perspektive 43/44

das perspektive doppelheft: der erste teil liefert eine zusammenschau von avantgardeansätzen im www und bietet einen theorieüberblick zum thema “avantgarde_under_net_condtions”.
im zweiten heftteil sammeln sich in gewohnter dichte theoriefragmente (etwa das neue kontrollverfahren) und diverse experimentelle autorinnen wie d. holland-moritz, sylvia geist, louis armand, rodrigo toscano u.a..

lesen sie doch einfach nach diesem text weiter auf unserer webseite http://www.perspektive.at im bereich “hefte“ oder “autoren“ oder stöbern sie auf der webseite http://avantgarde.perspektive.at im vollständigen material zu “avantgarde_under_net_conditions”.

das ganze heft können sie dort ebenfalls downloaden im pdf-format oder rtf-format.

perspektive 43 // avantgarde_under_net_conditions //

391.org

dada2mada

by babel
31st December 1999

 DADA: we eat your letters, and regurgitate our own. Dolts, Dunces, Dullards and Dumbells becoming Morons, Misfits and Multi-Media-Makers. Your Ds were deeds done in days of darkness, doom and dada de(con)struction. Our Ms are moments of MADness, a Mutually-Assured (and madder) destruction. 

391 is dead, indeed! 

Your Drawings were good Francis , but our Media is created at the speed of light. Where the Futurists perceived that speed, we calculate our own acceleration, and we record the measurements in virtual repositories that the unseen themselves will never see. 

Now, the audience expects the spectacle: 
it is not for us to put on a show, 
but to show the audience that they are the spectacle. 

We adore your Masks, Marcel , and wear them whenever we might be seen. Mirrored Masks are all the rage - we are reduced to infinity by staring in another's eyes. As for Marcel Duchamp, he remains as ever with a foot in both camps. We place his clay feet delicately at the base of our urinal. 

D: input, observe output 
M: output, observe input 

The Cabaret is now a multimedia love affair, an orgasm spilling digital transfers all over the world, at every second of every day. It is always a full house, but never crowded. When the audience realise that they are the show they have come to see, they can be as outraged as your audience when they paid you to assault them with random stimuli. 

The difference is, our show is free. 
The difference is, free doesn't mean that it doesn't cost. 

We mix the myriad audiences in mirrors of their own making. We stylize their creations and filter their fantasies through silicon-coated webs of desire. The result is a self-conscious distraction of interaction to a mathematical function, which feeds itself and maps a fractal set through the chaos of this MADimensional world. 

We name that fractal 391, at all levels and none, and salute your understanding of this macroscopic migration from DADA2MADA... 

manifesto 000101

by babel
1st January 2000

391 was reborn at 12:00:00 am, 01/01/00. Self-consciously returned to the blank slate, 391 is a child of the new, whatever and wherever that has been. Each second from now takes us further from the nostalgic nineties into the naughty naughties, 00's. This double-zero (like James Bond) has a licence to kill, and kill it must: the prophets and pariahs of postmodernism, the charlatans and egoists of art, the shallowing social relations of the DisUnited Kingdom. 

391 does not formulate these ideas, anticipating or creating critical analyses. Instead the words are a call to arms, to rescue the written word from a downward spiral into insignificance - a fall hastened by the pedestrian musings of once critical artists who have slipped into establishment. 

The word is a mirror to the world. It must be allowed to grow and adapt, to find new forms of production and distribution. 
391 is a mirror to the word. To do this it asks you to COMMUNICATE. In the last millennium the static dementia of the monologue held sway. When theorists realised a truth (that possible readings of a text are exactly as numerous as the number of readers) they condemned the audience to a sub-scientific laboratory testing of responses, tastes and desires. The guinea pigs were taught how to abandon their values and become part of a new process of generalisations, custom-built averages to determine fashionable consumption patterns. The definition of consumption itself grew to encompass/cater for/exploit those areas of culture which once were able to question. Now the mouth of art moves, but it has nothing to say. 

We ask you to move from monologue to dialogue. What do you think?

Go further than this: turn dialogue into the mirror itself. Your words will create discussions or cause confusions; they will be misunderstood, mistranslated, or left for another to participate in the dialogue. These dialogues, and the processes that inform them, can be impartial lights to illuminate ourselves, your selves, and create spaces where the word can find new form. 

We don't know who our explorers are, nor how many there will be; we don't know if we will agree with what they say, or even if they will say anything at all. What will you decide to do after reading this word? 

Throw it away, leave it in a random place, post it to someone you don't know. 

Send us your emails: incomprehensible ramblings, ideas and inventions, instructions, deconstructions, illusions and confusions, delusions and deletions. You'll find us receptive. 

Sphere (manifesto)

by ArtEficial
1st May 2001

Manifesto

(Babel basics: i.trolley trams.r.indigestible)

the Squeak: mid-stream name fusions are fickle thin {purveyors of futility} 

Any sort of false unity is a false transcendence (a pastel smeared illusion; we end up making fools out of ourselves, thus, building a sense of awareness on a fucked up false foundation).

We need a real imminence by which to oppose any false transcendence (instead of trying to corrupt other human galaxies with our generic (speaking as a tram) insight of what we feel their web is about

rather than trying to merge ourselves within their network,

we need to rebel out on our own).

Taking this recourse will produce more than the mere sum of exchanges within the system, and this will constitute a universal value in circulation among free collectivities and individuals.

SWIM FISHY!

In the very activity of learning the art of dialectical broadcasting we will disentangle the subject and object of economic knowledge, and through the very act of performing such Copernican revolutions we will trace through the locus of true desire the seminal traces of splattered sperm on our modems.

When humans mistake their identity, technology goes awry. The first tower resulted in Babel.  We however are now building anew and in reality for the first time the virtual monument to the Third International.

You may now have reached the point where you can enter and experience the broadcast itself. Our 404 broadcast is an interactive broadcast which combines elements of text, of moving image, and of visual projection, into one synthetic unity of tram broadcast stream. 

Our celebration of speed is a celebration of bandwidth only, a virtual spiral cruise around virtually moving images. In the tram broadcast the images rotate as moving spectators circulate virtually around the pages of our sites. 

But the techno music of our visibly moving spheres pounds out the beat not merely of twisting movements, but also of interactive communication. For the real advance, which is broadcast from atop the virtual tower of the Third International, consists in the meeting - in one of the many paged cyber places of a single tram broadcast - of many minds. 

Click on the picture below to join the broadcast of tomorrow. Welcome to the future!

TRAM PANOPTICAN MANIFESTO
by ArtEficial
1st May 2001

1. We want to sing the love of life, the desire of Lilith, and the coming dawn of our very own virtual trolley-tram interactive broadcast networks.

2. The essential terminology of our poetry will be the decopyrighted imagery of other sites and sounds, the typos of our own preening and unchecked ineptitude, and the logical revolt of our senses by lilly's elite green tram body guards. 

3. It is with the willing if freely given labours of this vast green tram army that we will build in its entirety the Nuisance Noise Machine. The textual provactions of the bulletin and message boards of the world wide web having up to now magnified thoughtful immobility, ecstasy, and the bleatings of other sheep, drunkerthensch wants to exalt the aggressive gesture, the feverish insomnia, the athletic step, the perilous leap, the box on the ear, and the fisticuff. Others join him in discordiant unity. A new Babel is already audible if as yet unfiled and unfulfilled. 

The Nuisance Noise machine takes shape! 

4. We declare that the world's wonder has been enriched by a fresh beauty: the beauty of the cacophanous glimpse of Lilith. 

5. We want to sing the woman who holds the camera, whose ideal stem pierces the Earth, itself launched on the circuit of its orbit. A deconstructed car with its trunk adorned by turf and flowers like snakes with an explosive breath ... or its inside and outside reconstructed so as to make it more fit for public transformation, is more beautiful than the first Ford automobile and all the art that it has spawned.

6. The true trolley tram broadcast poet must expend herself with warmth, refulgence, and prodigality, to increase the enthusiastic fervor of his primordial elements. 

7. There is no more beauty except in the carnival of our struggle. No masterpiece without an aggressive character. Poetry must be a violent invocation against the all too known forces, the summoning of man and his inventions by Lilith to lie down before her.

8. We have for a century and more stood on the far promontory of centuries!... What is the use of looking always ahead, since our task is to smash the mysterious portals of the impossible? Time and Space died yesterday but are today reborn in our very own virtual here and now. We have lived already too long under the all seeing glare of the flat absoluteness of facism, but for today we have already conquered in our creation the hitherto eternal and omnipresent insides of the Leviathan. 

9. We want to glorify our new mix -- the only hygienic imagery of the world -- tram militarism, trolley pacifism, the anarchist's destructive gesture, the fine Ideas that breathe life, and the scorn of the woman called Lilith. 

10. We want to raise anew the living museum, the babel library. This is our fight against false moralism, fractured feminism, and all other opportunistic and utilitarian cowardices. 

11. We shall sing into new realms of being the great crowds tossed about by work, by pleasure, or revolt; the many-colored and polyphonic surf of revolutions in modern capitals; the nocturnal vibration of the arsenals and the yards under their violent electrical moons; the gluttonous railway stations swallowing smoky serpents; the factories hung from the clouds by the ribbons of their smoke; the bridges leaping like athletes hurled over the diabolical cutlery of sunny rivers; the adventurous steamers that sniff the horizon; the broad-chested locomotives, prancing on the rails like great steel horses curbed by long pipes, and the gliding flight of flying trolley trams whose propellers snap like a flag in the wind, like the applause of an enthusiastic crowd. 

It is in the shadow of global warming and the consequential immanenence of the world wide Ventian punt trip that we launch this manifesto of tumbling and incendiary violence, this manifesto through which today Lilith has called forth Neo-Classical Post-Soviet Constructionism, because we want Lilith herself to deliver the world wide web of its gangrene of professors, of archaeological sex industry entrepeneurs, of spam tourist guides, and of hitherto undreamt of antiquities. 

For Venice itself has been too long a great immanent museum the historicity of which conjures out of the blue mire the true tram broadcast cast cats ... 

We want to replace the innumerable cemeteries which cover the spaces of our lives with moving museums that sift from the stream of noise the chinks and chicks of illumination.

Museums, cemeteries!... Truly identical in the sinister jostling of bodies that do not know each other. Great public dormitories where one sleeps forever side by side with beings hated or unknown. Reciprocal ferocity of painters and of sculptors killing each other with line and color in the same gallery. 

What can one find in an these old paintings on our message boards beside the embarrassing contortions of the artist trying to break the barriers that are impassable to his desire to wholly express his dream? 

The tram broadcast is not only moving but interactive in its content and in deed its imaginary forms. The tram broadcast arises not from a single still voice crying in the wilderness, but from the cacophany and confusion arising from the intermingling of the songs of the many. 
The still voiceless broadcasts like the stilborn cam. Art free frame, can be visited once a year as the dead are visited once a year.... We can accept that much! We can even conceive that flowers may once a year be left for la Gioconda! . . . But we cannot admit that our sorrows, our fragile courage, our anxiety may be taken through there every day!... Do you want to be poisoned? Do you want to rot? 

To admire such as these old paintings is to pour our sensitiveness into a funeral urn, instead of throwing it forward by violent casts of creation and action. Do you mean thus to waste the best of you in a useless admiration of the past that must necessarily leave you exhausted, lessened, trampled? 
As a matter of fact the daily frequentation of museums, of libraries and of academies (those cemeteries of wasted efforts, those calvaries of crucified dreams, those catalogues of broken impulses!...) is for the artist what the prolonged tutelage of parents is for intelligent young women, drunk with their talent and their ambitious will. 

For the dying, the invalid, the prisoner, it will do. Since the past is forbidden them, there may be a salve for their wounds in the wonderful dreams of an incoherent future.... But we want nothing of it -- we the young, the legendary, the living lost Futurists! 

Let the good incendiaries come with their carbonized fingers!... Here they are! Here they are!... Set the library stacks on fire! Turn the canals in their course to flood the museum vaults!... There go the glorious canvases, floating adrift! Take up the picks and the hammers! Undermine the foundations of the venerable cities! 

The oldest among our live stream audience are not yet thirty; this means that you have at least ten years to carry out our task. When we are forty, let those younger and more valiant than we kindly throw us into the waste basket like useless manuscripts!... They will come after us from afar, from everywhere, prancing on the light rhythm of their first moving poems, clawing the air with their crooked fingers, sniffing at academy gates the good scent of our rotting intellects already intended for the catacombs of libraries. 

But we shall not be there. They will find us at last, on some winter night, out in the country, under a sad hangar on which the monotonous rain strums, crouching by our trembling planes, warming our hands over the miserable fire of our books of today gaily blazing under the scintillating flight of their images. 

They will gather in a mob around us, panting with anguish and spite, and all exasperated by our untiring courage will bound forward to kill us with the more hatred for the love and admiration in their hearts. And Hunger, strong and wholesome, will glitter radiantly in their eyes. For in this new day and age art can be nothing but a perfumed feeding of the five thousand at the stations of the Crass. 

The oldest amongst you are not yet thirty and yet you have alread squandered great treasures, treasures of energy, of love, of courage and eager will, hastily, deliriously, countlessly, breathlessly, with both hands. 

Look at us! We are not out of breath.... Our heart is not in the least tired! For it feeds on fire, on hatred, on speed!... You find it surprising? That is because you do not even remember having lived! -- Up on the crest of the world, once more we hurl our challenge to the stars! 

Your objections? Enough! Enough! I know them! Fair enough! We know well enough what our fine, false intelligence asserts. -- We are only, it says, the summary and the extension of our audience. -- 
Perhaps! Let it be so!... What does it matter?... But we don't want to listen! Beware of repeating these infamous words! Rather, look up! 

Up on the crest of the world, once more we hurl our challenge to the stars!

You are my cinema-eye. I am a mechanical text.
You, a fellow machine, can show me the world as only we can see it.

The avant garde of the Mada generation - (re)statement

by ArtEficial
4th October 2001

The avant-garde of the Mada generation was initiated under the elite influences of degenerate if well manicured front lawns; but regenerated under the shadow of a virtual anarchist lonely hearts exchange.  Today the movement remains strong because the original members live so far away from  one another - an important fact when one considers the most obvious and likely effects upon inter-391 harmony that should or would be expected to result from the lack of understanding of the world in any shape or guise and indeed the moronic levels of ignorance and arrogant crass obnoxious high-sounding morally polluting garbage displayed as new found wisdom by the current Mada generation; all this can simply be ignored at the switch of mousepad.  Viva the long distance!  Viva the off button!

impressum

43/44/2002							ISSN 1021-9242

-	avantgarde_under_net_conditions (43)
-	zentral_einheit_come_together (44)
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konzeption heft 43 “avantgarde_under_net_conditions”:
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