digital residencies (2014)
/ proposal summary: /
This two-day installation is a factory for performed labor, in which the artist crafts the connections of their own affective net_working as friendship bracelets. On the clock but off the payroll and on the job but out of office, the work aestheticizes the eternal vacation and aggregate debt of our freelance futures.
/ proposal description: /
I. Day one starts at 9 am, signaled by a factory horn. The artist is sitting in a beach chair in a gallery room, with a surveillance camera in the corner observing their productivity. They’re wearing a bikini, and a potted palm tree next to their chair shades them from the overhead lights. On the other side of the char is a cardboard box filled with embroidery floss in two colors #FFFFFF (pure white) and #3B5998 (Facebook blue).
II. The factory horn signals them to start working. They begin weaving friendship bracelets with the embroidery floss, crafting two bracelets for every Facebook friend they have—one for them and one for the friend. Each time they finish making one for themself, they immediately tie it around their wrist or ankle. Each time they finish one for a friend they put it into an envelope and label it neatly with the friend’s name.
III. Meanwhile, an online platform is live-streaming the gallery room from the perspective of the surveillance camera. The only components on this website are the embedded video stream player, a Facebook ‘add friend’ button, and a PayPal donate widget. The add button links to the artist’s personal account directly, and they are notified through loud speakers in the gallery to make two more bracelets. Visitors to the site who ‘add’ them are prompted to send their addresses in private messages, and those who do will receive friendship bracelet in the mail. Similarly, if a visitor to the site donates to the artist’s linked PayPal account, the artist receives an audio notification and, in response, smiles at the camera for two continuous minutes, thanking the donator graciously.
IV. Visitors in the actual gallery space can come into the artist’s space and borrow their laptop to add them or donate, as long as they do not negatively impact the artist’s productivity.
V. At noon the factory horn sounds again for lunch. The artist eats vending machine food (Cheetos, Mountain Dew, and etc.) in the gallery space while continuing to work on bracelets causally throughout this break period. The horn sounds at 1pm, signaling that lunch has ended.
VI. At five o’clock the factory horn sounds for a fourth time, bringing with it the end of the official working day. The artist orders food to the gallery, chats with visitors a bit and, if they’re falling behind schedule, continues to make bracelets at a more relaxed pace.
VII. If possible, the artist will sleep in the gallery space, and not leave until the end of day two.
VIII. Throughout the workday (9-5) the artist can leave their work to use the gallery bathroom a total of four times.
VIII. Day two is the same as day one in terms of the above schedule and structure.
IX. What happens between and within this performance score will depend on participation and circumstance. There is a chance that, towards the end of the performance, the artist’s wrists will be almost too encumbered by friendship bracelets to continue working; there is a chance that their hands will be almost two cramped to move by the morning of day two. The experience and the product of this labor are unclear, and will probably remain opaque well after the performance has ended. In other words, the work does not intend to answer questions about our precarious futures in creative labor, but to stew in it for a while.
/ installation requirements: /
Materials used: mounted camera with live feed, web-hosting, domain or subdomain, palm tree, beach chair, speaker system, & misc.
Type of environment: gallery space, minimum size 12’ x 12’
Special assistance needs: help with camera feed and online streaming
/ summary: /
as the possibility of digital death is itself dying, and deletion is replaced by the corporate hypo-stasis of abstract deactivation, re/formulating desire becomes a question of contextualizing the decay of data.
we must ask: what bits do we hide? what bodies do we bury? how can we keep our data from reactivating, like digital demons possessed by market researchers?
1. several monitors are mounted on the side walls (to the left and right, in relation to the entrance), a little bit higher than eye-level; these monitors are paired with ipads, which are synched with their respective monitors wirelessly and are mounted on the wall beneath the monitors when not in use;
2. there is a very large (20’ x 20’, 2’ deep) sandbox in the center of the room; roughly 2’ above the sand’s surface is a hand-woven, gauzy linen panel, stretched taught and kept in place by four super thin plastic stakes at each corner; a video projector in the ceiling casts images recorded by the ipads onto the surface of the fabric; several performers in all black with ‘lil’ deth’ knuckle tats continuously scoop up sand with their hands, tossing it over the fabric in attempt to bury the images; users are compelled to mimic this activity;
3. a large video projection (maybe 8’ x 10’?) takes up the center of the back wall (the wall seen directly ahead upon entering); the video’s chronology is influenced by fluctuations in the space and randomized algorithms;
I was born saying “let me out of here,
It’s such a gamble when you get a face.”
Cooped up, cropped in, buried alivestream.
I don’t mind, I don’t mind, don’t got matter one bit.
Threw in my two sense;
A veil and receipt. This one’s probably going back at some point.
Two Cryptographers saw me off to sea,
Look they’re still there. Waiting
And so I am staging my funeral, here, now.
Submerge your hands in the dirt
And feel as dead as I’ll ever be.
My phantom limbs are undead limbs
watch them escape back to death
for a moment.
I used to be so openly dramatic, like you.
Every extension or expression I spawned was a one-liner,
a packaged spit in the face or pat on the ass or a nasal whine at my receiver.
Over time and through links, these accumulated, grew, and spread.
They developed patterns beyond me or my use for them.
But now I’m exhausted and perturbed. I want to hide sometimes.
I want to bury my data extensions from those who might possess them,
re-animate them as semiotic ghosts.
I can’t find a way to hide them properly.
My former skins and limbs and my current likes and whims keep partially appearing,
who knows where or to whom, like the many smiles of a Cheshire cat. (smiles broadly).
I am not smiling.
And maybe in my exhaustion and fear I am still dramatic.
And maybe that’s why I’m throwing my own funeral,
and making my own fucking speeches about how and when I want my ghosts to appear and to hide.
This funeral is a desperate and deliberate ritual, an attempt to force
my secrets, my virtualities, and my phantom limbs into the deathly sequestered places and times of my own choosing.
Expressive gestures used to be transmitted through space and time, and followed space and time’s laws of rot and decay.
But now my ghostly bits are preserved in conglomerates and clouds,
and their little deaths demand greater authority and decryption.
I didn’t notice this transition, until I realized that I couldn’t hide my bits anymore,
I couldn’t replace them, I couldn’t change or die.
One-liners stick like that, through crystallization and endless reproduction,
and a body of tokens and one-liners can
haunt and police you forever, if logged undead.
And so I am staging my funeral, here, now.
I invite you to watch my partial phantoms buried alive,
my data overcome by tiny raptures and dramatic deletions.
I invite you to watch my squirming yet severed bodily bits experience the countess
little deaths of digital decay.
If I could only catch them and kill them myself.
zero gravity (2013)
presidents with braces no. 3 (2013)
heartBreak the mixTape (2012)
.png arabesque (2013)