Posts Tagged ‘archive’

Sunday, August 15th, 2010

Performance 4 


According to the computer science guru David Gelertner, the increasing migration of digital information from personal hardware to data clouds necessitates a shift in the picture one refers to when visualizing the Internet.  The Web—as in a relatively static network of data nodes—is out; the lifestream—as in continuously mutating network of data clouds—is in.  He writes:

The Internet’s future is not Web 2.0 or 200.0 but the post-Web, where time instead of space is the organizing principle — instead of many stained-glass windows, instead of information laid out in space, like vegetables at a market — the Net will be many streams of information flowing through time. The Cybersphere as a whole equals every stream in the Internet blended together: the whole world telling its own story.

For some artists working on the Web, this principal applies as well.  Creativity is–again, for some–not evaluated on the basis of an individual work of art, but rather on the basis of the artist’s ongoing, performed net presence.  For better or for worse, a week ago an artist may have created a masterpiece work of art which in previous epochs would have been discussed for decades or even centuries; in the age of the CVS Pharmacy Twitter feed, though, the artist’s masterpiece will be quickly forgotten, at best sentimentally recalled or academically cited, but no longer felt. What will be felt, though, is the artist’s ongoing engagement with time—the molding of the NOW.

It should be said, though, that Gelertner is ambiguous about this obsession with flow and the NOW.  He writes, “The effect of nowness resembles the effect of light pollution in large cities, which makes it impossible to see the stars. A flood of information about the present shuts out the past.”  Furthermore, focusing on an endless NOW, can be oppressive for an artist’s creative expression.  Part of what it means to be working in the tradition of the history of art is to work against the demands of one’s own time; or at least working in relation to it from a skewed angle, keeping everyone on their toes.  The Puck-ish delight the artist has in convoluting expectations is frustrated in this grinding system which demands one to endlessly perform, endlessly produce ever newer novelties if one is to remain relevant as an artist.  Nothing becomes shocking when there’s a new revolution every week and, thus, any avant-garde action becomes neither here nor there—it’s like whatever.

In what follows, I’ll discuss this performative approach to art making and look at the artist Seth Price’s response to some of the anxieties which it brings up.


First, here is an example of how an artist may come to think of their work as performative on the Internet:

An artist has a website.  At first, this website is, depending on the artist, either a handy novelty or a frustrating necessity of the digital age.  Either way, it’s not that super-important.  One makes a work—be it digitally-created or handmade—and one, then, uploads a photograph or some other form of representation of this work to their website to serve as a second-hand reference for curators, collectors, critics, and the general contemporary art audience.

An artist maintains this website.  Gradually the artist comes to realize just how handy and how necessary this tool is for the dissemination of their work.  As newspapers, mainstream culture, an exploding amateur culture, communication with friends, banking, and a host of other day-to-day activities are increasingly conducted via the Internet, the artist realizes that not only do people greatly prefer, and even expect, the ease of viewing the work through this website, but the once-obvious line between the actual work and the representation of the work is becoming oddly blurry.  For many members of the artist’s audience, including curators, critics, and other arts professionals, the image of the work on the website is good enough.  This is exacerbated by the increasingly global nature of contemporary art, perhaps best represented by Biennial culture.

All of the sudden, the way the artist thinks about their work is at least as much dictated by how a .jpeg of the piece looks in the context of their website as they are by how it would look in the physical art space.  This is what the artist Guthrie Lonergan calls “post Internet” art—the art after the Internet changed the way that art reaches an audience.

For many younger artists who, by historical accident, came of age without ever really experiencing the “pre-Internet” relationship between artist and audience, this is not a novelty, but an obvious fact that almost goes without saying.  Even if one works in traditional media, art is primarily experienced on the Internet.

The art/curatorial collective VVORK curated a show called “The Real Thing” which was based on the idea that, as members of mediatized cultures,  most of their own knowledge of art was not accrued through the original, but through art history books, lectures, conversations, and, of course, the Internet.  In other words, through “versions.”  In their statement for the show, which was held at MU in Eindhoven, they write:

Some of our favourite works have only been described to us, unsurprisingly as the majority of our art experiences have been mediated in one form or other. The majority of works presented in this show have been selected through written commentaries, verbal descriptions and jpegs found online. In fact most of the works presented at MU are the type of manifestations mentioned above: stories, descriptions, translations and interpretations, all understood as primary experiences.

One of VVORK’s cited inspirations for the show is the following Seth Price quote from Dispersion:

Does one have an obligation to view the work first-hand? What happens when a more intimate, thoughtful, and enduring understanding comes from mediated discussions of an exhibition, rather than from a direct experience of the work? Is it incumbent upon the consumer to bear witness, or can one’s art experience derive from magazines, the Internet, books, and conversation?

Now, when the primary experience of art is legitimately conceived in this way–as an endless series of versions–there are going to be effects.  For example, the glut of information through which media consumers are presented nudges the consumer to surf through this media, including contemporary art, rather than engaging deeply with any one particular unit.  The artist Chris Coy recently described this phenomenon in terms of the way the computer urges its users to view images in sequences, as in, for example, thumbnails.  In an e-mail interview conducted for the SFMOMA website, he claims:

A computer screen is very much a sequential image-viewing device. Which is significantly reshaping the function of the Image in my life. I have become a very adept surface skimmer – gliding my way across glossy roll over buttons, tumblr blogs and Google image searches and stock photo sites… which means hundreds, if not thousands of images pass before me on any given day. Imagery is being totally integrated into our vocabulary – I mean you can shoot, edit and upload video from an iPhone now. Even the core function of the phone is changing as technology facilitates this hypermediated kind of ubiquitous computing thing.

This understanding of the computer as a “sequential image-viewing device” necessitates a decrease, then, in the preciousness around a single instance of artwork.

This is not the end of the story, though.  What one sees happening in some corners of the Internet is a new type of temporal activation—a “net presence” in which the artist’s work is viewed as one on-going performance in which the audience follows the artist as he or she performs the act of creating individual works.  This performance, unlike the individual works of art made during the course of the performance, is where audiences are nudged to qualitatively sort out and find meaning in artistic experience on the Internet.

There is, though, a dangerously romantic appeal to this idea.  It seems to advocate for a “survival of the fittest” scenario in which the future is an endless, regularly-scheduled assembly line of novelty and only those art workers who keep up with the administered pace of production get a gold star.  Performance here sounds like “engine performance.”  This is obviously not the sort of situation which would be in the artist’s favor.  It’s not exciting for an artist (or an art theorist, for that matter) to follow a theoretically pre-prescribed pattern which was dictated by the pressures of the market, the audience, or the curatorial/critical apparatus around the work’s reception.  Furthermore, in an endless rush for new change and novelty, it becomes increasingly unclear as to what the point is or where all this performing is headed.

In many of Seth Price’s works, for example, 8-4 9-5 10-6 11-7, For a Friend, and Poems, the anxiety surrounding endless performance and novelty is considered.

8-4 9-5 10-6 11-7, for example, is a downloadable, eight-hour electronic dance music mix.  It was created in the downtime from Price’s work over the course of several years.  As one begins to stream the mix, there’s something polished about its fun—it feels really open and cool and one appreciates the labor of the mix’s flowas much as the individual tracks themselves.  As the stream continues, though, an anxiety arises:  What’s all of this polished labor flowing for?  An hour has passed—it’s still going—endlessly, relentlessly upbeat.  Two hours have passed—it’s still going.  Three hours—still going.  Now, one might grow tired and leave the work’s mix mid-stream or one might keep up with it as the editorial power and taste level of the mixing itself continues unabated.  But––still—in either case, one may wonder, where is this “going” going?  Will it ever change or is it just endless tasteful funkiness?  A hint is provided by the work’s title–8-4 9-5-10-6 11-7. These numbers can be decoded as the eight hours of the daily work day: 8:00-4:00; 9:00-5:00; 10:00-6:00; 11:00-7:00.  The eight hours of music is at once both powerfully upbeat and nightmarishly endless.  The same could be said of creative labor itself, of the eight-hour work day which blurs into the twenty-four hour work day, the intermingling of “on the clock” and “off the clock”–an endless streaming of data into an already well-clogged database with seemingly no justification other than to produce more endlessly fun content.

Similarly, in For a Friend, a pair of friends engage in a seemingly endless conversation filled with reasonably interesting observations, but, ultimately, never progressing forward.  The conversation begins with an amateur philosophical discussion concerning a journalistic trope in which a writer begins an article with a mention of the date in which the events described in the body of the article take place.  However, meaningful as the content of their question may be (and there is something interesting about it), this meaning is neutralized in the text by, first, the factual inaccuracies and misspellings embedded into the examples of the trope raised by the friends, as well as, second, the illogic of the discussion which follows.  The friends go from the trope of dating the events described in the beginning of a journalistic article to the rise of personal computing and network usage, hacking, personal consumption choices, obsolescence, personal charisma, looking at everything versus seeing structure, puberty, Zen, anarchy, revolution, mythology, architecture, bare life, progress, and, finally, “self-annihilating question(s).”  Each development of the discussion raises a true-ism regarding structure, but each true-ism is itself situated in a wildly flimsy structure.  The result is that, the text becomes its own “self-annihilating question,” picturing its own limitations–its own endless series of true-isms never getting anywhere real.

And in Poems, Price presents a series of fragments scribbled in notebooks.  Snippets of pseudo-intellectual conversation networking into nowhere; analyses of philosophical thought without clear points; calls to political action lacking in direction; lists that only make sense if one rationalizes them.  Occasionally, phrases seem to summarize what the poems are about.  One that got me was titled “Fantasy of History.”  We see a post-it note attached to a piece of paper, reading, “The idea of trying to remember something and getting it wrong–But embarking successfully on a quest from wrong information.”  Unfortunately, though, one remains unsure of whether or not this, too, is just another dumb idea in a notebook full of dumb ideas.  One of Price’s most powerful effects is his ability to draw one deeper and deeper into thinking they have a handle on something—anything—and then—bam—pulling the rug out from under one’s feet.  What one is left with is an image of something that seems like it might be about this or that theme, but whose meaning will be endlessly deferred.

Through his career, though, Price has developed strategies which resist these anxieties.  Two of those strategies are delay and re-versioning.

In Price’s text Dispersionhe discusses “delay.”  He writes:

Slowness works against all of our prevailing urges and requirements: it is a resistance to the contemporary mandate of speed. Moving with the times places you in a blind spot: if you’re part of the general tenor, it’s difficult to add a dissonant note. But the way in which media culture feeds on its own leavings indicates the paradoxical slowness of archived media, which, like a sleeper cell, will always rear its head at a later date.  The rear-guard often has the upper hand, and sometimes delay, to use Duchamp’s term, will return the investment with massive interest.

His work with the Continuous Project collective, for example, is dedicated to public readings and illegal publishing of historical art (and occasional non-art) texts.  By distributing these archival works as contemporary works, they are given a new lease and sense of relevance.

Similarly, in 2009, Price exhibited for the first time a set of calendars that he originally produced in 2004.  In the press release for this exhibition, he writes, “Sometimes it’s good to go forward and then double back, and circle around again. To those who turned their feet around so that their tracks would confuse their pursuers: why not walk backward?”  The calendars’ content is composed of a collision between pre-AbEx American painting and graphic design tropes dating from the early 1990s which read as “futuristic.”  WPA-era painters like Thomas Hart Benton, for instance, are–for better or for worse– best known, not for their own work, but rather for paving the way for an artist like Jackson Pollock, who was a pupil of Benton’s.  The “hot” cursive fonts and gradiated neon backdrops read the same way:  they are—for better or for worse–all but forgotten—depreciated–not unlike an out-of-date wall calendar.

I don’t believe that in either the case of Continuous Project or the calendar pieces, Price is dedicated to the idea that the delayed effect of a given work re-introduced into the art system will ever necessarily solve anything or become all that meaningful.  Perhaps what they each do accomplish, though, is to create meaning through a sort of quietism, serving as memento mori—a reminder of one’s own finitude and the inevitable obsolescence of any new novelty in art and visual culture.

The other strategy Price employs is to re-version his own work.  For example, Dispersion is a text which, for Price, is a mutable document, continuously open to change and alteration.  And his artist lecture, Redistribution, is likewise open to further revision.   By re-versioning an older work, it is re-inserted into the cultural system and given a new opportunity to create an effect.

These strategies keep the past alive by erasing it, introducing false memories, and avoiding a static personal archive of work.  As mutable digital code, the artist’s archive is just as open to continuous revision as anything else displayed on the Internet.

The art critic Tim Griffin argues that as Price disappears through a continuous re-tracing of his own personal archive, he is able to successfully elude calcification at the hands of the art world, but at a significant cost: the evacuation of any memory or stable sense of meaning of this personal archive.  In Griffin’s words: “He behaves as a kind of filter, continually reintroducing a sense of this loss in his work, this emptying of memory, in order to mine the effects and affects of such depletion.”

There’s something sacrificial about Price’s work, then–killing it in order to preserve it.  However, at some future date, Seth Price will himself die and will no longer be able to go back and confuse his pursuers by introducing false memories and histories, and a reading of his work will become crystallized and the galleries and museums will sum it all up and show something that stands in for it the whole thing.

Perhaps, though, one can think of Price’s project not as an endgame, but as a sort of therapy for the knots one gets into when conceiving of art as endgame.  It’s a method for future artists to keep going.

Tuesday, May 18th, 2010

Jay-Z’s “Young Forever,” a re-working of the “80s” Alphaville song “Forever Young,” opens with the same moody synthesizers one finds in the original and, then, (almost) the same romantic, Sting-esque vocals (the difference here being that the contemporary pop star Mr. Hudson fills in for the Marian Gold vocals in the original track).

As, then, the track continues to open, one settles into a schmaltzy, but compelling reverie as the vocalist muses:

Let’s dance in style,
Let’s dance for a while,
Heaven can wait we’re only watching the skies
Hoping for the best but expecting the worst,
Are you gonna drop the bomb or not?
Let us die young or let us live forever,
We don’t have the power but we never say never,
Sitting in a sandpit,
Life is a short trip,
The music’s for the sad man


Now, the hook of romantic lyricism like this is that the tragedy of it all—the fact that the singer’s prayer for eternal youth will never be answered—is known by the singer as he sings.

One falls for the fact that despite the certainty that his protests against death will go unheeded, he protests nonetheless.

It’s mad (it oscillates between the depths of depression and the heights of romantic ecstasy), but it’s pretty.

And one can almost imagine it to be true.

He sings:

Forever young,
I wanna be forever young
Do you really want to live forever?
Forever and ever
Forever young I wanna be
Forever young
Do you really want to live forever?
Forever, forever


In Jay-Z’s version of the track, though, a shift in emphasis occurs as the words here are not hauntingly ironic, but seemingly literal:

The singer’s prayers will be answered.

Indeed, there they are—on contemporary pop radio more than twenty-five years after their conception and just as young.

Forever young.

In Jay-Z’s rap, he addresses the way in which media archiving allows the paradoxical situation of endless youngness to emerge.

The opening line (following an ad lib toast to the act of living in the moment), finds the artist declaring the following words:

So we livin’ life like a video


Now, this opening declaration could have two possible readings:

1. On the one hand, it could mean that he and his crew are living a life of expensive cars, beautiful young women, freely flowing champagne, etc.

That is to say, the sort of life depicted in cliché rap videos.

2. On the other hand, though, it could be read to mean that the way they’re living is like a video in the sense of its being indelibly captured in archival media.

That is to say, one’s body may age, but one’s bodily presence in the media archive is forever young.

The lines of the verse succeeding this opening nudge one, first, in the direction of (1.), and, then, in the direction of (2.).

Here it is in its entirety:

So we livin’ life like a video
Where the sun is always out and you never get old
and the champagne’s always cold
and the music’s always good
and the pretty girls just happen to stop by in the hood
and they hop they pretty ass up on the hood of that pretty ass car
without a wrinkle in today
cause there is no tomorrow
just a picture perfect day
that last a whole lifetime
and it never ends cause all we have to do is hit re-wind
so let’s just stay in the moment, smoke some weed, drink some wine
reminisce, talk some shit, “Forever Young” is in your mind
leave a mark that can erase neither space nor time
so when the director yells cut
I’ll be fine
I’m forever young


They’re living like a video here, then, in the sense that, if life is going too fast, then “all we have to do is hit re-wind” as life itself has been archived in video.

This makes a certain amount of sense to consider in the case of a star such as Jay-Z whose own life is lived in video to a non-negligible degree; no matter what happens to his body, “when the director yells cut,” he’ll “be fine” as the now exists indelibly printed in media storage—forever young, “neither space nor time.”

But, is it really him?

If not, than what is it exactly?

Before dismissing this question out of hand, though, consider the importance of the avatar—the media representation of one’s own self—which one increasingly manages as much as one manages one’s own physical body.

That’s just to say that even though one’s personhood may not intuitively mix with anything but a biological body, pragmatically speaking (and no matter how repulsive it may seem), one’s person is uncannily out (t)here in the infosphere.

(If it’s not you, who is it?)

That said, though, (and no matter its truth) there’s an anxiety:

Things—both biological things as well as media things—die.

There’s nothing guaranteeing that Jay-Z’s video representation (being it actually him or not) will itself actually be forever young.

Indeed, by glancing at the pop charts, one sees that Jay-Z’s version of the track has already peaked–at number ten.

So, whether immortalized in media or not (and whether this has any bearing on anything or not), the track will age.

Before one gets caught up here, though, let’s return to the rap to see how it addresses this very issue, developing its own philosophy towards it.

Jay-Z raps:

Fear not where, fear not why, fear not much while we’re alive
life is for livin’ not livin’ uptight
until you’re somewhere up in the sky, fear not die
I’ll be alive for a million years, bye bye
so not for legends, I’m forever young, my name shall survive.


What one  might take from these lines is that, according to Jay-Z, if one is to be forever young in archival video media, then one must, it seems, live in the moment.

And one must continuously create one’s self every moment by existing fully in every moment, living life as if it will end not someday but in the very next moment.

The star–here–lives forever young by living life as if the opposite were true, as if nothing matters but the inhabitation of this moment.

And, for Jay-Z his star lives forever not just through video media, but through legend—oral history passed down through generations.

He raps:

Through the darkest blocks, over kitchen stoves, over Pyrex pots, my name shall be passed down to generations while debatin’ up in barber shops
young slung, hung here showed that a nigga from here with a little ambition just what we can become here
and as the father pass the story down to his son’s ear, younger get younger every year, yeah
so if you love me baby this is how you let me know, don’t ever let me go, that’s how you let me know, baby


Now before going on, at the end of this verse—it should be said–an interesting moment of hesitation occurs.

To reiterate, Jay-Z raps:

So if you love me baby this is how you let me know, don’t ever let me go, that’s how you let me know, baby


That is to say, Jay-Z—at that moment—indicates his own knowledge of the possibility that his legend will not persist unless those that love him refuse to let him go.

His destiny is–it seems–in the hands of others.

Why would Jay-Z  be basically begging for his fans to never let him go if he didn’t doubt his own existence as a “true” star?

But, once again, at that moment, Jay-Z turns the kaleidoscope.

As the timeline of the song is itself on its own last legs, he raps:

Less than four bars,
Guru bring the chorus in,
Did you get the picture yet?,
I’m painting you a portrait of young


“Did you get the picture yet?” he asks.

Did you see that all this talk about forever young and life in a video is not drawn out here for its own sake, but rather to create a broader picture?

And what is this picture?

A portrait of “young”—the last line of the song.

The endless same-ness of young-ness in which one does everything in their power and thinks through every possible angle to ensure their immortality, but only ends up in knots.

Wednesday, April 7th, 2010

Rumble (1993) is a work created in 2009 by Kari Altmann.

She plays a YouTube clip depicting hand-held, date-stamped camcorder footage of a rumbling Malaysian landslide dating from 1993 through the video mosaic effect generator.

( is a tool wherein one enters a YouTube url and a “size” for the video referenced in the url which results in—first—the creation of a domino [or rumble] effect of multiple “screens”–each of which plays the video just a hair off of the time of the one preceding it–and–second—the eventual filling-in of the entire screen with these streaming, out-of-sync video ripples–each of which contains several to dozens to hundreds of the original videos in an ongoing mosaic flicker through the run-time of the video.)

A point to note is that the artist included the date of the original landslide video, 1993, in her title.

This isn’t something that artists typically do.

So, what makes the date 1993 worth including in the title?

Well, what happened in 1993?

For one thing, CERN (the same Swiss organization behind the Large Hadron Collider) announced that the World Wide Web would be free to enter for anyone with an Internet connection.

In much of Altmann’s work, she equates the Web database with an archaeological site or a landscape that one can sift through.

In 1993, this landscape came into being with a rumble.

That’s what the work shows me.

Tuesday, April 6th, 2010

Kevin Bewersdorf was doing okay for himself.

1. He was a co-founder of the Internet surf club Spirit Surfers.

2. He was developing a prolific and popular collection of photography, texts, performance pieces, and music on his website

3. He had (amongst other exhibitions of his physical work) a solo show at the V&A gallery in New York, and a two-person show with Guthrie Lonergan at the well-known And/Or gallery in Dallas.

In short, Bewersdorf was building an impressively dense archive of work with a strongly growing reputation both on and off the Internet.

(He had good “stats.”)

What, then, to make of his decision in early 2009 to take this archive of work off of the Internet, destroying it as well as whatever traces he could find of it left, and replacing it with a single work—an in-progress performance piece he calls PUREKev?

PUREKev is a highly-focused, three-year long performance in which Bewersdorf very gradually diminishes the size of his artistic avatar—a looping clip of over-exposed home video footage depicting a firecracker flickering–against an (International Klein?) blue field over which it flickers.

There’s something poetic about this idea which draws one to its premises and, then, carries one beyond the auto-destructive act which preceded it.

Still, though, what justifies the relatively extreme length of three years?

Would one, after a year, of watching Bewersdorf’s little light growing smaller and smaller, still care?

And indeed, that’s the gambit of the work:

Bewersdorf made a wager that there is something to his gesture which—despite its simplicity—is intriguing enough for one to follow and keep following, each return a new wave of illumination into the work’s significance.

In my own experience of the work, this is–so far–true.

I can’t say that I look at everyday or even every month, but I do return to it every now and again on a somewhat regular basis (as in a pilgrimage) and, when I do so, I never leave satisfied or dis-satisfied, but, rather, pleasantly held in suspension—not sure where to put my finger, but interested in fingering it nonetheless.

When I go to the site today (April 6th, 2010), I—at first—don’t view the flickering light at all.

Rather, I view a blue void through which I scroll to—then–find the little, flickering light at the bottom of the page, surrounded by blue.

As I’ve followed Bewersdorf’s performance, its value to me has begun to reside less in the tracking of his flickering light and more in its tracking of the field upon which it flickers.

Tuesday, March 16th, 2010

The art collective Jodi’s J_O_D_I Delicious account contains—as of the publishing of this blog post—3,512 bookmarks collected between February 20, 2008 to the current day—March 16, 2010.

This averages-out to between 4 and 5 bookmarks marked by the artists per day—everyday—for the past 2 years or so.

Today J_O_D_I has, thus far, bookmarked 16 sites.

Each site depicts images or conversations about images related to the archiving of imagery.

Whether it be in an online database, art collection, or photographic contact sheet, the thread running through the subject matter of each of these bookmarks is image archiving.

By making an archive of images that refer to image archives, they make a work of self-reflexive art.

As time goes on and one sees Jodi’s bookmarks refer to the same theme again and again, one sees not bookmarks, but the apparatus of the entire platform: an archive.

Wednesday, January 27th, 2010

Kevin Bewersdorf has said that art now is based, not on art objects or individual projects, but rather on “persona empires,” which are the brands that artists develop over time.

He writes:

Whether a net artist brands themself with a sparse list of links on a humble white field or with loud layers of noise and color or with contrived logos in a bland grid, they are constructing their own web persona for all to see. They are branding their self corporation. I think this self branding can be done with functionless art intentions rather than functioning business intentions. All the marketing materials are just shouted into the roaring whirlpool of the web where they swirl around in the great database with everyone else’s personal information empires. I think these persona empires are the great artworks of our time, and they inspire me to keep building my own brand.


Bewersdorf is an important post Internet artist because he realized very clearly that the quality of art on the Internet is not measured in individual posts but in the artist’s performance through time.  On Facebook, a user is judged, not by one status update, but rather by their style and pace of updating.  The same is true for Internet artists.