A Cab Athenian Symposium Kunsthalle Athena presents A Cab exhibition curated by Valentinas Klimašauskas
Participating artists: Andreas Angelidakis, Nick Bastis, Liudvikas Buklys, Antanas Gerlikas, Morten Norbye Halvorsen, Stephanos Kamaris, Laura Kaminskaitė, Mikko Kuorinki, Thanos Kyriakides, Ieva Misevičiūtė, Elena Narbutaitė, Robertas Narkus, Carl Palm, Natasha Papadopoulou, Zoë Paul, Angelo Plessas, Michael Portnoy, Dexter Sinister, Ola Vasiljeva December 4 – 13, 2014 28, Kerameikoustr., Kerameikos - Metaxourgeio, Athens
Thread Lines curated by Joanna Kleinberg Romanow Participating Artists: Mónica Bengoa, Louise Bourgeois , Sheila Hicks, Ellen Lesperance, Kimsooja, Beryl Korot, Maria Lai, Sam Moyer, William J. O'Brien, Robert Otto Epstein, Jessica Rankin, Elaine Reichek, Drew Shiflett, Alan Shields, Lenore Tawney, Anne Wilson The Drawing Center Sep 19, 2014 - Dec 14, 2014 35 Wooster Street, SoHo, New York, 10013
I hate what has
happened to the world. There is too much war, too many problems. This is
turning out to be a bad start for the century. I blame it all on 9/11. &
myself. I was asleep at the wheel on 9/10.
You may not know
this but I am powerful. I control this universe. Let me walk that back, I can
control certain things in this universe & I like to think of myself as one
who acts, one who takes things into his own hands, even if it means getting
dirty. Well I’m fed up with the current state of affairs. I gotta fix this.
I dream that if it
weren't for 9/11 the world would be a better place. Rainbows in Africa &
honeydew drops of love all around. I see long lasting peace & wealth being
spread to all parts of the world. Without war, I see globalization helping to
mature all citizens of the world beginning a utopic state of co-existence. Of
course without 9/11 other issues arise but those issues are all ones that can
be addressed through peaceful & thoughtful dialogue. 9/11 destroyed the
dreams I had for the future before 9/11 happened. Here. I have located a point.
Now I must go to that point & fix the problem. I have to stop 9/11.
I can do it. I know
I can. I'm that strong. I can control certain things in this universe. I run. I
run run run & I run hard & time goes back & I run all the way to
9/10. Early morning. What terrific air to breathe, that pre 9/11 air. So crisp,
so fresh. It’s been polluted ever since. I’m outside Boston with a rental car.
Go to a local gun store & buy a gun & a silencer.
I kill all of the
high-jackers that would have caused 9/11. I kill all but one, with him I tell
him how I knew. Time-travelers love freaking out people from the past by
telling them they traveled through time, they just can’t help but tell all
their secrets to the past. I say to him You guys did it. You really did it
tomorrow. You fucking changed the world. I hate you but I got to say what you
won’t do tomorrow was incredible work. He doesn’t understand. How could I have
done something or not tomorrow? You just killed all the other high-jackers, we
can’t have done what we wanted to do tomorrow. I say Well yes & no, see, I
saw you do what you won’t do tomorrow, I saw you do that many years ago &
you won, but since then I have remembered that I can control certain things in
this universe & so I went back in time to stop you guys. A light bulb went
off over his head. So, he asked, time travel exists? Yes, I said as I pointed
the gun at his face, and he said Whoa far out & the look in his eyes, the
wonder, his last thought knowing that time travel exists & wow what a
wonderful world. Woosh! I killed all the high-jackers before they became
high-jackers. Technically I murdered 20 innocent Muslim men. That sounds like a
manhunt is underway. A sketch of a generic black man is made public. Links to
Farrakhan are quickly made & the Nation of Islam is blamed for yet another
time-traveler. The black man is taken into custody. America comes together to
mourn the loss of these innocent Muslim men. George W. Bush makes appearances
on tv with Arab Muslims & America learns about true Islam & vows to
prosecute this evil fundamentalist who killed all these men in their hotel
rooms as they were preparing to take trips together innocently around America.
To show solidarity with the 20 murdered men who never committed terrorism, who
everybody assumed were taking one way “friendship tours” to different areas of
America, activist groups of friends of five travel together to reenact the
small vacations these men were hoping to take. It becomes a big thing to pose
for pictures of five friends going through security without hardly any security
to speak of, for some reason the popular photo is one from a security angle
with five friends going through light security & getting on planes together
to show love for the Murdered Muslim 20. It becomes a real thing. A quasi-mecca
happening for people against these senseless murders on 9/10. A defining moment
for a nation, months of fodder for newspapers & tv.
On 9/11 I relish in
the beautiful day as life goes on & the buildings stand & the city
continues & everybody lives. The murders of 9/10 are just being reported on
tv & that story will get big all week long, prompting people to take two
days off from work because of their outrage over this horrible act.
No one knows what I
did. 9/11 didn't happen & so nobody knows what that means. & they’re
all really upset about these bastards who I killed for them. The way everybody
in America is so focused on this justified homicide & making a big deal of
it like these guys’ lives mattered bothers me to no end. I want to get out of
here. I want to go back to the future & be with my future people. I try to
run back to the future butI can’t run back to
the future. I want to see how this plays out in the future, if the world is a
better place or what, but I can’t get back to the future, so I stay in that
time & I become disgusted with that time, time & time again. These
people suck, they are extremely superficial. They are nothing like the New
Yorkers I knew after 9/11. They don’t understand pain & loss & they
don’t act with humility & they don’t care. These people deserve to get a
god-damn plane smacked into their fucking foreheads. It's so whack here. They
are racist & fat & greedy & capitalists & unaware & they
like corny shit. I tell them You don’t fucking know shit man, you don’t even
understand 9/11 man & they say to me Dude you mean 9/10, the Murdered Muslim
20. Nothing ever happened on 9/11. That date means nothing. & I say You
don’t understand! 9/11 was real man, 9/11 was real! It was an inside job &
it was real! & I stopped it, I stopped it! They say to me You’re crazy, We
don’t understand you. I say How can you not understand 9/11? You’re supposed to
never forget, Never Forget!
These people need a
9/11. I mean they have no perspective on life, they have no soul, they live in
a dreamland, in a fake universe, in a time that is out of time, with their
beuoogie problems and they don’t know shit, they need a 9/11. I try to run back
in time to stop myself from killing the high-jackers, I run & I run & I
run but it doesn’t work. I’m stuck here in a 9/11-less place & time, a
world where nobody ever heard of planes smashing buildings & the tears of a
nation & the massive tear in the fabric that shielded us from the supreme
chaos. It’s time these folks learned a lesson & class is in session. Y’all
need 9/11. I have to orchestrate it on my own.
I don't want to
have only Muslim soldiers for this mission like that last one, I want to play
with the future, see what comes out, push this fight beyond old fashioned
religion beefs & make it a true battle to reset everything to zero. I get
various nut-jobs with assorted gripes about American policy; Native Americans,
Black Americans, Asian Americans, Irish Americans, right wing kkk, kgb,
nicaragua, hiroshima, mai lai, trail of tears, slavery, prison state, rule by
fear, supporting dictators for profit, never ending progress, never ending
I train 19 guys to
do what I stopped. I train 19 guys to commit the act I hate the most ever. I
train 19 guys to perform my nightmare in real life. I easily manipulate them
even though many have opposing views & would never work together, but I
keep them in the dark as to who will be helping their mission. As America
mourns the loss of the Murdered Muslim 20, erecting statues to their memory,
filming movies of their lives in Hamburg & Munich as buddies and writing
book after god-damned book about the virtues of these 20 men, I am training 19
guys to be the terrorists that America always needed. I saw the Taliban videos,
I get these guys on the monkey bars & I have them do drills crawling on
their bellies. I give them box cutters. We go to a tittie bar. The last tits
you gonna see boys, before you change the world. We go back to the motel. A
time-traveler comes to our motel door & he says he is the
pizza-delivery-guy & we ordered pizza so we let him in, but he opens the
pizza box & pulls out a futuristic gun to kill us all because, as he
explains before he shoots, what we do is terrible & ruins the future, &
I’m glad he is a pompous time-traveler & took all that time to explain his
mission because I thought a time-traveler would come to stop us because I
thought that maybe what we are doing is really fucked up & we should stop
& I thought that if I thought that then a time-traveler might come back so
I stashed a secret gun ready for any time-traveler & when said
pizza-man/time-traveler told us his story & was about to wipe us out I shot
him dead. I told my new high-jackers that that guy was a fake but I knew he was
a real. I remind them about their box cutters & the pilots & I Pontius
Pilate myself out of their affairs.
They do it on 9/11,
one year later. I don't do it with them. I watch as the twin towers are
destroyed by the terrorists that I trained. Everybody is in shock. I am
vindicated. Now you know what 9/11 means. Now you understand what I was saying.
Who’s crazy now? They won’t thank me. The media, as if they had it already
taped & cued to go, explain how the terrorists were Muslims, all Muslims
& the war must now go to the Middle East. The tv lied, they didn’t publish
the hodge-podge manifesto we wrote in cut-out letters from the newspaper
reminiscent of hostage ransom notes which explained all of the many grievances
& ghosts in America’s closet, the many good reasons for blowing that
country to kingdom-come, instead the tv said it was all for allah. The picture
they have of me on the tv is not me, it’s a fat balding Muslim guy in my
undershirt. The high-jackers are Muslim terrorists with Taliban & Osama B
in Jihad & none of those ideas were in our ransom-less ransom note, I wrote
we did it because all is chaos & nihilism & it is what it is &
y’all don’t understand what 9/11 means. Nope, they went with Taliban &
Jihad. Fucking repeat. Change the channel. The war on oil-lands for the control
of oil until the oil runs out will continue as planned. The world is one year
behind but catches up quickly.
The alternate ending to Kevin Smiths cult favorite, 'Clerks'. See the cut scene that would have put an end to Clerks 2 before it could even be a concept. In this scene, Dante is killed by a robber shortly after Randal leaves the store. The thought process behind killing Dante, was that all Indy films involved the death of an important or beloved individual. Luckily, Kevin Smith thought against the idea and this ending was cut out of the film entirely.
An action/crime/thriller/comedy taking place somewhere between the 70's and the 80's. Col O' Bara (Stelios Karamanolis as Al J Heimer as Col O' Bara) is a cop that doesn't hesitate to play out of the rules and he tends to do that a lot. With his sidekick, played by Nico Pipico (Nick Diamantidis), he confronts the "creme de la creme" of the criminal underworld while making a mess out of everything with their unorthodox ways and their incompetence...
Though no longer a confession, art is more than ever a deliverance, an exercise in asceticism. Through it, the artist becomes purified — of himself and, eventually, of his art, The artist (if not art itself) is still engaged in a progress toward "the good." But formerly, the artist's good was mastery of and fulfillment in his art. Now it's suggested that the highest good for the artist is to reach that point where those goals of excellence become insignificant to him, emotionally and ethically, and he is more satisfied by being silent than by finding a voice in art. Silence in this sense, as termination, proposes a mood of ultimacy antithetical to the mood informing the self-conscious artist's traditional serious use of silence: as a zone of meditation, preparation for spiritual ripening, an ordeal which ends in gaining the right to speak. (Cf. Valery, Rilke)
So far as he is serious, the artist is continually tempted to sever the dialogue he has with an audience. Silence is the furthest extension of that reluctance to communicate, that ambivalence about making contact with the audience which is a leading motif of modern art, with its tireless commitment to the "new" and/or the "esoteric" Silence is the artist's ultimate other-worldly gesture; by silence, he frees himself from servile bondage to the world, which appears as patron, client, audience, antagonist, arbiter, and distorter of his work.
Still, in this renunciation of "society," one cannot fail to perceive a highly social gesture. Some of the cues for the artist's eventual liberation from the need to practice his vocation come from observing his fellow artists and measuring himself against them. An exemplary decision of this sort can be made only after the artist has demonstrated that he possesses genius and exercised that genius authoritatively. Having already surpassed his peers, by the standards which he acknowledges, pride has only one place left to go. For, to be a victim of the craving for silence is to be, in still a further sense, superior to everyone else. It suggests that the artist has had the wit to ask more questions than other people, as well as that he possesses stronger nerves and higher standards of excellence. (That the artist can persevere in the interrogation of his art until he or it is exhausted isn't in doubt. As René Char has written, "No bird has the heart to sing in a thicket of questions")
The exemplary modern artist's choice of silence isn't often carried to this point of final simplification, so that he becomes literally silent. More typically, he continues speaking, but in a manner that his audience can't hear. Most valuable art in our time has been experienced by audiences as a move into silence (or unintelligibility or invisibility or inaudibility); a dismantling of the artist's competence, his responsible sense of vocation — and therefore as an aggression against them.
Modern art's chronic habit of displeasing, provoking, or frustrating its audience can be regarded as a limited, vicarious participation in the ideal of silence which has been elevated as a prime standard of seriousness in the contemporary scene.
But it is also a contradictory form of participation in the ideal of silence. It's contradictory not only because the artist still continues making works of art, but also because the isolation of the work from its audience never lasts. With the passage of time and the intervention of newer, more difficult works, the artist's transgression becomes ingratiating, eventually legitimate. Goethe accused Kleist of having written his plays for an "invisible theatre." But in time the invisible theatre becomes "visible" The ugly and discordant and senseless become "beautiful." The history of art is a sequence of successful transgressions.
The characteristic aim of modern art, to be unacceptable to its audience, can be regarded as the inverse statement of the unacceptability to the artist of the very presence of an audience — in the familiar sense, an assembly of voyeuristic spectators. At least since Nietzsche observed in The Birth of Tragedy that an audience of spectators as we know it, those present whom the actors ignore, was unknown to the Greeks, a good deal of contemporary art seems moved by the desire to eliminate the audience from art, an enterprise that often presents itself as an attempt to eliminate "art" altogether. (In favor of "life"?)
Committed to the idea that the power of art is located in its power to negate, the ultimate weapon in the artist's inconsistent war with his audience is to verge closer and closer to silence. The sensory or conceptual gap between the artist and his audience, the space of the missing or ruptured dialogue, can also constitute the grounds for an ascetic affirmation. Samuel Beckett speaks of "my dream of an art unresentful of its insuperable indigence and too proud for the farce of giving and receiving." But there is no abolishing a minimal transaction, a minimal exchange of gifts, just as there is no talented and rigorous asceticism that doesn't produce a gain (rather than a loss) in the capacity for pleasure.
Heimir Bjorgulfsson, Saint Clair Cemin, Graham Collins, Lovett/Codagnone, Dionisis Christofilogiannis, Martha Dimitropoulou, George Lappas, Andreas Lolis, Christian Heidsieck, Brice Marden, Ioannis Wolfgang Kardamatis and Grigoris Anargyrou.