October 2003 Archives

lend me some sugar / i am your neighbour

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The glamour of restrained maximalism is proceeding apace. Of course, a lot of the elements were obviously there already: my Glomesh accessories, the pink flower at the top of this page, etc. But none of it ever really clicked into an aesthetic strategy before. Now I'm wearing a diamante-encrusted pendant, a wedding ring and a slimline ladies' gold watch.

Yes, I've been boring for a week, but I can't really bring myself to write so obviously about stuff that everyone else has covered much more comprehensively -- New X-Men, Kill Bill, George Bush. Except to note that a colleague and I were trying to cross College St the other day after work, only to find that the traffic lights were stuck in one position. Was it the Original Napster, hacking the traffic grid for a tricky heist involving Mini Coopers? Oh no. It was the Leader of the Free World, who shortly passed by with a huge entourage. Caught empty handed, I had one of those Note-to-Self moments, involving everything from tomatoes to rocket launchers.

the mark of distinction

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A strange confluence of tendencies:

  • I've been reading Sherlock Holmes stories;
  • I am now obsessed with pink velvet floral wallpaper;
  • I've been watching Doctor Who: The Talons of Weng Chiang, which revels so unashamedly in the panic that comes with imperial decay;
  • I've just started to read Dracula;
  • All this to the luxuriant strains of Andre 3000's The Love Below, which is strangely fitting.
This is accreting on me an ornate, maximalist taste that I never really knew I had before. And after not caring for so long about aesthetics (god, how alienated a designer must I be??), it's gotten me interested again in the question of style, of the violence of the mark.

What stands out most clearly in Conan Doyle's stories is that Holmes' deductive logic is utterly reliant on a very particular kind of social typology of class, one in which station is marked so clearly on the body and its restricted patterns of movement, and one which necessarily predates mass consumerism. It's all about servant girls inexpertly scraping the mud off boots, and other telling rituals of station, in which everything is in its right place. If we transplanted the Holmes character to 21st Century London, how would he fare? The inflexions of class are at work as ever, but the old typologies dissipate into a field of more disposable commodities and an ever churning market of liquified labour and shifting identifications.

Of course, the Victorian mirage of stable stratification under Empire was always a desperate illusion, always abjecting the transgressive sociality of class struggle, anti-imperialist movements and the like, and rechannelling structural anxieties into containable moral panics about barbarity, sexuality and race. (Cue Weng Chiang.) And without those intricately comfortable illusions of Empire now to bolster the new imperial pragmatism, perhaps panic is all that's left. Without his clockwork typologies, would a 21st Century Holmes spiral into a more hysterical process of marking, with an intensified racialisation of criminality? We may throw away our boots and don't take tea at the right time because we're all working later, but we still have concentration camps.

maya = shiny tidal wave of joy

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My brother and I were hanging outside the TINA festival club on Sunday night, catching some air, when Maya Jupiter happened to pull up in her car. Yay! Snaps for Maya's unexpected arrival!*

Maya seems to radiate beams wherever she goes. Her album seems to be doing well -- it's getting airplay, at least. My only problem with it is that she should have gotten me to design the cover. Fuck, I even could have come in as a Branding Consultant, and charged an Exorbitant Fee for one suggestion: turning the cover around. (A variation on the extremely considered, "turn it upside down" school of Star Trek design methodology.) As you can see, the inside of the sleeve, reproduced above on the right, totally out-spunks the actual cover. One flip would have done the trick. (In fact, I think she's actually been flipping it herself when distributing the album personally.)

Maya was the last act that night, and completely levelled the place. In many ways her performance was gleefully incongruous; in the midst of all these angsty hipsters, Maya was an unabashedly Shiny Tidal Wave of Joy. She is, above all else, an Entertainer in the classic mould, and while I think she probably needs to distill her performance into a more iconic vehicle, she's definitely onto a good thing. In particular, the garagey single "Move" goes off live -- everyone in the room was jumping up and down. Afterwards, all the other MCs of the night stormed the stage to have a cypher, apparently to extend and share the vibe. But all I could see was a bunch of shouty boys who refused to accept that they'd been so completely upstaged by one woman.

*(Am I alone in thinking that the Snaps Cup was the only good thing about the unexpectedly appalling Legally Blonde 2? The one thing that kept me from walking out was the spectre of the whole US Congress snapping their fingers in approval, just like an anticapitalist spokescouncil. Too weird.)

the aesthetics of disappearance

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A message for Shane (my emails to you are bouncing): I was only whining.

Anyway, the thing about the culture jamming panel was that I'd constructed a subtle argument that I tried to elaborate by showing slide after slide, but which ended up going sideways for various reasons. I said all this stuff about moving away from slogans and rhetoric in radical visual work, which came off sounding like hippie liberalism. What got left behind was my argument that the demands of leftist sloganeering tend to reinforce a corporatist "public" in relation to the State, and that the uncanny disappearance of demands/slogans could herald a manifestation of political potentials that refuse mediation. Brian Massumi (quoting Negri at the end):

Toni Negri, responding to certain patterns he sees emerging from such disparate events as the French student movement of 1986, Tiananmen Square, and the upheavals in Eastern Europe in 1989, sees the emergence of a new mode of collective action for change -- one this is radically anti-ideological and non-polemical (even silent: the French students not only refused to delegate media spokespeople or negotiators, but in their largest demonstration carried no placards and shouted no slogans): "Any reformist approach is impossible... Utopia is impossible... Only a void of determinations, the absolute lack of the social bond, can define an alternative. Only the practice of the inconsistency of the social bond is capable of revolution. Tiananmen and Berlin represent masses of disaggregated individuals asserting themselves, in untimely fashion, on the stage of power. They constitute a potential, void of positive determinations, presenting itself as a radical alternative. They have nothing to say... Pure potential... Democracy as the constituent power of the multitude."

I was talking to my friend Tasj about this the other day, and she commented that being confronted with a multitude of French students who weren't chanting slogans or making demands, but who were instead resolute in their rejection of the current system, would have been reason enough for absolute panic on the part of the State. Nothing to mediate. Indeed, this panic would have no doubt extended (in part) to student representative organisations and unions, confronted with a short-circuit in their mediating role. Similarly, Giorgio Agamben observes that the literality of the Tiananmen students' demands and general rhetoric was inconsequential and indeed rather fluffy, and not the root of the Chinese State's reaction. Rather, it was their unmediable demonstration of a desire to congregate in an unsanctioned way for fundamental social change to which the State responded with such paranoid ultraviolence. The Chinese students' rhetoric was relatively unimportant, and not what was at stake. (The reservation I have about Negri and Agamben's analysis is that it's all too easy to prefer atomisation to any kind of social project that might happen to be tinged with corporatism.)

I've made similar observations about what happened at Woomera: the shit that went down -- irrespective of much of the dubious rhetoric floating around about "getting political mileage" from the situation -- was not only an escape from physical confinement, but also from representation, from pat political nominalism, from national narratives. That is why I chose to make placards for May Day 2002 that were just huge photos of people escaping from Woomera (and resisting the Israeli lockdown of Palestine), without any words whatsoever. Rather than transmit truths to the Masses or make clientilist demands of the State, I was trying to make palpable our invitation, suffused in "our" actions (the escape from Woomera, the blockade of the ACM offices), to get into he groove, as Madonna would say. An invitation to the state of emergency.

On a related note, one session of Electrofringe that I found really interesting was Jonah Brucker-Cohen's new-media art work on manifesting the virtual. Brucker-Cohen's installations make the hidden actions of human-computer interactions physically and absurdly palpable. "Streaming media" means using water's physical properties to build a computer network. "Search engine" means a lawnmower ripcord starter that you have to pull in order get the results that then seem to spew from a turbine. "Infrastructure" means an electric drill that damages the structure of an actual building every time you "hit" a certain website. Many would simply write this off as an exercise in punning literalism, but there's something vital underneath the wordplay that lies in direct contrast to literalism: in making previously transparent transactions so clumsy and in-your-face, Brucker-Cohen is attempting a practical critique of HCI models that obsess about the endless nuances of the interface as a text that can simply be read in a disembodied manner. Rather accept the detached rhetoric of the interface, Brucker-Cohen's work demonstrates to us how we are constantly imbricated in certain actions in the world. This kind of "manifesting the virtual" makes a mockery of the usual cyberwank ideas of "the virtual" being a predictable set of disembodied representations and equivalences; rather, the virtual is the reality that is unspoken. Thus, the question: how can we, like Jonah Brucker-Cohen, demonstrate the unspeakable, rather than going to disheartening "demonstrations"? How can we manifest the virtual? How can we make it happen? We have to make the desires that circulate amongst us palpable, often in absurd and unsettling ways.

the time crystals

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Sick and miserable at home. But Lena got me all these Doctor Who DVDs for my birthday, yay! Here's a few snaps from 1964's The Dalek Invasion of Earth, which I'd never seen. (Before this year, I think the ABC only showed any Hartnell episodes once in my lifetime).




Although I was familiar with the plot (how many unwatched TV episodes are there that I can claim this about??), there are fantastically iconic moments that I'd never even heard of, like the Dalek rising out of the water at the end of Episode 1. Doctor Who had yet to find the juicy horror/satire bite that it played so well in the '70s, but in its place is a thoroughly haunting evocation of fragments of time. Long stretches of strangely unkinetic action, with no location sound, overlaid with impressionistic incidental music. Barbara and a wheelchair-bound resistance leader dash for their lives across the streets of London, which are deserted, save for the occasional Dalek. Moody shots of London's decrepit industrial docklands -- perfect for postapocalyptic sf TV, and now evaporated into gentrification. Weird signage: the ubiquitous "VETOED" sign in public spaces (apparently a wry take on the stamp used in BBC paperwork to rule out expensive set designs), the chilling "IT IS FORBIDDEN TO DUMP BODIES INTO THE RIVER", and the Dalek's own tag, stencilled onto monuments.

The whole thing reminds me of Deleuze's work on neorealism:

[T]he post-war period has greatly increased the situations which we no longer know how to react to, in spaces which we no longer know how to describe. These are "any spaces whatever", deserted but inhabited, disused warehouses, waste ground, cities in the course of demolition or reconstruction. And in these any-spaces-whatever a new race of characters was stirring, kind of mutant...

It ain't no coincidence that all this display of the Deleuzian time image should occur in a how about time travel. Oh no. Australians, be sure to catch it when it arrives on TV.

the new hip hop, zine-cool correctness trend

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Right now I can't really be bothered talking much about This Is Not Art, which annoyed and entertained in equal parts. Except to say that while you may know that "culture jamming panels have always been pretty shit", Shane, I didn't see you at my half-arsed "culture jamming" panel, you bastard. :) It's no wonder, I guess -- I hate the whole fetishistic institution of culture jamming as much as the next person, and yet somehow my panel ended up being all about it. Which is not how it was sold to me, I must say. I did manage to declare my hatred of Triple J's pop-phobic "enemy of average" nastiness, though, and Britney did roll up on a tank, so perhaps it was all worth it.

Oh, I just noticed a bug in my blogging template -- which must have been there from the beginnng! -- that lopped off an alarming number of entries in the monthly archives. Duly fixed.

back to the future

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Marty: I'm telling the truth, Doc, you gotta believe me.

Doc: So tell me, Future Boy, who's President of the United States in 1985?

Marty: Ronald Reagan.

Doc: Ronald Reagan, the actor? Then who's Vice President? Jerry Lewis?

Been listening to Bowie's Station to Station lots, which has got me thinking about funkiness, "whiteness" and "blackness":

  • Everything sounds incredibly dry -- in the title track particularly, the sounds are made of the most plodding, airless stuff -- and yet this is marshalled into an uncanny kind of funkiness;
  • This leads to thoughts of "floppy ('white') funkiness", perhaps best illustrated by Flyboy's fantastic Rock Your Body dance instructions -- where the almost detached, matter-of-fact placement of body-parts in a rhythm, rather than some essentialist idea of organic and innate groove, is the path to super-cool... yet this stuff is usually seen as "inauthentically funky";
  • I then realise that in lots of disco and funk, an arid sonic treatment (rather than a squelchy, organicist presence) is really necessary for some parts, particularly guitar; rhythm guitar in disco is often reduced to a robotic, disembodied scratch, as if one was DI'd straight into the console instead of plugged into an amp;
  • The nexus between Africa Bambaataa and Kraftwerk is interesting in this regard: abstract electro-ness becomes funky when it is appropriated in a certain context; at Sonics/Synergies, Tommy made the really cool observation that it's the handclaps and ambient "room noises" in "Planet Rock", when added to the Kraftwerk, that imply a call to sociality that becomes groovy;
  • In Station to Station, Bowie stands at the crossroads between his dalliance with soul and his abstract Berlin period, and cuts it all up into something that is totally ambivalent, both extremely "white" and "black", both detached and intense, full of theatricality that is tightly controlled; how does this relate to this thread about Kylie on Barbelith?
  • What was Prince doing in the '80s, especially when he had no bass in some of his funkiest songs?
  • Following Prince's best impulses, how did R&B convert its super-polished roboticism into such a deadly weapon? It turned itself inside out, so that what was a set of flavouring techniques -- at its worst, a sterile, rolled-up-shirtsleeve sessioneering in the context of much late '80s R&B -- somehow in the '90s became an aerodynamic exoskeleton for a stealth bomber.

talk to the hand(: supercleansing operations)

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This week I went straight-edge.

Of course, it's a thin simulation: my "refusal" of alcohol has nothing to do with the usual, dubious subcultural refusals that always seem to have everything to do with certain luxurious subjectivities in the first place. The point is, I can't actually drink anymore, and the X will remind me of that fact. Plus, I think it looks cool. And I could resist turning it into an Omega Gang symbol.

Now, the problem with this Omega Gang thing is that while I'm back to my Quentin Quire-ish haircut again, my hair still refuses to part like his, not even with gallons of product. So I've been perversely making do with something more reminiscent of Gary Oldman's Fifth Element hairstyle. Bwa-ha-ha.

got it, i want it

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Okay, to demonstrate the punk monsterism of The Collins Kids, here's a taste: the somewhat appallingly worded "Whistle Bait". Setting aside the whacky lyrics for a sec, it's all growly goodness -- that's thirteen-year-old Larry Collins on vocals. Nuts. Next you'll be expecting him to break into a chipmunkish "ieee yam an anti-Christ".