Sunday
Manila Vice
Manila Vice
To wake up in Manila is hard. There is the heat to contend with, plus the surrounding chaos that threatens to overwhelm. Actually you don’t have a choice in being woken up, the noise of the restless city does that to you. You wake up but for what? There is no job that waits, which is a wishful necessity to erect a flaccid economy. Manila being one of the worst economies in the world comprises thousands of unemployed workers. Imagine then that you are an artist, one that uses paints or brushes in the traditional sense. Or even if you are one of those new media practitioners, how can you do that in a country that hardly maintains any technological resources? The endless brownouts there seems like a curse from corrupt politicians, in addition to the infernal heat and humidity that make your machines cry as it melts. Also, if you were an artist how would you sell art in a lazy and handicapped local economy? To be fair there is a local art market there albeit marginal at best. At its worst, the ones that do get noticed are the ones that get sold. Meaning, the most popular art are the ones that indulges the senses, but not the mind. And in a setting of deplorable social realities can a romanticized picture of the social catalyze into critical thought; or is it the reverse, does it numb the critical faculties and resort to sentimental vagrancy for cold cash from the rich? To some extent the popular and institutionalized works being accepted in Manila are technically sophisticated although in a conventional way, but at this point in contemporary art making, contemporary being the global time that is now, why even make art whose primary end is to be part of the endless commercial products competing in the world market as choked by the West? Why? In this event horizon, when we know and see the end, the best thing to do is to wait for the inevitable. The other best thing to do is to party at the end of time, like its 1999 (Prince). Here is what probably is an everyday itinerary: wake up, eat, hang out with friends, hustle, fuck, watch TV, play with roving bands of street dogs and cats, eat, drink, hang out again, make and talk about art (not really, mostly hanging out), take drugs, fuck, sleep, and repeat again. Endless. Infinitely sublime. How can you make art in this case? You don’t. Life becomes a shell of itself, an endless simulacra of mise-en-scenes (or missing scenes) from half forgotten Hollywood films. Sometimes you think you are Jackson Pollock as played by Ed Harris (Pollock, 2000), drinking, womanizing, romantically making art (is it art?), finally doomed to unrealization. Well at least you did it your way (Sinatra, 1969). Or you can pretend you are Matthew Barney as seen through many outdated art magazines that end up into the distant shores of Manila. This is the primary artistic education in Manila, the interpretation of images into (in)direct experiences. You see it, you do it, you become it. Cyborg love with artificial memories (Blade Runner, 1982; or is it Total Recall, 1990?). But the truth is that the element of dandyism as a postmodern reflex actually breeds in Manila. Filipino artists are marginalized in the international artworld, we know that, and you can respond by saying so are artists in Ghana (well it ain’t equal because we don’t have a champion like Okwui Wan Kanokwi). Anyway, this marginality becomes an invisibility cloak (Harry Potter, 2001) for Filipino artists but one where the sight of privilege is reversed, that is, you can see the important things happening around in the artworld but they don’t see you. “I see dead people,” (The Sixth Sense, 1999). In this manner, art being made contemporaneously in Manila somnambulates as a Marxian performance commenting on the half-life existence of artistic identity as instigated by First World media hegemonies. This Filipino art now is a critique and an intervention of sorts because the lust for life (Lust for Life, 1956) promoted by the West doesn’t actually work in Manila, it is circumvented and transmuted into a parody of the actual. It turns tragic-comic, with the essence of failure and ridicule from the Western paradigm permeating in the background like canned laughter. However, this failure rebuts as a mirror of the post-colonial kind when the Filipino Other proclaims, “Look at me. Judge me by my size, do you?” (Yoda, The Empire Strikes Back, 1980).“
To wake up in Manila is hard. There is the heat to contend with, plus the surrounding chaos that threatens to overwhelm. Actually you don’t have a choice in being woken up, the noise of the restless city does that to you. You wake up but for what? There is no job that waits, which is a wishful necessity to erect a flaccid economy. Manila being one of the worst economies in the world comprises thousands of unemployed workers. Imagine then that you are an artist, one that uses paints or brushes in the traditional sense. Or even if you are one of those new media practitioners, how can you do that in a country that hardly maintains any technological resources? The endless brownouts there seems like a curse from corrupt politicians, in addition to the infernal heat and humidity that make your machines cry as it melts. Also, if you were an artist how would you sell art in a lazy and handicapped local economy? To be fair there is a local art market there albeit marginal at best. At its worst, the ones that do get noticed are the ones that get sold. Meaning, the most popular art are the ones that indulges the senses, but not the mind. And in a setting of deplorable social realities can a romanticized picture of the social catalyze into critical thought; or is it the reverse, does it numb the critical faculties and resort to sentimental vagrancy for cold cash from the rich? To some extent the popular and institutionalized works being accepted in Manila are technically sophisticated although in a conventional way, but at this point in contemporary art making, contemporary being the global time that is now, why even make art whose primary end is to be part of the endless commercial products competing in the world market as choked by the West? Why? In this event horizon, when we know and see the end, the best thing to do is to wait for the inevitable. The other best thing to do is to party at the end of time, like its 1999 (Prince). Here is what probably is an everyday itinerary: wake up, eat, hang out with friends, hustle, fuck, watch TV, play with roving bands of street dogs and cats, eat, drink, hang out again, make and talk about art (not really, mostly hanging out), take drugs, fuck, sleep, and repeat again. Endless. Infinitely sublime. How can you make art in this case? You don’t. Life becomes a shell of itself, an endless simulacra of mise-en-scenes (or missing scenes) from half forgotten Hollywood films. Sometimes you think you are Jackson Pollock as played by Ed Harris (Pollock, 2000), drinking, womanizing, romantically making art (is it art?), finally doomed to unrealization. Well at least you did it your way (Sinatra, 1969). Or you can pretend you are Matthew Barney as seen through many outdated art magazines that end up into the distant shores of Manila. This is the primary artistic education in Manila, the interpretation of images into (in)direct experiences. You see it, you do it, you become it. Cyborg love with artificial memories (Blade Runner, 1982; or is it Total Recall, 1990?). But the truth is that the element of dandyism as a postmodern reflex actually breeds in Manila. Filipino artists are marginalized in the international artworld, we know that, and you can respond by saying so are artists in Ghana (well it ain’t equal because we don’t have a champion like Okwui Wan Kanokwi). Anyway, this marginality becomes an invisibility cloak (Harry Potter, 2001) for Filipino artists but one where the sight of privilege is reversed, that is, you can see the important things happening around in the artworld but they don’t see you. “I see dead people,” (The Sixth Sense, 1999). In this manner, art being made contemporaneously in Manila somnambulates as a Marxian performance commenting on the half-life existence of artistic identity as instigated by First World media hegemonies. This Filipino art now is a critique and an intervention of sorts because the lust for life (Lust for Life, 1956) promoted by the West doesn’t actually work in Manila, it is circumvented and transmuted into a parody of the actual. It turns tragic-comic, with the essence of failure and ridicule from the Western paradigm permeating in the background like canned laughter. However, this failure rebuts as a mirror of the post-colonial kind when the Filipino Other proclaims, “Look at me. Judge me by my size, do you?” (Yoda, The Empire Strikes Back, 1980).“
Saturday
Monday
Tis' A (nother) Season for An Unanswered Prayer
San Francisco, CA. A sign bought from a homeless person for $5.
Deconstructing the Hard Left
Image taken from Radicalgraphics.org
"For some self-proclaimed leftists, the answer is all too simple: they like the fact that these words scare people off. Intellectuals have always been more inclined to profess their leftism, but not always for the right reasons. This is especially true in countries like the United States where leftists have had little access to power. The marginality of leftism appeals to many people who reject the status quo, not because they want to provoke change, but because they want to be different. To people who want to distance themselves from the masses, words like "ideology" and "reification" are the perfect way to repel all those 'normal' people who comprise the 'masses'. These are the worst kind of 'self-marginalizing' leftists, for they marginalize themselves — consciously or not — out of a desire to distinguish themselves from the same people they are supposed to be helping."
- Charlie Bertsch and Joel Schalit, Bad Subjects, Issue #26, May 1996
Friday
basically i think globalization will make us all part
of the machine. that's how we are right now with our
credit cards and all and now they want it global.
i actually have a piece about this. this is a huge
piece but can be reprinted. it shows a remorseless
blood thirsty mutant ripping out people's hearts. see
attached pls.
i think 'art' is also part of the machine because most
galleries have corporate sponsors so they decide what
should be shown. this is why i keep on making art that
offend them. i think i will remain an outsider because
i want my artworks to be as free as possible. i have
been a slave all my life but at least i can talk back
thru my art.
Defining capitalism is unthinkable. It is not impossible to define, as Marx had clearly done, but once we try to separate it from us like something alien, then capitalism turns on us, its hosts, and creates cultural distinctions which breeds inequality and oppression. My notion of capitalism is that it creates hierarchies and differences that segregate and exploit people: I'm referring to the class struggle, rich/poor/middle classes. Therefore the thing with capitalism is, its not just this monster, but rather its in all of us, we are capitalism, and we breed capitalism depending on where our drives are. The goal of the show is not to be lackadaisical and promote the machines of capitalism. Rather, it is to expose that we are all prone to the process of capitalism, and through collaborative exploration then perhaps we can understand and prevent the thing that binds us.
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