blacknwhite
Zaar Riisberg // Streets of Aalborg
Bo Kenneth Sylvest Jakobsen // State of the World Visual Address // Two Blind, One Dead.
Caption on face mask reads: “Protect the weak”.
A few months ago I asked a bunch of people to produce or give me an example of how they saw this world right at this moment. Some replied, and the next few weeks, their offerings will be posted in an ongoing series.
The 7th one is by Bo Kenneth Sylvest Jakobsen. It is a provocative street art comment on COVID19. If you like this, do engage and leave a comment. We’d l ove to hear from you.
Caption on face mask reads: “I was lonely”.
Ron Rubenstein // State of the World Visual Address #4
A few months ago I asked a bunch of people to produce or give me an example of how they saw this world right at this moment. Some replied, and the next few weeks, their offerings will be posted in an ongoing series.
The 4th one is by Ron Rubenstein. If you like this, do engage and leave a comment. We’d love to hear from you. RR is a bit of an enigmatic character who takes the shots none of us do. He hails from the US and has a tv personality president. Not sure where you go to catch RR these days - last I saw, he was on IG. But I cannot confirm that as I deleted my account. It seems to be that people who lend their artworks to AB, do not post a lot of other places. If you want to see something really lush by RR go here (these are some of my favorite photographies in existence).
Martin J. Sabine // Negative Space Paradigm
The negative space that surrounds objects and places, devoid as it is, of all encompassing light still draws our attention. The intrusive spark of brightness within the darkness of an image highlighting the contrast between the two. You come to the photograph or image as an aesthetic object with no context... Then you step in and read the text and then out again to revisit the image in a completely different way. I'm interested in that space between text and image. The piece becomes the negative space between the two. Therefore conceptually the two sets of negative space the one within the image the other between the text and image come together as a kind of symbiotic paradox.
The Importance of this analysis is presumptive, in so much that it requires a level of understanding from potential viewers of the image, to make a distinction between the title (the text) and the photograph (the image) a photograph without proper caption is worthless particularly in journalism. On the other hand, you can cause damage with an incorrect title: For instance you can diminish the impact of an image by using overly cute titles, or take away the imagination of the viewer by describing too much or leading in a direction that the image is not quite supporting. Sometimes this might be an enhancement, where the author of the image wants to influence the audience in any given direction, and other times it can end up being a distraction.
In essence do titles contribute to the meaning that is seen in an image? According to purist doctrine, words beyond the image/frame are not supposed to influence the understanding or appreciation of visual form, ergo it argues that titles should function simply as identification tags not sources of meaning for the viewer. The contrary position of most discerning contemporary advocates of the free aesthetic articulate views at variance to the purist credo, moreover they have moved away from the elitist doctrine on how art should be viewed to a more open liberal approach that focuses on conceptualizing the function of titles, as an example they are concerned with titles not as mere tags, but descriptions that have a unique purpose that determine to a degree the interpretation of the aesthetic of an image.
What a work of art is titled…..has a significant effect on the aesthetic it presents and the qualities we perceive in it. Titles emphasise relevant contextual factors in the viewing of artworks and different titles engage the viewer in many ways. Some titles for instance provide explicit directives for interpretation which can add to the experience or conversely in other cases detract. In some examples the title can be a simple and straightforward description that adds little to the meaning of the work so becomes neutral in the equation.
In conclusion does the difference in the title affect what people interpret from an image or in part what they attend to, or do different people respond and react differently? That question is open-ended as we all know that art is very subjective and we take what we want from any presentation of art. I think we can all agree, that as long as we enjoy the engagement whether positive or negative, is all that matters and that so long as we take away an overall appreciation of the experience then this is a benefit to both the viewer and the artist….
© M.J. Sabine 2020
Graham O'Neill // Belle Époque Denied // State of the World Visual Address #3
Feb 9: Where are those happy days…
April 23: The Sadness of the Unseen, Leaving
May 3: Hang In There.
A few months ago I asked a bunch of people to produce or give me an example of how they saw this world right at this moment. Some replied, and the next few weeks, their offerings will be posted in an ongoing series.
The 3rd one is 3 shots by Graham O’Neill. If you like this, do engage and leave a comment. We’d love to hear from you. GO is a father, family man and photographer with a progressively poetic soul. He hails from England and has a clown for a prime minister.
For more on Graham, you can catch his work on 500px, IG and Kujaja.
The Newslarder #4
Edited mobile shot / random tunnel is Aarhus
First two contributions in State of the World Visual Address are out. Apparently, that has inspired others to jump in, so we might have an ongoing thing on our hands. That sounded almost dirty, if not oddly romantic too. There’s a possiblity that we might look into charity. Both me and MJS have a soft spot for youths in dire straits, so, why not?
We are still interested in contributors in general, but we are just not the kind of people to chase after you, beg you or kiss your ass. The idea of a collective and a synergy where we use each others circles to get further out without doing much SOME, is still a sound one. Too much art languishes in the dark because there is too little trust artists between. I am talking about artistry here - other photographers are still ‘a problem’, and unless you are a teacher leading students, I do not understand photo walks. But that is NOT to say artists cannot band together. They should - and we should be honest with each other. Way too many fence sitters concerned with ‘keeping up appearances’ ruin our chances of having a real, fruitful discourse. Just be fucking real instead of always trying to position yourself, or be something you are not.
That is my main grievance with people. Fly your flag, claim your divinity, but back it up with skills. Nobody wants to hear who your friends are, or that you had coffee with the 3rd cousin of Banksy in a London pub only three people know of. Seriously, cancel poser culture. And be interesting - not coy, not reserved, not arrogant etc. - interesting, suspenseful, confrontational, passionate, alive, awake, in love - be those things.
We will try and monetise this a bit, maybe for charity as well as the daily run of it. But there is still a lot of work to be done. I wish you all a nice weekend.
Remember to check the contributions for ‘State…’
Henrik B. Clausen // Benched // State of the World VIsual Address #2
A few months ago I asked a bunch of people to produce or give me an example of how they saw this world right at this moment. Some replied, and the next few weeks, their offerings will be posted in an ongoing series.
The second one is a shot by Henrik B. Clausen. If you like this, do engage and leave a comment. We’d love to hear from you. HBC is a film director and videographer from Denmark.
For more on HBC check his Vimeo
Check out #1 here
Christoffer Fabæk Kjær // The Speaker // State of the World Visual Address #1
A few months ago I asked a bunch of people to produce or give me an example of how they saw this world right at this moment. Some replied, and the next few weeks, their offerings will be posted in an ongoing series.
The first one is a drawing by Christoffer Fabæk Kjær. If you like this, do engage and leave a comment. We’d love to hear from you.
For more on CFK check his IG.
Zaar Riisberg (Zaarchasm) feat. Martin J. Sabine // The Silence of the Trolls
Huh? /MJ Sabine
With all the predictions about how Donald Trump will fare in November, it is surprising that no one focuses on the silence of the 2016 trolls. I used to go to Twitter and debate with Trumpettes, just to be in a hostile environment - you know, training? But these days it is downright hard finding someone to attack you. In ‘16 and ‘17 they would swarm you on fake accounts as soon as you said anything about Trump. Likewise, Yahoo! is flooded with what is usually referred to as ‘libtards’, having fun at Donnie’s expence.
Forget polls or anything else you see in the media, this is the clearest sign that if there is a silent minority or majority out there, it is not only silent, it is hiding. If Trumpers are anything, it is in your face - Roger Stone taught Trump that, and he passed it on to his followers. Admit nothing, deny everything, launch counter offensive. Or the short version: attack, attack, attack. I realise that Stone is the architect in this, but he is a mere opportunist navigating in a modernity gone awry. This has been on the cards since Ronald Reagan, mind you. Perhaps one of the worst presidents in modern times, yet he is a hero to many Americans, which should tell you all you need to know about how the American mind operates.
At least Stone is smart - and believe or not, he is also quite cultivated and a libertine feminist. How you can enable misogynism as a declared feminist, remains unexplained, though. Had Trump not commuted his sentence, Stone would have exacted a horrible revenge at some point. Stone was around before Trump, he will be around after. But as the designing architect, Stone is more guilty than anyone.
Where’d everybody go? /MJ Sabine
Now, as recently as yesterday, there are lots of reports still suggesting that the silent majority/minority is large, and we are lead to believe that a huge amount of people will not admit to voting for Trump, because of the stigma that carries. One argument is that Hillary was even further ahead than Joe Biden is, so this will not be a problem. This is not true, in all of 2016 there was not one poll that put Hillary 12-13 points ahead. She was never close to pulling even with Trump in states like Texas and Georgia. Uncle Joe is. Today, reporting is suggesting that Biden might take a state that no republican president has been able to do without for 95 years. I mean, this is starting to look like at Jimmy Carter’esque flogging. And Biden? He is just sitting on his ass.
Nobody likes Trump, not even himself. That is the curse of the narcissist. Meanwhile, Donald is a odd narcissist, as he over compensates, but he also under performs. Anyone with a brain in their head - even alt-righters - know that if USA re-elect Trump it is over. This world must burn. The reason? There isn’t one.
Martin J. Sabine // Trump - America's Foremost Problem
Notwithstanding the ongoing pandemic and the uprising of the Black Lives Matter movement the biggest problem the United States of America has at this moment is Donald J Trump. The President and Commander in Chief is cerebrally challenged and not fit to hold office; his malfeasance and irrational behaviour would have had a lesser person sectioned under the relevant mental health legislation.
Trump's lack of empathy, knowledge of world affairs and plain old common sense leave him and the office he holds at the mercy of malevolent countries and operators worldwide. He is a toxic mix of weak moral leadership, racial divisiveness, crass and vulgar rhetoric and an erosion of norms, institutions and trust in traditional values.
His detractors at home are subjected to kindergarten playground bully tactics delivered in a staccato twitter speak, examples such as "Sleepy Joe, Pocahontas, Little Marco" are but a few. This coming from a man with a thousand isles dressing complexion, flyaway hair, small hands and an even smaller brain.
He’s a TV personality, a failed businessman with many bankrupted companies lying in his wake, he's a serial philanderer, bigot, misogynist and liar. He has a cult following that’s centred around this white power broker persona rooted in white supremacy and racism. Wherever he goes, he carries that role and that kind of persona, but ultimately right now what America needs is real leadership. He is incapable of providing that because that’s not who he is. This in itself should tell you everything you need to know about the state and health of the body politic in America today.
The fact that he officiates via twitter and through stooges such as Kayleigh McEnema the latest "Barbie Doll" press secretary is testimony to his delusional behaviour, I wonder if he grabbed her by the crotch by way of an introduction? The list of people holding this post includes just one man Sean Spicer who visibly imploded in public under the strain of trying to defend the indefensible, all since then have been women which clearly begs the question, why would they lie for a President who shows nothing but contempt for their rights and gender?
Trump has also succeeded by implanting his own picks, to manipulate the way the Attorney General's Office and the Department of Justice works in a way that undermines the integrity and professionalism of the lawyers and prosecutors who work there, and in turn subjugated the law into an arena for gaining partisan advantage and settling political grudges. Other Presidents have never asked nor expected their attorneys general to use the vast investigatory and prosecutorial power of the justice department itself to intervene in criminal cases to help political allies, to buy the silence of those who might threaten him, or to discredit political adversaries. That is a dangerous precedent being set in turbulent political times and can upset the fine balance that exists between the judiciary and politicians, a very new world order indeed.
I just hope that come November the people of the United States of America make the right choice and vote accordingly and restore some balance in the world which seems to have been taken over by right wing populism at the moment, it's very unsettling when the world is in the midst of dealing with a pandemic.
Some of you reading this will no doubt accuse me of the same juvenile transgressions in my criticism of Trump well sometimes you have to adopt the tactics of the transgressor to make valid points about their personality traits, but to be honest it's actually because I'm a sarcastic bastard and I totally lack objectivity when it comes to someone like Trump so as they say in America….."bite me".
© M.J. Sabine 2020
Lasse Fischer // Big Deep Breath
We should talk about something.
In the aftermath of the European and Danish elections many might feel disillusioned, exhausted, and some even bitter. Let us take a collective breath and giant exhale as the dust settles. What did we learn? Well, for one we got to experience precisely how intense it is to live in a time where the cries for our attention are shriller than ever, at least according to my memory. The need for attention whether it be products or politics has always existed, but the commercialization of our attention is something rather new. Our electronic devices have made it laughably easy for anyone to gain access to us, and as such, our spaces of refuge from the hustle and bustle of everything around us have shrunk - and are still shrinking with remarkable speed.
Pling
Did you reach for your phone? Of course not, this is a text and there was no actual sound, but you get the picture.
Big Deep Breath
We have happily embraced this development with relatively little criticism, and even when we criticize we mostly do not act on our arguments against the invasion of our privacy and mental resting places. And we have become complaisant with this reality because we get used to how things are very quickly, especially if it involves more convenience and comfort for us. And so the great trade-off of our time is that of our private refuge for an endless catering to our needs. It is someone’s best interest for you to pay attention, but it will not always be in yours, no matter how flashy the screen might get. And so we get to the crux of this post.
It is easy to get riled up, and one should get their blood pumping from time to time over important issues, but with the way we live there is always a cause to bleed for. Being a big consumer of political commentary and news on Youtube I know how anger, sadness, frustration and utter disbelief can be summoned within minutes of the first press on a screen. It is crucial to get some distance once in a while. I recall overhearing a 16-year old punk kid discussing climate change the other day crying out ‘it is all too late, were going to die’, his green mohawk wiggled with fear and frustration as he talked. And while being at a barbeque at my parents place my brother in law decreed the then upcoming election to be ‘the most important in history’. I silently made a salad in the kitchen while he vigorously discussed this with my sister in the living room.
Big Deep Breath
I am not one to beat real and heartfelt issues to death with a big ‘all things are relative’ stick because there are genuinely causes for concern that should be taken serious, but such concerns require a measure of rest as well. When dealing with an unending stream of information it might be difficult to figure out when to take a break, but let me tell you, anytime is fine. Living in a constant stream of reasons for emotional upheaval isn’t healthy for anyone. Do it now, take a walk, drink a cup of coffee with a friend, paint something, put the phone away – take care of yourself. While you do that let us reaffirm a couple of truths and contemplate some well-meant pointers:
Consuming media without the time to reflect on the information given is merely consumption.
Some things are out of your control.
Seeing results take time.
Be ready to admit when you are wrong.
Getting upset is a valid response, but not always productive.
Striving for a positive mindset and perspective will greatly increase your quality of life.
Pay attention to your own, your family’s, and your friend’s well-being.
Take care of yourself, take a breather.
Zaar Riisberg (Zaarchasm) // I am Special pt 1: Bland on the Run
I did some shots for a band my friend was playing in. Little did I know, that my friend was being fucked over by these twats. My friend is the most gifted guitarist I have ever met - a truly brilliant maverick musician. The band was doing old punk songs - in my opinion, something vastly below the skillset of my friend, but not the rest of the guys in the band - whom I really liked. Turned out they were doucebags. Small men as it were. I have met my share of them, trying to stab me in the back, sully my name in front of others, or just ganging up on you in a really vile manner. Why do the rest of us have to contend with other people’s insecurities?
Most shots were painstakingly done, initially run through Lightroom, Camera Raw, Photoshop and carefully finished with just the right offset - EACH AND EVERY SHOT. On top of this, I payed my own way at a one of their concerts and gave them the shots. Top dollar work, and the best pictures the band had - and they are still using them. It is good work, even though, it was pro bono or payed very little. Why? Because I work passionately for people I like and very professionally for people that pay. I value my personal integrity - after all, I have to live with myself.
So once again, people of mediocre talent are allowed to stifle those of real talent. This is a problem for this world - the envy of the truly bland. ‘I am special’ the individual seems to cry out. It always leaves me with a ‘prove it’ echoing through my brain. Instead, most will scale the body of others, until they reach the shoulders and then stand on them.
It is the same behaviour that made me hide, curtail my output or indeed control it a lot more. I have hated being an inspiration for others, and I have felt exasperated at times, when people more or less said ‘so inspirational, keep it coming’. Fuck you. I would rather not have an output than inspire people that never go out of the box themselves. The excitement for me is creation, exceeding boundaries - I want to look behind the veil, I want to be on the path to the palace of wisdom.
I do not know what path everyday farts like the ones that fucked over my friend are on. All I know is, that when the people of talent have had enough, everyone else is left up shit creek without a paddle but a ton of followers, either payed for or collected under false pretences. I am not even talking about ‘influencers’ - we all know they are a bunch of cock suckers - no, I am talking about people and artists of talent that chose to find a template for success, rather than being true to themselves and let the subconscious grab their aim and steer them in.
With this, I open the floor to others - past and present contributors or indeed readers - to enter this theme ‘I am Special’ - would you like to write part II or III? I have more instalments myself, but I do so love the yumminess of concerted and collaborated efforts.
Zaar Riisberg (Zaarchasm) // The Plastic Flower
Plastic flowers. What's left unsaid lingers. Untold memories of restraint and ambiguity with a dash of stupidity. The usual suspect everyone knows is never guilty. The character you toss aside. The man you all like, but do not understand. The divider, yet the leader you congregate around. The loser you bar from accepting his defeat. The lover of light and the bringer of darkness, the voice of the silent, the anger of the vocal - the calm AND the storm. It is time to rise again.
(text first published on FB)
Lasse Fischer // The People of Plenty
There is enough, there is more than enough, actually there is plenty of it - indeed there is too much. We shift our limbs as if they were itching. The small stretch between us and it is is the greatest source of pain we have ever known. The cursed earth between us and it is soon to be swallowed up by our heels. We have longed for too long, and now it is there, a mount of plenty sitting on the horizon. The moans start rising from the group, we start eyeing each other. Each swollen calf and thigh is now weighed and analysed, and some start licking their lips, as they realize that they belong in the front of the group. A small moment of breathless silence. Then we start running towards it; mouths foaming and feet breaking against the lumpy ground. Our faces contract in agony, but somehow we keep going. Skin tears open and nails are torn off. We don't stop. The mere thought of what awaits us jolts our muscles and joints and keeps us going.
We arrive; pushing and kicking each other.
A cheek is torn off and the fleshy lump flails in between the conqueror’s teeth. The blood from the gash in his opponents face slathers his body and mixes with his sweat making him a pink, reddish spectacle amidst the sea of brown and white flesh.
We dive in, head first, feet first, whatever is the nearest it doesn't matter. Many of the misfortunates end up at the bottom of the meaty pile. They do not scream in agony though, they raise their voices in rejoice for being so near, so in touch with the plenty, even when the weight reaches such a tremendous amount, that their innards are forced outwards, do they scream in pleasure. The ones on top are crawling over the masses of bodies, moving and still, and continue further into the living landscape.
The beginning of the pileup has started to take color. A mixture of beige and red has stained the naked bodies as they slip and slide among each other, while piece of man and woman gets squished between their toes.
Some of those who have found a spot of their own defend it relentlessly, aggressively attacking anyone, who dares near their share; piling cadavers around their newly founded camp.
Others smear themselves with the lot of it and let the surrounding mouths lick it off from every surface of their bodies, returning the favor later on, making them easily recognizable, as the colors of beige and red are scarce on their huge canvases, with the pale skin standing out in striking contrast. Otherwise it is only the shine from grinding teeth that can be distinguished in the homogeneous crowd. And they smile. Their grins seem unnatural and painfully forced; stretching the skin to the absolute limit; not blinking, as they would then miss out on looking at it.
We are all on all fours, all screaming, all smiling.
We are being filled with it, surrounded by it, and consumed by it, as we ourselves consume it
Zaar Riisberg (Zaarchasm) // I Hate Being an Empath
I have just shot a confirmation after spending an evening and morning with some adorable kids. I jump on a bus, and after a few stops a group of young people enter. A smell of beer and old cigarettes accompany them, and one guy in particular catches my attention. He sits across from me. He is jittery and not a day past 25 years of age. An infinite sadness starts to build inside me mixed with the sense that I have seen this kid before. They are all in somewhat good spirits, but my eyes still get wet. I see him whip out a small bottle of ‘Hot n’ Sweet’ (sweet, cheap liquor), and he knocks it back one time. I want to scream. I want to cry - I want to take everything he is fighting and put it on me. I am 43 - so fuck me. This kid, and I just know this, will not see 40 - maybe not even 30. My mind screams at him in silence: ‘who abandoned you’? ‘What asshole father left you to drift by yourself’?
They reach their stop, which, of course, is Mølleparken. Lots of people in Aarhus go there, however, you can be sure the drunks and addicts are out as well in the park - every damn day during the summer. As they leave I see his bag is full of ‘Hus Forbi’ - a paper produced by the homeless in Denmark. That is how I know him - he camps out selling them at the place where I used to shop on Vesterbro Torv. I get another flash of his face, and it hits me. I saw him getting harassed by a ‘normal’ woman in the inner city one time. It was classic - she told him to get a job, and he was trying to tell her that it was not that easy, that there were no jobs, and certainly not any for him. He had been begging which pisses people of. And now I know why I remember him so vividly. That day, I walked right up to him, past the woman and pressed a 100kr bill in his hand - he looked at me in total disbelief, I turned, flipped off the woman, gave her a sarcastic smile, and went on my merry way.
But it stings that it has to be this way. It tears at my being and it violates what we are about. We have no dignity if we let our own suffer. How can we fight for a place in the cosmos, when we do not even have the heart to fight for our own - much less animals, nature or the planet.
I wish I did not care. I wish I could care less. I wish, I wish, I wish. I will often question if it is just pretentiousness and subsequently second guess my own apparatus and heart. I will accuse myself of being a manipulative asshole that only feels this way, because it makes me feel righteous, special or good about myself. But I know it is not true. I am an empath and I hate every second of it. It does not make me feel good. A recently acquired friend shoved it in my face ‘oh, you’re an empath, that’s no fun, I mean, it’s lovely, but it’s horrible’. She was spot on. She often is. Unfortunately for her, it is a case of taking one to know one.
Some of us have big hearts. But it may come as a surprise to many of you, that it is a horrible burden. A bird hit the windshield at my parents, and I could not rest before I knew it was ok (80% of small birds die either way). I was passing the corridor in the house, what turns out to be a small moth flies toward me, and in the dark I instinctively swat it softly. When I get the lights on, the small fella is running in circles on the floor. That absolutely destroys me. You see? It is a fucked up way to live.
Zaar Riisberg (Zaarchasm) // Hipster Scheister
I remember the first time someone said to me ‘but you’re a hipster’. The glare I sent the person in question, almost sent him to an early grave. Hipsters are retro fakers in my book - it is just a fad, just modern morons thinking it makes them authentic. All these soft men with long beards and tattoos coming out of every crevice, trying to convince you they are ‘pain addicts’. Yeah, try living with the gout, pussies. Pain becomes very relative then.
Both women and men buy clothes in second hand stores for prices that would make Solomon blush. When they’re studying, an old type writer is positioned in front of an MacAir which, when you check their screen out, rather often, either is working hard on an empty Word doc or being very creative on Facebook. Hipsters SUCK - hence I scoffed, when I was likened to one.
Shit man, be different, I get it, but be you. Donning someone else’s visage or craving what others have, or indeed are capable of, is not you. And if you want to provoke, have substance and be clever about it - and most important of all: do not be a copycat.
Why are you letting yourself be ‘influenced’? ‘Omg, that’s so cool’ - no, it is not. Cool is Quentin, cool is knowing your shit, cool is knowledge - cool is not some rich trouser stain telling you what to buy, who to emulate and what to think. But we already had this discussion at the cusp of entering 2000, and look where we are. Harrrruuuumpff.
I am shooting myself in the foot not branding my stuff on IG, or being my own person. I remain insignificant to most, but I will just dig my heels in. One thing, though. Well, actually two. I am not a hipster and you should get a shave, manchild.
Zaar Riisberg // What's Life About
I am moving. In so many ways, but also physically. Going through stuff, I come across an old journal. A lot of the entries surprise me, and not only the ones laced with ‘weltschmerz’, but also some moments of clarity mixed in with frustration. In 1997 I wrote, that I still had no idea what life was about.
I still wrestle with that question. But I guess I found some part of the answer - since, for me, it is about being a factor for others and an inspiration. My role is to tell you ‘it is going to be alright’ or ‘I got you, do not worry’. I have been frustrated, because that was taken from me. But I will not -again- examine what that cost me. Rather, I would like to examine what life is about.
Your answer most likely differs from mine, which fits well with Friedrich Nietzsche and Albert Camus’ notion that generally speaking, there is no higher purpose. In this meaninglessness it falls to the individual to create its own meaning in the face of this. It also sits well with the fact that no two living entities experience reality the same way.
For most people that dot the landscape of this amalgamation of rock and dirt their children become what their life is about. Not only due to the feeble nature of our offspring the first years, and the need for constant nurture - but also because life stops being about your choices and what you want. Yet others decide on realising themselves understanding that kids are not an option. There is a blessing in both.
But one thing, I am pretty sure of, and biology backs me up on this one - we are supposed to care for each other, not seek vilification or division or push people in need away. If you agree with this, I am quite sure you also feel like you are constantly repeating yourself when you write or talk to people. I know I do.
And I still wonder, to the point of frustration, why, when life is that easy - when being good or honourable takes less effort than scheming to manipulate, when sharing trumps hoarding and greed, when helping feels better than fucking people over - why be an arse?
I find it ironic that I am going on about honour, but even more so, with my life long resistance to religion - I find it piss funny that I am the one going on about morals.
Kids and animals make it worthwhile for me, and more importantly, the people I love. My thirst for knowledge is what keeps me going and gives me drive.
What about you? What is your answer?
(you can comment as a guest on AB posts, you don’t have to log in)
Lasse Fischer // On the Subject of The Moment
There is a certain something about arriving in a new geography. The mountain top you haven’t seen before has a certain shimmer to it, and you swear that the sun never broke through the clouds quite like it did just now. The opera of the world is to be found in places where you let it slide underneath your skin, out where the need to put up your guard dissipates.
Open roads and sweeping fields of rock and ice; they find their way through the pores of your skin; they seep into your bones and drive away the ache. It feels reinvigorating, it feels honest, it feels grandiose. Shadows moves on boulders as the car cuts through the landscape. In the horizon a church spire grows over a still lake. Vulcanized rubber makes a steady roll, and a gnashing of gravel accompanies the silent hum stemming from underneath the hood of the car, and you start to remember why you keep a camera nearby. Pick it up, try to capture the moment. It doesn’t succeed. The moment is already gone, it was meant to be something fleeting this time. Clouds drift lazily around in the sky. It doesn’t matter. You put down the camera.
A dreamlike haze has descended on the passengers in the vehicle. Seeing the world through a haze is an oft-forgot tool. It dulls the senses just enough to let the sharp edges turn round and soft. The heavy knots that tie you to the crust of the earth have loosened and slips off your wrists. As soon as the bonds hit the floor of the car the though tears itself free, and your body starts to feel light. You can see the thought leave through the window next to you and speed off to frolic on the nearest mountain top from where it dives into a milky white cloud. And the road, the road with its yellow lines stretches itself through the windshield and leaves out the back.
The car slowly dissolves until it isn’t there anymore, and you hover in the midst of nature, suspended over asphalt and snow in the hum from the motor, and then you blink again, breaking the hallucination. There is something to be learned here, there is a truth in this, and it is to be felt. This truth is not to be put on the torture rack of analysis and discussion; it is not to have its soul plucked from its chest through confession. It is quiet and dignified, and it slips through your fingers as the car follows a bend in the road.
The ocean sneaks up on you from the right. White foam dances on top of the wave before it is thrown ashore and its bubbles are left to burst on the black sand of Iceland. You step out of the car and slam the door behind you. Making your way to the water the wind whips your face, making it blush, feeling tiny needles on your skin. Deep breath, long exhale. The cold burrows underneath your coat from the outside seeking to warm itself with your body heat. You raise the camera and try to catch the clash and dance.
In the city, darkness slowly sets upon people, and the street lamps flicker on, spreading their yellow cones over blankets and signs. In front of the police station, you hear the drums of the poor and forgotten.
Lasse Fischer // Window Pains
Come closer, squish your face against the windowpane, and let me trace the pale outline of your cheek with my finger.
Doesn’t it feel safe?
It does for me.
And when you remove your face from the glass you leave behind a greasy stain, and I can continue fingering your outline for hours on end until you return.
Sometimes I pace around my room in the dark while I frantically, and with a harsh jerking of the neck, look at the window to check it every time I pass.
It glows with a cool blue light, and it is filled with outlines of the faces, the faces I caress.
Whenever I lie on my side in the bed, with my legs tugged up under me, resting my head on my stretched out arm, and my hand in a ninety degree angle, I do not surrender willingly to sleep.
I keep my eyes on the glass.
I lie in fear of blinking.
I lie in fear of absence of the light.
When I finally close my eyes there is nothing but an unending parade of rooms.
The faces do not press themselves up against the windows in here, in here I am alone, and I have no outlines to trace. I am separated from the light and the glass by the lids in front of my eyes.
Bathed in sweat I awake.
I keep my mouth open, ready to scream, but nothing ever comes out. My breathing is too shallow to create the explosion, so instead I chew on the air, like a fish lying on shore. Trying to make sure that the mechanics aren’t broken I feel for the rising motion of my chest, resting my hands on my ribs. The sensation of touch confirms that the function is maintained.
The blue window attracts more faces.
Their breaths fog op the glass.
‘Something is not right. Something seems off.’ The thought is fleeting, and even though the feeling lingers longer than the thought it too soon dissolves over the faces in the blue light. I take my hands off my increasingly protruding ribs and press them against the light making two stark silhouettes of something human on top something less than that.
There is something between the face and my hands, something that draws my finger to the cheek every time. It pulls on my elbow, it commands my sinew, and it makes my brain fire its neurons. I slip my tongue over my lips and spread saliva on the dried skin, feeling the rough edges as the organ goes from one end of the orifice to the other.
Nothing else lies outside my room and the surface of the window.
I continue living, forever haunted by the thought that the blue light one day might fade and disappear.
Ron Rubenstein // The Riverbank Project
EDITOR’S NOTE
As always with Ron, it is about shapes and geometry. He often portrays stuff that just ‘exist’ when you look at it, if you even look at it - hence HIS interest, I think.