Thursday 18th April 2013 - 13BROOMS13ZOOMS13MOONS13ROOMS

                                                  Sarsaparilla: A soft drink inspired poem
The following lecture has nothing to do with art per say. Though, if you have been reading and following the groove of my blog you should be aware that I have stressed the idea that aficionado’s like Dennis Hopper and R. Mutt determine art in the immediacy of action. ‘I point my finger and declare this art!’ So we’re all on the same page then? This morning Jackson and I are hanging out before my shift at 13ROOMS this afternoon.

         Jackson's preferred Performance Art but he's coming to 13ROOMS again tonight

We decided to take a drive and grab a milkshake (for him) and a flat white coffee (for me). As we were cruising hemmed in by the awesomely green and yellowish bush reserves of the northern suburbs Jackson piped up, ‘Dad I feel car vomit.’

‘What?’ Include a sickly worried appearance as I peered over my shoulder.

‘Dad…dad…dad, da..da,da Dada, Dada is this Dada art dad…’

I threw him by baseball cap (purchased in New York). 'Spew into this.’

‘Uuuughhhhhooohhhyyuuchchmulchy.’

‘Feel better?’

‘Yes dad…thanks. Here’s your hat back.’

I’m still driving mind you, ‘Uh thanks mate.’

‘Dad can I have a milkshake when we get there?’

‘Why the fuck not.’

Bifurcation

I ambled in through the stage door all very la-de-da until I saw the stage manager’s pig eye. I thought I was early when in fact the 2:28pm was two minutes short of my 2:30pm first corner shift. I stepped through the green room curtain walked straight through exiting the opposite door walked into my 13 ROOMS bang on the half hour. Minutes before I was sitting on a bus and now I a mere spaced out minion facing a white corner at the behest of an off the wall Spanish artist’s postulation.

Last night I spent the evening discussing 13 ROOMS and other things with the always very generous and gorgeous Ruby Molteno. She asked me how I felt the show was going, and my answer was unanimously ambiguous. I talked at length (poor Ruby) about how 13 ROOMS stimulates ideas, provokes social mores and evokes an atmosphere of meaning. Yet, in the same breath I mentioned with as much well intentioned argument how I was finding it difficult to reconcile my feelings with regards to how easy it is to view ‘this’ as a kind of Vegas magic act. I know that sounds awful but what I mean by that is searching for a method of measuring the significance of 13 ROOMS and any other space, shape, forms and colours as art. 

                      
                                                                Guardian of Art

Ruby, always the one to be first to say, ‘What do you mean?’ And her tone suggests someone who won’t just listen to my bullshit with explanation or justification. I tried to explain what I meant and I attempted to sweet talk her with my false quick-witted-wikipedia sought knowledge. However, that fell flat and I said, ‘I don’t know what I am saying or doing.’ I think for me it’s great to be hanging around these arty people talking shit and also being part of something special and this I know because the brochure said so. Also, I’m getting better at standing and thinking about nothing.

                                                          Nachos with extra cream 

Here’s one for all you budding Bachelor of Arts students. When art fans massing and in particular when pushing their way in or out through the narrow doorway to my 13 ROOMS room it results in an art block. Now I hear you ask. What’s an art block? Well I think I made this term up because an art block us when art fans coming in and going out of a performance space block the performer (in this case me) from entering the art space because I am no different in dress or attitude from the tourists.

                                                        Cut Throat Art Critic at Large

I wear no special clothing; I am not a recognizable performance art celebrity (they exist) and I basically come across as bland as any of the other screaming angst ridden Edvard Munch’s. Thus, my efforts to push and shove through the melee are met with scornful indignation and absolute arty horror. ‘Who in the fuck are you?’ My behaviour is not what art fiends expect from their fellow travellers. However, once broken free from this boorish art squash I suddenly become the ‘ART’. It’s the separation, this point of departure where I stumble from mediocrity and feel the appreciation and approval of the art fans’ spatial tenderness.

                                                   Beckett wants a living sculpture job

Does that make sense? No? In other words when I enter the room I am like anyone else but in seconds I am the ‘thing’ (the art) they have come to see. 

                                               ‘I am not an animal…I am a living sculpture!’