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29.12.11
27.12.11
baby's first zine
^^^front n back cover
what started as a skype brainstorm became me staying up all night with a firey passion to make a tacky, obscene thing. if you're coming to SAV//NYE this almost-10-pager is already YOURS.
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10.12.11
30.11.11
19.11.11
8.11.11
9.10.11
rain after ash production photos
From the show I recently assisted. I hope to get some photos of the SF pictures Hali and Sarah gave me when I see the show this week. They were projected on the door seen in the above image. These photos were taken by the director.
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notes on curating static
The eye may be said to owe its existence to light, which calls forth, as it were, a sense that is akin to itself; the eye, in short is formed with reference to light, to be fit for the action of light, the light it contains corresponding with the light without.
-Johann Wolfgang van Goethe, Theory of Colors (1810)
gold panda- lonely owl
i miss the ant races.
i miss the static, like a texture sensationalizing the space between my ears, the upper area of my brain just beneath my skull.
i miss the acceptance of the dull signal, the disjointed, blank-but-full otherness of in-between time.
static is a background, static is a blanket, static is not planning on catching up. static is media that accepted the medium. it's the ant races. static is the coolness we lack, static is music, it's the blanket, static is the lowest note, the stabilizing chord. static is hotness/hypnosis. Static is the same until it lulls/ drones/ emits/ synchronizes/ syncopates alongside a brother static. self-sustaining, not self-conscious, always there but not always seen, the underlying alter-ego, static is what we now seek, what we once ran from.
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The eye may be said to owe its existence to light, which calls forth, as it were, a sense that is akin to itself; the eye, in short is formed with reference to light, to be fit for the action of light, the light it contains corresponding with the light without.
-Johann Wolfgang van Goethe, Theory of Colors (1810)
gold panda- lonely owl
i miss the ant races.
i miss the static, like a texture sensationalizing the space between my ears, the upper area of my brain just beneath my skull.
i miss the acceptance of the dull signal, the disjointed, blank-but-full otherness of in-between time.
static is a background, static is a blanket, static is not planning on catching up. static is media that accepted the medium. it's the ant races. static is the coolness we lack, static is music, it's the blanket, static is the lowest note, the stabilizing chord. static is hotness/hypnosis. Static is the same until it lulls/ drones/ emits/ synchronizes/ syncopates alongside a brother static. self-sustaining, not self-conscious, always there but not always seen, the underlying alter-ego, static is what we now seek, what we once ran from.
Continue
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