing the mere factor of cultural sustention.
As long as certain works of art will transgress the idealistic illusion of a historic "whole", a whole of homogenic psycho- and sexual-economic ensembles, there will be existing some sort of "avantgarde". In case of any avantgarde phenomenon every try for historiography seems even more senseless than in other cases concerning postpolitical attempts. Any cultural structure that sets no advanced positions is doomed to die. Every esthetic process is stifled when avantgarde is understood as "télos", working by beginning and end, as a mere even "revolutionary" historic phase with before and after, as a process with a certain aim that can be fulfilled or failed. Avantgarde is not avantgarde because a public majority is def and blind for it, but because it is advanced compared to a certain psychological state of a society and culture. Avantgarde is advanced and most archaic, symbolic, Aion, Kairos, cast out from the ordinary signs of historic time, driven by insight and access to deeper layers of the social unconscious. It does not mean the death of death as history but death as a process, which is the subversive act of life itself, the exceptional, singular material of ART.
Today avantgarde in motion picture could mean operating between digital video and analogue film material, building consciousness of what this means for existence and thinking. But avantgarde today has many other scopes. People talking about the death or "end" of this and that are the perfect slaves for a cultural marketplace, even if they get the tag "advanced" by certain public organs. The most decadent state might be reached again soon it seems by the cycle of rotten offical western culture, the state of fascism and mass delusion, the church state of pre-fascism is long reached marked by certain signs as for instance the speaking about "death" or "end" of avantgardistic powers in all fields of creation. Wanting the death of the exception in Godards words is the perfect state for any aristotelian social organism that desires to sustain its telos, to fulfill its function. But the death of such functional organisms is what the advanced creation sees, de-functus, disfunction for one side, act of life itself for the other.
After all, as avantgardist John Cage said: "Self alteration, not self expression..."

finally, old garde against avant-garde...

D/A - Diarchitectures from Todeskino Collective on Vimeo.

Kind of programmatic for our combination of analogue film materials (8/16mm) and digital techniques (H)DV.

www.myspace.com/todeskino

www.youtube.com/user/todeskino

www.dailymotion.com/todeskino

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Masses oh, masses why are you shrinking?

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Graffiti

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Fire in the shops, fire in the flats.

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Masses oh, masses stand up and fight.

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The Fly

The Fly

28"x 34"

acrylic/fluted sbs

Freedom

Poem by Scott Reeves
Painting by Manina Koudounis
Music and voice by Ross Ackerman Akaman
Video by Ruela

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Dragging out the baseball bats.

Idol Island

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Masses oh, masses where art thou?

"£$%^&*()
"£$%^&*()
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"£$%^&*()
~

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burning from the inside

XO

.

don't look now

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egg two division

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The Gathering

The Gathering

aprox. 28"x 40"

acrylic/canvas

It is not political in any shape or form.

there is human consciousness
there is human unconsciousness
there is personal consciousness
there is personal unconsciousness
there is collective consciousness
there is collective unconsciousness
the hell of collective unconsciousness is called fascism
it's a climate where the masses loose their interest in supporting the reproduction of social homogenity (a time where democratic forces become marionette like parvenus not to trust anymore, déjà vu, 1930ies - 2000+)
it's the soverignity of heterogenity (cette "Bataille", la part maudite)
neglecting the forces of collective unconscious means descendence to hell
a thing that is apolitical is therefore fascistic
every organization of mass elements is per se fascistic, even technologically (that's why the excluded want plasma TV instead of ideas, life, work, freedom...)
others have the nation, the state, the internet, the family, their football team
(every outburst of the suppressed social cells from the unconscious leads maybe to the next step of organizing these heterogenic forces postpolitically which would lead to a form of fascism that is already know in history)
misintegration = regression
no one is "better" than the mob, they just show complexes that we have split off from our neat little personalities
their wanton shows us our own ridiculous neurotic greed in a cultural vacuum that is nameless
(there are no "sick parts of society", the society is sick because of being in parts)
no one has the right to kill somebody else with the single exeption that the only existing law of experience is violated: there is no god where I am...
read a few books WWW, then leave your bed!
it's crowded here in the lager...

and this had to be said too...


"Quand il faudra fermer le livre,
ce sera sans regretter rien.
J'ai vu tant de gens si mal vivre,
et tant de gens, mourir si bien."

la muerte necesita un lugar

"Los espejos son las puertas por donde pasa la muerte"
Cocteau, Orphée







"Quand il faudra fermer le livre,
ce sera sans regretter rien.
J'ai vu tant de gens si mal vivre,
et tant de gens, mourir si bien."
JLG

Made in Bicesse

another riot

you shove viagra into you flaccid mouth
to fuck with divine righteousness
the whole of the earth,
blood is always justified
for the fucking flag your god wears.
your blessed bullets a sacrament
in a puppets gun to bless the
gasoline fueled hatred.
flames of outrage fuel
the lust gleaming in your eyes
now you can take even more
and bury the truth
in gutters slick with death

Rejet



Rejet © Laurent Fièvre - 09/08/2011

Canvas (acrylic) 55 x 46 cm

when the law break in

which nation will be first
this time
fasces
put your revolution where your plasma TV is!
nouvelle vague ... ?
UK - U SA - E.U. - Germany - Italy - France - Norway - Avstria ...

HIGH QUALITY riots!




"When they kick out your front door
How you gonna come?
With your hands on your head
Or on the trigger of your gun

When the law break in
How you gonna go?
Shot down on the pavement
Or waiting in death row

You can crush us
You can bruise us
But you'll have to answer to
Oh, Guns of Brixton

The money feels good
And your life you like it well
But surely your time will come
As in heaven, as in hell

You see, he feels like Ivan
BORN under the Brixton sun
His game is called survivin'
At the end of the harder they come

You know it means no mercy
They caught him with a gun
No need for the Black Maria
Goodbye to the Brixton sun"


Credit's End (1/4) von Todeskino

Credit's End (3/4) von Todeskino

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IN A SILENT PLACE

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Precipice

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men with branded faces peering into the window of the wet nurse. crossing the great pond to escape into the soiled skirt folds of whores gracing the dampened streets painted in coal dust. he hands me the source of discomfort, the severed body part resplendent on a silken towelette with eyes flashing, we have a problem, dear and i am violently aroused, i am. absurd but let me electric light into your chest, yes, deep, alert. erect. yes. poised for a great and erotic flight.

Where's Tarzan?!

36x24"
oil on canvas

skin is faster than words

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It's not LOVE I'm looking for
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dot to dot to red

Baguette

Remember that time Bobby Goloid lost his leg riding his bike on the pavement. A time when coppers would still stop you for that offence in their grand prix motorcycle sidecars. Well, that was the case, until the incident with Bobby, when he got his leg severed by a stale baguette carried by a for then, it must be said, cultured couple of coppers. Sticking out it was - the baguette – from the edge of the sidecar as they zoomed in to pull him up for locomoting along the pavement. The collision of baguette and leg left Bobby with a ragged gushing stump. It seemed unreal – in fact it had de-seamed. But he still rode on for a bit, foot in the racer’s pedal’s grip, the detached limb slapping around. Nearby, I heard an old man whisper as he smoothed a hand across naked scalp “the hopper, the hopper.