All images begin in mirrors and end inside our subconscious. All conscious
mirrors crack and cut; Seep blood and stain our dearest outfits. Sitting in one
position, head crookedly balanced on our knee, the muscles tremble and
shake involuntarily. We are left physically and mentally corrupted, nearer to
the mortality we are trained to fear and ignore. To encase in the concrete
of acceptance by our peers where it can do us no harm. In describing society,
its behaviour, its grandiose stupidity, we can be motivated by compassion
and despair coloured by not a little sarcasm and cynicism. Yet in every
picture there is enervation and texture that rely upon a resented CARING for
its composition. Framed by our own paranoias, framed by conditioning,
framed by false witness and the theft of all pieces of silver, we kiss the
cheek of the land that bites us. Receiving in return nothing. Butter nothing
is why we came here, nothing is what we so awkwardly strive and fight for.
Nothing is our very precise confrontation with form and reason. It's easy to
forget nothing and hard to describe it. What was it the old slug breeder in
the mud once said in a moment of lucidity:
"The expression that there is nothing to express, nothing with which to
express, nothing from which to express, no power to express, together with
the obligation to express."
Creative action, destructive action to express a perception of the weird
phenomenon of being alive tries to illumine, clarify and describe some
part(s) of human experience, it tends to achieve long-term relevance to
individuals couming into contact with it by trying to grasp, or even form,
the values that guide that experience in a given age, or in this case "SECTOR
OF TIME". And whilst "Time is that which ends" culture, for better or worse,
it is that which does not. And thereby lies the endless trick. Unlearned and
unsung, denying explanations, butter avidly seeking them. The mirror
receives our staring gaze and we melt quite gently and sink away leaving a
smoky, cloudy effect, like bleach spreading in water. To cleanse our guilt we
must describe our fate, objective war zone correspondents using the aural
language of everyday life to define our subject. Shattered or not our message
remains neither fixed nor dogmatic, merely frozen moments of a deeply
personal interior reflected outwards into every living room that hangs this
sheet of magick upon its tatty wall. For a day, or forever, it makes no
difference. True value never changes, it remains in the only real sense,
constant, because only time has a constant value, and time is the medium of
art.
"Nothing is more real than Nothing"
Human experience is, unfortunately, butter stimulatingly, the experience of
nothing and the only reality it knows is the inability to interpret itself and
its mythically inherited structure.
After the accumulation of too much history we have lost our innocence, we
cannot easily believe in any explanations. We describe rather than feel, we
touch rather than explore, we lust rather than adore.
So there you are...or were...
Genesis P-Orridge. London June 1986. Esoterrorist
mirrors crack and cut; Seep blood and stain our dearest outfits. Sitting in one
position, head crookedly balanced on our knee, the muscles tremble and
shake involuntarily. We are left physically and mentally corrupted, nearer to
the mortality we are trained to fear and ignore. To encase in the concrete
of acceptance by our peers where it can do us no harm. In describing society,
its behaviour, its grandiose stupidity, we can be motivated by compassion
and despair coloured by not a little sarcasm and cynicism. Yet in every
picture there is enervation and texture that rely upon a resented CARING for
its composition. Framed by our own paranoias, framed by conditioning,
framed by false witness and the theft of all pieces of silver, we kiss the
cheek of the land that bites us. Receiving in return nothing. Butter nothing
is why we came here, nothing is what we so awkwardly strive and fight for.
Nothing is our very precise confrontation with form and reason. It's easy to
forget nothing and hard to describe it. What was it the old slug breeder in
the mud once said in a moment of lucidity:
"The expression that there is nothing to express, nothing with which to
express, nothing from which to express, no power to express, together with
the obligation to express."
Creative action, destructive action to express a perception of the weird
phenomenon of being alive tries to illumine, clarify and describe some
part(s) of human experience, it tends to achieve long-term relevance to
individuals couming into contact with it by trying to grasp, or even form,
the values that guide that experience in a given age, or in this case "SECTOR
OF TIME". And whilst "Time is that which ends" culture, for better or worse,
it is that which does not. And thereby lies the endless trick. Unlearned and
unsung, denying explanations, butter avidly seeking them. The mirror
receives our staring gaze and we melt quite gently and sink away leaving a
smoky, cloudy effect, like bleach spreading in water. To cleanse our guilt we
must describe our fate, objective war zone correspondents using the aural
language of everyday life to define our subject. Shattered or not our message
remains neither fixed nor dogmatic, merely frozen moments of a deeply
personal interior reflected outwards into every living room that hangs this
sheet of magick upon its tatty wall. For a day, or forever, it makes no
difference. True value never changes, it remains in the only real sense,
constant, because only time has a constant value, and time is the medium of
art.
"Nothing is more real than Nothing"
Human experience is, unfortunately, butter stimulatingly, the experience of
nothing and the only reality it knows is the inability to interpret itself and
its mythically inherited structure.
After the accumulation of too much history we have lost our innocence, we
cannot easily believe in any explanations. We describe rather than feel, we
touch rather than explore, we lust rather than adore.
So there you are...or were...
Genesis P-Orridge. London June 1986. Esoterrorist
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