|
About + Front + Manipulation + Mail + Navigation + ►Reload |
ENGLISH | DEUTSCH |
 |
<<< >>> |
 |
 |
Artists
Audiography
Congress
Current
Exhibitions
Feedback
Gallery
Links
Multiples
NO citations
Past
Statements
Statistic
Symposia
Videography
Writings
NO!art
occupies
the strategic
juncture where
artistic production
and socio-cultural
action meet.
TIMELINE 2007
1999 | 2000 | 2001 | 2002 | 2003 | 2004 | 2005 | 2006 | 2007 | 2008 | 2009 | 2010 | 2011 | 2012 | 2013 | 2014 | 2015 | 2016 | 2017 | 2018 | 2019 | 2020 | 2021 | 2022 | 2023
TAGGED: ►Homeless Man +++ NO Border +++ Merda D'Artista +++ Meet the Artist +++ Protest Fund +++ Open Letter +++ Flash of Flames +++ Shit Happens +++ Generation Destroyed
+ + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + +
ALEKSEY DAYEN: Poem by Winans | New York on Jan 25 | Boris liked his poetry (I brought him few books couple of years ago). Also Winans published Jack Micheline’s first and the only collection of short stories.
I SAW THE BEST MINDS OF MY GENERATION DESTROYED
(WITH NO APOLOGIES TO GINSBERG)
By A.D. WinansI saw the best minds of my generation destroyed
By success and greed
Smug fashionable poets turned businessmen
Who rode the National Endowment For the
Arts pimp train, ignoring Captain Cool and his magic airplane
I saw the best minds of my generation loitering
At closed down amusement parks
Disguised as hobo tramps standing in lone lines
In hope of becoming a Southern Pacific Railway detective
Self-proclaimed geniuses tossing restlessly in their sleep
Like a pair of naked dice on a worn Las Vegas craps table
Their ragged claws scraping at death’s window ledge
I saw the best minds of my generation lying lifeless
In glass coffins, hands folded in gratification
Their vacant eyes blinking like a pinball machine
I saw the best mind of my generation
Hanging out at Broadway topless bars
Searching for paradise
Fat and content, smoking Tijuana slims
Stone-faced magicians on their way to the graveyard
Three steps behind the screaming organ grinder
With the one-eyed monkey on his back
I saw the best minds of my generation
Looking like James Bond understudies
Cruising the casinos of Reno
Being chauffeured though the neon lit streets
Of Atlantic City
On the way to the David Letterman show
Looking for the Now, Wow vision of their
Personal Zen masters
Pretty faced aging celebrities
Hungry for the admiration connection
Who carried the star fuck media message
Inside their chemically induced minds
Who wealthy and overcome with ego
Wandered the streets butter cheeked
And Crisco greased in search of there
15 minutes of fame
I saw the best minds of my generation
Walking down Hollywood and Vine
Tossing and turning in exclusive spas while
Ignoring the long line of hungry eyes
Waiting to devour them
Who floated across congested Los Angeles
Freeways looking for the right off-ramp
Stopping to partake of the pleasures of
Heated swimming pools
And Roman orgy bath houses
All the time contemplating their navels
And recording contracts
I saw the best minds of my generation
Bare their not so tight assholes
To aging agents wrapped in silk sheets
Autographed by the King of the Beats
I saw the best mind of my generation
Gangbanging ageless groupies from
San Francisco to New York and back
While accumulating frequent mile allowances
Sad-eyed space cadets from the
Gregory Corso School of Bad Boys
I saw the best minds of my generation expelled
From luxury hotels for writing bad graffiti
In the men’s room
Who necked in the back alley of Gino
And Carlo’s Bar while hawking there
Poetry in between withdrawals at ATM’s
All the time dreaming of HOWL
I saw the best minds of my generation cowering
In New York subways on their way
To literary parties
Lusting after host and hostess alike
I saw the best minds of my generation
Standing naked in fear
Burning out their counterfeit talent
At Sardi’s and Elaine’s
As the final hours came closing
In on them
I saw the best minds of my generation
Listen in terror as the four walls came crashing
Down on them
Lady obscurity coming to claim them
Like a faceless hat-check girl let loose
In the morgues of AmericaA.D. Winans was born in San Francisco, California on January 12, 1936, as Allan Davis Winans, Jr. He graduated from San Francisco State College in 1962, with a Bachelor's Degree in Sociology. He served three years in Panama, in the military, and returned home in 1958 to become part of the beat movement flourishing in S.F.'s North Beach District. He enrolled in the post graduate creative writing program at S.F. State in 1962. Winans was friends with Bob Kaufman, Jack Micheline, Charles Bukowski, and other noted poets & writers.
+ + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + +
POETRY BAY: Shit happens | New York on Jan 27 | This a 3-D locomotive heading straight at you
SHIT HAPPENS
shit happens in the usual places
on the night shift in a glass factory
in a warehouse on a commuter train
in a playground after dark
on the neighbor's lawn
next to the teeter totter
between cold monkey bars
at the water tower
by a spooky old tree
by the railroad tracks
or down by the mill
shit happens in the typical places
in a schoolyard in a study hall
behind the gym under a wedding canopy
at the beachhouse in a college dorm
on the internet in an army barracks
during halftime at the superbowl
while looking for shooting stars
at sea on land in the boiler room
of a hospital on the roof or on
the queasy deck of a cruise ship
in madison wisconsin and brighton beach
in kiev and kabul and in detroit
shit happens shit happens
by a vegetable cart
in front of a museum
outside lenin's mausoleum
at a statue of gandhi in union square
in exotic places and in tame
shit happens and wherever it happens
in the 14th arrondisement or the golden temple
in an abandoned mineshaft or under
a railroad bridge at noon
shit happens shit happens
in the photocopy room
at the checkout register
in the eyes of a perfect stranger
in the voice of a wounded child
it happens when shops are closing
it happens when pigeons circle the park
it happens when desire is rotten
and when lovers stop trusting each other
shit happens when the ground is hard
when Infory fades and the movie's over
when the bulb in a bedstand lamp burns out
in trousers jingling with terrible poems
in country and western songs that go nowhere
shit happens, at the end of a novel
at the beginning of a voyage
in a jazz club in the flatiron district
in a bronx hallway and on the subway train
shit happens, hindsight is twenty twenty
shit happens, denial is twenty ten
shit happens, if a man is not careful
he can go blind in one eye
all day long i want to make a list
of all the places where shit happens
and when that list is completely done
i want to send it to the people
i have forgot i loved
+ + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + +
THEODORE A. HARRIS: Our Flesh of Flames | Philadelphia on Feb 16 | Dear Mr. Lurie: My name is Theodore A. Harris. I'm a collagist and writer based in Phiadelphia, PA. I have been following the work of the NO!art group since the writer Gene Ray in an essay on my tilted: Against Empire: Theodore Harris and the Art of Confrontational Collage compared my work with you and other members of NO! Art. I'm writing now to ask if I could be apart of what your doing? Keep up the great work! Thanks. Peace Theodore A. Harris, Philadelphia
related ►catalog, 33 pages, 8 x 10.5 inch (pdf)
+ + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + +
ALEKSEY DAYEN: Open Letter to the World | New York on Apr 15 | Must See Video. This is powerful. Please turn up your speakers. You encouraged to view "An Open Letter to the World" and pass it on to your friends and family members. | 5:42 min
+ + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + +
ASTRID SCHAFFERT: Donation for G8—Protest Fund | Frankfurt on May 2 | Sending you greetings and wishing you a great day, dear Dietmar Kirves,
The time Angela Merkel, George Bush, Tony Blair, Wladimir Putin as well as heads of governments of France, Italy, Japan and Canada get together, we are called to come together to demand a different world, a different political agenda. Growing social injustice, environmental depletion as well as policies which are singlemindedly directed at the exploitation interest of transnational capital, is served up daily and presented as the only possibility without alternatives.
We will not accept this. A wide spread democratic protest, supported by many international organisations, is casting its shadow ahead. Special trains to the opening rally at Rostock are already booked, international guest are invited for the alternative summit and a massive cultural program entiteled “Move against G8” is being put together at present.
A few *high lights* can be described as follows:>
A major concert with many well known international and national bands following the demonstration of Saturday June 2nd, 2007.
Sunday, June 3rd 2007, we will have the best of the protest culture: The art of action, readings, cabarett, music by Jan Delay, Chumbawamba and many others.
Monday June 4th, 2007, through Wednesday June 6th, 2007, many artists and musicians support the protest by appearing at the camp site or on mobile stages directly with activist performances.
A tent for songwriting enables theater performances, cabaret, singer-songwriter performances, films and video art.
Art excebition at the fence (“You missed painting on the German wall? Well here is your second chance.”) with international works under the motto “Alternatives to neoliberal globalisation” completes our activities.
Being independent of sponsoring by large cooperations and governments we are banking on the support of many, many individuals, therefore our request:>
Make a donation against the madness of G8 summit. As little as 10, 20, 50, or 100, or 1000,- Euro, every amount will make a difference.
Please pass this message on to friends and aquaintances.
Our bank details:
attac-account No. 800 100 800 GLS-Gemeinschaftsbank BLZ 430 609 67
Reference: g8-Culture.
Outside Germany use: IBAN-Code DE96 4306 0967 6007 7261 00 Bic GENIDEM 1 GLS>All donations are tax deductible.
Regards and warm greeting
sends you
Astrid Schaffert
—Fundraising coordinator—
+ + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + +
THEODORE A. HARRIS: Meet the Artist | Philadelphia on May 27 | 40th St. Artist-in-Residence Invites you to Meet the Artist — Saturday, June 2, 7-9 PM
Curator: Edward M. Epstein, Artist, Lecturer, University of Pennsylvania
Event begins with refreshments at AIRSPACE, 4013 Chestnut, Philadelphia PA 19104
Theodore Harris
Sinae Lee
Jonathan Prull
Mary Tasillo
Christopher Hartshorne
+ + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + +
ALEKSEY DAYEN: NO!art ??? | New York on Jun 12
The work of art that didn't do what it said on the tin
By Richard Owen in Rome
From The Times Online, June 12, 2007When the Italian artist Piero Manzoni put his excrement into tin cans in the early 1960s and offered it as art, he said that he was exposing “the gullibility of the art-buying public”. Collectors and galleries that paid high prices for the tins — including the Tate — appeared even more gullible yesterday when it emerged that they contained not faeces, but plaster.
When the Italian artist Piero Manzoni put his excrement into tin cans in the early 1960s and offered it as art, he said that he was exposing “the gullibility of the art-buying public”.
Collectors and galleries that paid high prices for the tins — including the Tate — appeared even more gullible yesterday when it emerged that they contained not faeces, but plaster.
The tin at the Tate, for which the gallery paid £22,300 in 2000, is labelled Merda d’Artis-ta (Artist’s S***) 1961. Described by the Tate as a seminal work, it was No 4 of 90 cans made by Manzoni, each supposedly containing 30 grams of his excrement. A buyer paid €124,000 (£84,000) at an auction in Milan last month for tin No 18.
However, Agostino Bonalumi, who worked closely with Manzoni, recalled yesterday that he, Manzoni and a third young artist, Enrico Castellani, had rebelled against traditional art forms but had found no takers in Milan for their ideas.
“Piero said, ‘All these Milanese bourgeois bastards want is c***,’ ” Mr Bonalumi wrote in Corriere della Sera. He said that shortly afterwards Manzoni asked him and Castellani to his studio, where he showed them a can on which he had replaced the label with another on which he had written the words “Merda d’Artista”.
Mr Bonalumi said that “for decades since, many people have asked what was really inside the cans”. The answer was: “I can assure everyone that the contents were only plaster. If anyone wants to verify this, let them do so.”
Manzoni once said that he hoped that the cans would explode, and about half are reported to have done so. But none of the owners have revealed the contents. The cans, owned by the Tate, the Pompidou museum in Paris and the Museum of Modern Art in New York, are intact.
The Tate said yesterday that its can remained valid as a work of art. “Keeping the viewer in suspense is part of the subversive humour of the work,” a spokesperson told The Times.
In a letter to a friend before his death from drink and drugs at the age of 29, Manzoni said: “If collectors really want something intimate, really personal to the artist, there’s the artist’s own s***. That is really his.” Manzoni, born near Cremona in 1933, used phosphorescent paint and cobalt chloride for his paintings, so that the colours altered over time. He also made “pneumatic sculptures” containing his own breath.
Shock art
— The shock art pioneer Marcel Duchamp’s works included Fountain, a urinal exhibited in New York in 1917
—1966’s Destruction in Art Symposium in London featured Herman Nitsch’s Orgies of Mystery Theatre, a music and dance display amid dismembered animal corpses. Organisers were charged with indecency
— David Mach’s Polaris (1983), a protest against nuclear war, featured 6,000 used tyres in the shape of a submarine. One irate visitor to the Hayward Gallery died attempting to set it alight
— Rachel Whiteread displayed House, a full-size cast of an East London home, in a public park in 1993. It was demolished after an outcry
— Sarah Lucas installed a working toilet in the Institute of Contemporary Art as part of a 1997 show. Several visitors to the opening night used it>
— Myra (1997), by Marcus Harvey, depicted the Moors murderer Myra Hindley with children's handprints, and was attacked by protesters
Source: Humanities Advanced Technology and Information Institute of Glasgow University; Minnesota State University
Comments:
● I wonder, if I should write a poem about blowing snot into a tissue, or an opera about hemoroids, what would they pay for that? Artsy people may be intelligent, but when it comes to essential common sense, they're a few chips short of a chippy.—Nancy, Glens Falls , USA NY
● Brilliant! Brilliant!! Vive Marcus Harvey!—Stephen, Surrey, BC Canada
● It seems that taste and decency have no place in this modern world.—Ken Wyatt, Todmorden, UK
● It evokes the question: How much is a tin with a copy of the Times inside worth?—Paul Medhurst, Vienna, Austria
● I find that the people who advocate that they are artists, and have no obvious ability in the subject, tend to make up for this by going to extremes such as this. This is clearly an act of a desperate person, who cannot find any other way of earning a living. However more fool to the purchases of the tins.—Peter Hagan, Liverpool, England
● My Granny`s greatest condemnation was "He/they/she has got more money than sense". I, being of a different generation, did not really understand. Granny you were right.—Peter Bolt (now aged 69), Redditch, UK
+ + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + +
DIETMAR KIRVES to NAOMI T. SALMON: Take me | Berlin on Jun 24 | Simon says: "Take me by the word."
CLAYTON PATTERSON: The homeless man | New York on Dec 25 | The homeless man, Patrick Downey, on Ludlow street is a good Christmas day story- not only was he kicked out, but he was promised that he would get paid $150.00 a week for one year. He got the first weeks cash- as he was chucked out the door- and now, more than a couple of weeks have gone by, and he has not gotten any more money. It is not like nobody knows where he is, he is out front of the building. He has gone to 3 hospitals and ends up back on the street. He is an invalid- can't walk. This is classic Christmas story- Scrooge- Dickens- only this Scrooge doesn't develop empathy for those less fortunate. It is an especially interesting story. A one bedroom apartment in the Ludlow goes for $4,000.00 per month because of the amount of wealth that the street is starting to generate. With this new influx of wealth, the landlords are finding ways of evicting the small store front businesses between Houston and Stanton on the east side of the street.
As it keeps getting colder, and Patrick sits for hours on the metal garbage container—he will eventually get pneumonia and die. The Bloomberg empire of billionaires are eating up our community. It is like a plague of locusts that are eating their way through the old LES. thanks Clayton>
PS. Patrick was sleeping in the hallway of the building- cops came and he got kicked out. thx cp.
