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don't question the pilot           (walk - arrows, interact - space)

Permitted to be held back, unboxing, releasing

the need to be held within.

Clock permitted in threes of towering descriptions, limitation vertigo in four walls. 

Unheimlich and the rest of that, or just an employee.

It's the addiction of containment, is it the movement of opening

or the surprise that the container lacks to indicate.

This piece, as are the rest in a way, amongst each other, linearly or not, is broken time. Without any doubt the Llemma seems to fall into various time shenanigans, or space, or one proceeding the other, of course interacting with each other. The endeavour has been synchronised, but never truly emphasised in what, yes the conversations, but things proceed us, they are their own order, yet we tried many times to navigate, we ploughed the ground, well we all do.

But the act of containment (hails the crowd), the mind's obsessive condition, a reaction seemingly to a self aware defence system, to capture, to capture, to capture. Unleashed to gather, a self-appointed saviour that restores nature's absentminded limbo state.

Inseminated by pale men, who think nature is a woman, waiting for their civilization.

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un coup de dés jamais, jamais, jamais n'abolira le hasard???         (walk - arrows)

Let's stand here for a while.

In 1897 Stéphane Mallarmé released his last book of poetry, ‘un coup de dés jamais n'abolira le hasard", which was as much a poem as it was an experimentation with the visual experience of a poem. The phrases were written with large spaces in between them and composed in almost a sinking pattern down each page. 

Marcel Broodthaers spent 40 years of his life a poet, then died as an artist. In 1968 Broodthaers petrified his unsold copies of his poetry book ‘Pense-bête’ in plaster - now a sculpture. He had 12 years left as an artist.

In 1969 Broodthaers opened his solo show ‘Deblioudebliou/S” at the Wide White Space gallery in Antwerp, consisting of works directly based upon ‘un coup de dés…’ by Mallarmé. Among them a reprint of the poem with the slight edit of having all the words ‘crossed out’ with black rectangles. Like Broodthaers’ former mentioned plaster sculpture, in the reprint, Mallermé’s poem had taken one step further out of the literary, into a more pronounced visual grammar, a grammar that rather than referring to a specific meaning is instead the direct expression of the gaps and spaces between these rectangular shapes, in other words the language of form. Like the ‘Pense-bête’ copies being dipped and petrified in plaster, so too did Mallarmés' sinking words solidify into the rigidity characteristic of any sculpture in the tradition of les arts plastiques.

In 2009 the german artist Michalis Pichler fed this reprint into a pianola. Hearing this piece is very exciting. The reverberation of the atonal piano works of the 1920s are very prominent. The excitement emerges in pondering the question: when was this piece actually written? Was it 2009 by Pichler? 1969 by Broodthaers? Or could it be that this piece was written already in 1897 by Mallarmé, since the bare-bones which effectively is this musical piece was conceived at that time? Perhaps these iterations and variations are more than a formalistic study of Mallarmé’s original poem; they are a meditation upon temporality. The continued reiteration of the poem is effectively discussing questions about how culture perhaps does not evolve through individual people’s geniusness, but rather through a collective sharing of time and work. ‘Un coup de dés’ continually emerges with no clear cosigner, an art historical meme.

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plow what's read                (walk - arrows)

If you could flatten everything in the world you would get wor(l)ds (preferably with a plough).

…are not flattening everything into words, worlds. Obsession of reality, I guess another containment issue that the mind lusts, I once was told: what's the fuss with reality, or something like that. I of course insisted, obsessed as I am, yet truly so what's up with it, the reality, what about it? Nothing right? What could there be, but us, mirrors, walls. Yet again, I'm structuring a polemic about reality. Well how about rats, plants, letters and chairs being squished by a plough to look the same. Don't we look the same, isn't it all the same, so what's the fuss in distinctions. Horrible, its ouroboric, building breaking. Is the gallery about building or breaking? Is art about building or breaking. Silly distinctions. Flatten all (well except lamps).

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 J.W.V.G                              (walk - arrows, confirm - enter, bend down - E)

...Mallarmé might also have said that the word flower is the flower's own grave.