Painted Birds

The glitch.

 

exposing the lie

revealing the hidden beauty

reminding us of simplicity, of tribal signals, magical patterns and freedom in non-determinism, inspiring us to happily make mistakes and understand a different beauty than the one delivered to us daily in media and advertising

shamans hiding in the aztec stripes

otherworldly beings manifesting or showing their true face in between frames, in between dimensions, banal cheesy mindless pornographic drivel split apart with an axe spilling glorious error paint … wiping the glass with a technicolour bleeding mess of random ocular stimulus, visceral, smearing away the intended message of conformity and normal to be replaced with a clue to the absurdity of the medium’s intention, of its fabricator, of its intended audience, there is a surreal horror lurking cthulhu-like, awaiting its arcane and improbable instruction to appear before our eyes

 

Is the thing still recognisable? What does this inform us about language and the modes of communication?

 

a moment of fragmentation is itself a kind of orgasm, an obliteration of consciousness, rearrangement of particles into a new whole, an optimistic chaos, an abstract mirror to feed the imagination

 

the signal is broken, and the message is repeated according to its logic of digital data and compression, creating a uniformity and linearity

In the video, motion determines directional colour shifts corresponding to a very perceptible and definable logic. Just as with Bridget Riley, Op Art, psychedelic experience there is ornament, repetition, and just as with sampling from an old jazz record, a new entity is born

I love the idea of wrongness within the context of printmaking. Non-professional, homegrown and uniquely itself.

The grain of data being eroded, corroded, corrupted, dented, smashed.. ghOst transmissions, the romanticising of an electrical-mechanical age where static and noise were commonplace, out of phase, radio, television, the humming refrigerator, the fly suiciding itself with a blue buzz and flash, what is captured with the flash, at that instant..

We have a deconstruction of familiar images, sets, tropes, appealing nudes, colour palettes exploding in raw honesty, freely showing us everything with erotic abandon. Could this be a continuation of cubism, of abstraction, of surrealism?

Who is this cosmic automatic artist whose brush strokes paint across the screen?

What do they reduce, call into being, fetishize?

Maybe it is the geek, the accidental anthropologist, maybe a quasi-scientist experimenting with cross-fertilisation of frames, of data types, of meanings.. establishing a process of selection by creating conditions in which random glitches can be observed, types of promising fertile data collected. Is it the pepper spray of random tiny holes in the data that causes colour to bleed? Or is it a swarming together of matter to the point of almost being, the potential contained in something being close to 100%.. creating an art form that places artists very close together in terms of an identifiable style, of authorship. Your glitchy Mona Lisa is analogous to my scrambled Van Gogh..

Is there something unsaid in the original source? An aspect of consciousness hidden, silenced. Are the politics of desire the perfect breeding ground for mutation..?

 

And finally, the content is stripped of its original value and is given a new value. A choice is made. Long live the new flesh..

The light is different here, not like on planet Earth

 

 

 

 

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