|alytus biennial 1|
International festival of experimental art
Charlie Citron (The Netherlands/USA)
I remember something happened in Belgium in a wood not far from my wifes parents.A spray box,an eyeball and a voice that reverberates in my proverbial bakers brain.How to puff it up to poof it out.That is the Bakers trade.Making beautiful cakes to house delicious and sexy things.
Where am I going with this,well its about the pastries,and the drilling of the pastries.
Deep underneath the cerebral cortex is housed a pinneaple gland which when functioning elaborates beauty as that which gives pleasure .Now this kind of pleasure leads to all kinds of Glueing as we know and the Glueing is what we are speaking about ,isnt it.
Bakers know that when you glue the doe,the yeast swells and ,then you need to become an architect.And later you delight in making all the pastry disappear or let it get hard and crusty.
So we build,we build for pleasure,correcting the idea of the positive which is different than pleasure,because politics is ultimately always about being positive but really its about,
the pleasure of baking,and distributing that which we bake in order to let it be consumed and dissappear.
Remember, transformation can happen from the bottom up or the top down depending on where your sitting and what your sitting on..
I remember what Shakespeare said about Walnuts,That he could live inside a walnut shell,dreaming of infinite Space if it werent for his bad dreams.
As I layd there my body pressed like a pancake,I felt my limbs and joints weaken,glued to the bed.An unknown foe was pushing through my soft tissue.Ants and butter flies danced in my brains.I was Walking around again as a frightened child,with a thumb pressed against a squashed fly . I contemplated freedom.The freedom to act, to handwash and stand up.To remain motionless for as long as possible.To remember that the body can be very heavy and very light.
To fly in the dirty face of adversity and turn my nose inside out to calm my nerves.To stretch my arms out like rubberbands and catch lifes leftovers.
I watched in bewilderment the gregarious outbursts of indignation feeling like a caterpillar hanging by a thread of a tree.And in the next moment,
A colorful song bird with the most beautiful voice flies down and eats the tasty morsel.
He was a useless doodler,he dangled his dingleberries and dared to imagine what was inside his memory, not just what he saw,what was outside but how he saw it,how it was inside. He understood that his memories were wet, flexible and transparent images clinging to flesh like reflecting raindrops.beaded on a leaf .Or was it a kind of jelly with layers and layers of film each carefully archived and coded by some unknown source.He knew that it was all very organic very messy and irregular but There was a pattern to everything, if only he could discover the recipe.His head was like a wet bakery filled with yeasty shapes and forms, molds and powders mixed with moist morphic thoughts.He could see the infrastructure,the furniture that spun and dissappeard, the forks and spoons that dangled like shoelaces in opposition,big stringy shadows over lapped in a camouflage of spaces.everything was twisted and woven together, looping around each other, suspended from the vault of his skull.His head was curved like the dome of a great Theater, a cranial globe where images dropped like soft tissues on domestic scenes.
He knew that time was of the essence.What time was he in this dissolving dream.All the things were rapped in a ghostly sphere,turning inside out,evaporating and condensing ,pulling and floating in and around themselves.
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