If you look at an Art School, there’s no way to see it. One person can never see an Art School. You can miss it, hate it, or realize that it’s taken some- thing from you, but you can’t go somewhere and look at it and just see it empirically. It has to be informed, imagined, by many people at a time. It’s an everyday group hallucination. This novel is mod- eled on that phenomenon. And Art School its self benefits from it by being more of a material entity, a being, than a character— thoughts and actions are not spanned by any artists mind. Who pulls their strings?
Mama! An author is a routine, which makes for good conversa- tion whenever that routine climbs down from the windswept seclu- sion that walks and breathes centuries of the word. All this drilling,
convincing, testing, baiting proves that not only is an author a person who writes, but also a role that is negotiated and trained by those who choose the books one can read today. Becoming an author is a process of subjectivization, and so is becoming a soldier, becoming a cashier, becoming a potted plant.
Like the authors, the Art School depicted herein finds itself constantly exposed to the urges of “communism” – that is, to a chosen indifference to private property, a putting-in-common of the methods and means of urban life and language. Communism, it seems to say, is the only thing we share today, besides our extreme separation. Between the lines is a desire for the not normal situation, a wartime desire not for peace but for a better, fresher war that would produce the not normal situation. In everybody, even an underwear model.
Sometimes, hoping to generate a timely product for young readers today, we couldn’t help but produce something unwanted, unexpected instead. If the Novel, today, has lost much of its seductive power and its necessity, perhaps we can fill it with something else. This is a novel that could also have been a magazine. It’s a book written by images, about images, to be read by other images, which is to say it is uninhibited and realist. Its primary content is the desire to do two things at once: to take something back and to get rid of ourselves.
Who are you?
Art cannot function as art without the art audience.
We are the year of 2012. The new generation of artist. Four years. Three years. Training, adapting and learning. We are still learning. Forever learning. Forever changing. “Ever tried. Ever failed. No Matter. Try Again. Fail Again. Fail Better.” Tits without boxes. Tits with boxes. What does it mean? Collaboration is the only real work produced. We work together. We are one and the same; but we are separate also. We are the year of 2012. Trained from the beginning. To question. Criticise. Consider.
What is art?
What is good art?
Is there good art?
What is bad art?
Is there bad art?
What is image? What is text?
Still young. Delicate. Clinging on. To hope. To Perseverance. Steady persistence in a course of action. A purpose. A state. Especially in spite of difficulties, obstacles, or discouragement. The sound of the last bugle. The last frontier. Creators. Animators. Questioners. Doers. Thinkers. Sculptors. Painters. Writers. Investigators. Dreamers. Poets. Directors. Actors. Publishers. Performers.
This is our publication. Our show. Our statement.
Declaration. Proclamation. Of institutionalisation. Our institution.
But nothing is original. Copy. Original. Simulation. Simulacra. Everything exists. Nothing exists. Nothing. Nothing. Nothing is original. Copies of copies. With no origin. This is not original. We are not original.
Elitist. Maybe? Artists. Who knows?