Work of Post-Art in the Age of Generative Reproduction

The flux creates, the chaos profligates. In the synaptic hallucination, art objects are resurrections of the iterations of the flux — a flux that uses the chaos as a zeitgeist to deconstruct ideas, patterns, and emotions. With the evolution of the electronic environment, the flux is superseding a point where it will be free from the chaos to transcend immersions into the ejaculations of the delphic hallucination. Work of Post-Art in the Age of Generative Reproduction contains 10 minimal shockwave engines (also refered to as “memes”) that enable the user to make heinous audio/visual compositions.

measuring chains, constructing realities
putting into place forms
a matrix of illusion and disillusion
a strange attracting force
so that a seduced reality will be able to spontaneously feed on it

Robel Kassa’s work investigates the nuances of pixels through the use of slow motion and close-ups which emphasize the Generative nature of digital media. Kassa explores abstract and frivolous scenery as motifs to describe the idea of cyber-intuitive hallucination. Using sensory loops, non-linear narratives, and neo-fascist images as patterns, Kassa creates meditative environments which suggest the expansion of space.

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These are some of the headlines from today’s Washington Post Express:

• Budget Will ‘Bankrupt’ U.S.
• 17 People Die in Plane Crash
• Alaskan Volcano Is Poised to Erupt
• Officer Declared Brain Dead
• Teen Boy Dies After Tasered
• 93 Monks Arrested in China
• 1 Dead After Biker Brawl in Australia
• Man Charged in 3 Killings
• Loudoun Police Find 2 Bodies

Oh yeah, and these:

• Big Boi Ventures Out Alone
• Methods for Madness

Read the whole issue here.

It’s all rainbows and smiles and giggling babies. Great.

It always lies within perambulatory distance. Not quite at a teasing and unattainable horizon, but always much closer. Much much closer. Within the very tangible physical spaces that one can calculate in a fraction of a second, down to the obsessive minutiae: the number of strides, leaps, twists, turns. Every imaginable hurdle. Every languid slump of exhaustion.

But yet, it still lies there. Just being observed. Wanted. Judged. Excused. Saved for later.

Mostly because this Sense of Purpose seems very dull. Duller than the daily monotony that frustrates and tears at you while you fantasize about this wretched S.O.P. You see your potential, curled up into a fetus, slowly decaying away. Separated only by a few moves, leaps, and dodges.

The whole exercise reeks of reticent schizophrenia. Multiple realities. Multiple motivations. Multiple multiples. And yet you were never good at math. So your existential arithmetic, or lack thereof, reduces you to a feeble lump of motivational arrhythmia. Of course, what follows next is a long-winded and hardly-fulfilling sway of acquiescence between a distant sense of purpose and the passive boredom of stagnation. You only brave that leap intellectually, from a distance. The physicality is too difficult, so you brush it off as “a mundane superficiality in aesthetics.” But that is not what it is. And you know it. Naturally, the power of repetition lies in its capacity to dull and persuade. So you believe it. And continue to sway back and forth. Never really here. Or there. Or anywhere. Except in your head.

Meanwhile, that Sense of Purpose, that sticky little fetus that has barely figured out the existence of its own limbs, slowly cruds up and expires along with your own physical existence. Simply because your mind is petrified by the potential stagnation and pressure of purpose. Almost as much as it dreads your current motivational suicide.

Does fear ever warrant the banality of disregard and waste? If it does, then where does one find the anesthesia for time?

This morning, I rented a Zipcar (bright green logo) to go pick up my dry cleaning. My girl had dropped it off at a cleaner in Columbia Heights, not knowing that it was an “Organic Cleaner.” I’m not even sure what the hell that means. I do know that it cost me almost double what I would have spent elsewhere.  But that’s just me and finances.

The meat of what irks me is the current trend towards everything going “green,” whatever that may signify. It echoes hollow sentiments of a good cause gone awry into shameless marketing schemes. Everything from buses to web hosting companies are apprently signing up.  Don’t get me wrong, I’m all for each one of us doing our part to do as little damage to our surroundings as possible. But let’s face it: this is not about the environment. This is human beings’ selfish attempt at more self-preservative longevity. The planet and its ever evolving environment have been here for hundreds of thousands of years. Believe me, Mother Earth is not going anywhere. And neither is the environment. Nonetheless, let that not be incentive for reckless shenanigans and destructive behavior. I just think we have more pressing matters at hand than “going green,” i.e., war, poverty, preservation of equal rights and civil liberties, and an ever-impending nuclear holocaust.

Having said that, NBC recently refused to air this Super Bowl commercial from PETA:

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Waking up on a Sunday morning is always a sensory overload. Especially here: a damp basement where mold and dust marry each other, and erupt into an unsavory odor of their own microbial consummation. Debris ejaculate smells like mildew. The air becomes an expansive womb that carries little dust-mold fetuses, bellicose zygotes that take absurd amounts of delight from being my nasal disasters.Compound this with the fumes from oil paint still drying on haphazard canvasses, cigarette smoke, and the toxicity of my own breath, and you have the perfect recipe for respiratory apocalypse quarantined within these four walls.

It must be at least noon. The sun has managed to force its way through the army of dust that stands guard on the window pane. Morning sun cannot do that. Morning sun is lethargic, nursing its malaise at having to break the stratosphere. No, this was definitely noon sun. Or later, even.

I squint at the tiny window buried a few inches next to the door that gives out to the sidewalk. The frequent vroom of cars outside affirms that the world had not died in my sleep.

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