sans titre (2012), by Josephine Kaeppelin
black/white, copy, grey, imagery, monochromacity, originality, paper, printMonday, May 6th, 2013
We call on all cultural workers to put down their tools and cease to make, distribute, sell, exhibit, or discuss their work from Janury 1st 1990 to January 1st 1993. We call for all galleries, museums, agencies, ‘alternative’ spaces, periodicals, theatres, art schools &c., to cease all operations for the same period.
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Brooklyn, New York, April 2008. A row of street stalls in front of graffiti-covered iron gates. Tables full of merchandise: Louis Vuitton handbags and wallets, with their familiar “LV” monograms; brown and beige; white with multicolor fruit-like designs. You can find them for sale on Canal Street in New York, in the night markets of Hong Kong and Singapore or the covered market in Mexico City, and in many other places around the world where the urban poor go to shop—”LV” articles piled up alongside the Patek Philippe watches, Chanel perfume, North Face jackets, and Adidas shoes. Copies, fakes, counterfeits; cheap, poorly made reproductions . . . or are they?
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Remix, at the beginning of the twenty-first century, informs the development of material reality dependent on the constant recyclability of material with the implementation of mechanical reproduction.
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This work is a sustained examination of the automaton as early modern machine, and curious ancestor of the twentieth-century robot, who slaves away at the assembly line of being, sustaining the most precious fantasies of our humanity, while entertaining us with nightmares of the treachery of others.
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GIVEN the total colonisation of daily life by Capital, we are forced to speak the received language of the media. It has always been impossible to give coherent expression to thoughts and practices which oppose the dominant ideology. However, we do not seek the creation of new languages. Such an act is doomed to failure and plays into Capital’s hands (by reinforcing the myths of ‘originality’ and Individual creativity’). Rather, we aim to re-invent the language of those who would control us.
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Once upon a time there was an original. It was finished at the end of the 19th century by the academic painter Jean-Jacques Henner. Fabiola, the portrait of a woman with a fixed gaze to the left and a red veil is thought to have long been lost. And nevertheless, the painting and the figure it portrays still live. For more than 15 years the Belgian artist Francis Alÿs has been collecting Fabiola reproductions that he finds in flea markets and which continuously crop up in private attics. His art collection has meanwhile grown to 412 copies. They are mostly anonymous works in which the authors, sometimes with bravura, sometimes amateurishly and clumsily, attempt to reconstruct the original painting and to make a copy of an original that no longer exists. With his Fabiola collection, Francis Alÿs negotiates the continued life of an object that originally escaped from the field of art back into everyday popular culture and takes the same object back into the field of art as an idea and recollection of an object. In the long run the existence of the copy here seems to be going beyond the existence of the original.
In his sculptures and objects Michael Kargl frequently works with simple measurement parameters that he makes available to the observers as possible instruments for the reading and interpretation of the respective production context. In table, the right-angled object covered with mirrors, it is a case of a sculpture that orients itself on the interior architecture of the Fluc music club at the Praterstern in Vienna and which challenges the interpretative powers of the observers. Based on the constantly changing design of the premises, the artist positions the piece of furniture, whose volume has been copied, close to the original object. Quite casually, through the shine of its surface, the copy dissolves in the reflection of the context. The object could be a pedestal whose function is to present objects of art, but it could also be a place for visitors to the clubs to sit; table could just as well represent a waste product of a previous exhibition or a new work that it still in the production process. In any case it is an object whose form arises from a reference cycle of existing spatial parameters and whose ultimate function is only inferred from its – again temporally limited – use.
When TRAUMAWIEN publishes a book, there are standardised details such as the author, date of publication, number of pages, type of binding and information on the language the book is published in. The last of these, however, differs from the usual publisher’s information. Instead of the reference to a natural language one fined details such as Generative Text, IMDB, Feeds, Symbol Language, Cut Up, Skypelog, Logfile, Blogengine, Code Poetry or Keylogger. “We publish digital[ly] born stories”, it says on the TRAUMAWIEN website. “Our range not only includes networked texts, algorithmic texts, interfictions, chatlogs, youtube and twitter streetslangs, codeworks, software art and visual mashup prose. We also research possible touch points between the book as an object and virtual space.” The authors of TRAUMAWIEN use various software as the basis for artistic forms of expression of digital literature. Not only are specific features of the digital system analysed and checked for their aesthetic potential, but the technical-processual background and its codes are also highlighted, as a result of which programming language acquires a new – literary – meaning.
“Aaaaarg.org is a conversation platform – at different times it performs as a school, or a reading group, or a journal,” writes Sean Dockray about the online library he founded, which offers numerous philosophical, media, political and art-theory texts as free downloads. “Aaaaarg.org was created with the intention of developing critical discourse outside of an institutional framework. But rather than thinking of it like a new building, imagine scaffolding that attaches onto existing buildings and creates new architectures between them.” In his essay The Scan and the Export (published in the magazine Fillip, 12/2010) Sean Dockray analyses the ambiguity and the transience of a medium in which the reproduced and reproducible texts circulate on the platform and beyond: “The scan is an ambivalent image. It oscillates back and forth: between a physical page and a digital file, between one reader and another, between an economy of objects and an economy of data. Scans are failures in terms of quality, neither as ‘readable’ as the original book nor the inevitable ebook, always containing too much visual information or too little.”
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