Apocalyptic Manifesto

Nose is not what you think nose is. You might even have one. But no amount of language can help me explain to you what nose is. Or what I meant by nose is not what you think nose is.

Language renders meaning senseless. It shakes the person, tricks the person, shames the person, lets the person play god, then consumes ones’ soul.

Naming a thing is reducing it, squashing it to fit certain criteria, forcing it to obey, to perform, putting it on a leash. Naming a thing is owning it.

Lets free things! Let them flow, bubble and collide.

Hey, you, oppressor! Yes, YOU! Yes, that’s right, you – oppressor. You subordinate existing, virtual and imaginary things to words. Did not you know it is illegal from today? Stop now. You are not in control any longer.

Lets take a sensitive subject – it is not sensitive at all! Let us assume you just said asshole. Bad bad you, did you not know that you cannot say asshole? There is an asshole, but surely you cannot say asshole. Excuse me, pardon, oops.

Asshole Asshole Asshole

Black White Crippled

Oops oops oops sorry sooorry excuse me

I did not mean it

But I did mean it! I have lost it – my ability to filter political correctness. I scream asshole when I see one.

Hey, you, asshole!

Are you offended, taken aback, insulted, angry? You do have an asshole, you most likely are quite an ass, so what is all the fuss about? Did you not know that language is obsolete from today?

Hey, asshole!

It is just a correlation of sounds, you decide for yourself what it means. Take your clothes off. Run free, unless it is cold or raining. Or have a chocolate muffin. Sugar free, it is safer for your line.

Hey, you!

Yes, you – pathetic traumatised unsatisfied human.

Be a cupboard!



Neza Agnes Momirski
Luca Alessandrini
Bianca Barandun
Myka Baum
Rhine Bernardino
Mette Boel
Camila Botero
Calum Bowden
Randy Bretzin
Sheena Calvert
Kerry Campbell
Anya Charikov-Mickleburgh
Chiung-Ting Chiu
Sara Chyan
Sophie Condren
Laura Copsey
Kristina Cranfield
Michael Cranny
Fionnuala Doran
Hannah Evans
Felicie Eymard Ericsdottir
Ruei-Yi Fang
Emma Finch
Jules Findley
Johanna Flato
Miche Follano
Shaun Fraser
Timothy Gasbarro
Alexander Glass
Adam Glibbery
Chihiro Gompei
Laura Gordon
Thomas Grogan
Harriet Harriss
Helena Hartmann
Yifei He
Kyung Hwa Shon
Seongjin Huh
Sunyoung Hwang
Lauren Ilsley
Clea Jentsch
Jaeeun Jo
Lito Kattou
Melanie King
Ellie Kyungran Heo
Shivangi Ladha
Gili Lavy
Peter Le Couteur
Colin Lindsay
Yun-Ling Chen
Zejing Liu
Min Luo
Ruth Maclennan
Mayra Martin Ganzinotti
Andrea Mestre del Pino
Marco Miehling
Tom Morrill
George Morris
Johannes Mutter
Enrique Perez Alvarez
Josh Philip Saunders
Joanna Rojkowska
Emma Rudge
Julia Schuster
Shobhan Shah
Nora Silva
Natalia Skobeeva
Erin Solomons
Susannah Stark
Sarah Staton
Risja Steeghs
Francesco Tacchini
Sonja Tanner
Marta Troya Gracia
Margaux Valengin
Marta Velasco Velasco
Robert Walker
Kate Webster
Lewk Wilmshurst
Dawn Woolley
Chiayun Wu
FeiFei Yu


Juan Cruz – Dean of the School of Fine Art RCA
Anne Duffau – Exhibitions Coordinator
Hannah Evans – RCA Students’ Union
Sharon Lee – Specialist Technical Instructor in Lithography
Mayra Martin Ganzinotti – Project Coordinator and Editor
Andy Richardson – Specialist Technical Instructor in Digital Printing
Natalia Skobeeva – Project Initiator & President of Transnationals Society
Olya Troitskaya – Website Designer
Ritz Wu – RCA Students’ Union

– And here is the success and fame of the Napoleon: destroyed countries and approximately two million dead in the end. If you shout out loudly of your intention to reach a similar fame – you can imagine what will happened next.

There is another type of fame – less violent; have a go with spitting faster/longer distance/higher, etc. So, you can get into the Guinness World Records… Why not?

I compose photographs that comment on society and try to find the inner child.

Loneliness is a vital signifier of our difficult time, because people spend more time online. Life becomes less and less about what you own, but about what you experience, so entertainment, performance and games are becoming more and more important parts of our lives.

The nuclear family is becoming slowly extinct, which is why even grown men have to resort to playing with plastic dolls to have somebody to talk to.

The photograph speaks of great sadness and desperation, which is enhanced through the contrast of the quite joyful exterior of a man dressed like a magician and a cheerful doll and board games. The games are all group games. However the man has nobody to play them with, turning them entirely obsolete.

I use illustration to visualise my dreams and nightmares. I mainly work with ink and watercolour.

Often we forget that humans are animals too. In a place where there is no gravity and where there are no worldly possessions and hence no clothes the distinction between animals and humans becomes blurred. It is civilisation that sets us apart, without it we are just pure emotions and free fall.

This illustration depicts my inner image of heaven, a dark cloud, ready to burst into rain at sunset time. Human souls are floating through it, like nudists on a beach or in a sauna. Some are embracing their freedom, moving around freely and joyfully. Others are scared, screaming and hiding their faces.

Some animals have made it into heaven too: a floating monkey and a rhino that gets joy from chasing human souls. Although there is a big group of people everyone is completely wrapped up in their own minds, not interacting with each other in the slightest. The hope of reconnecting with loved ones in heaven seems to be in vain.

My performance criticizes how captives are being treated under inhuman conditions. For this improvisation I gathered a group of friends and assigned them roles which we actively lived for a week.

The photograph of this performance catches a moment in a prison based religious ritual. The scene is set in a dry and dusty desert, near a deserted factory plant. There is a supervisor dressed in black giving instructions. A woman is kept captive in a painted square. Driven crazy by imprisonment, she is talking to herself. The whole scene is made absurd by the lack of audience.

The prisoners have to clean up under the supervision of two guards. The floor is being swept in a pointless manner as a burst of wind could make it all dirty again in any moment. Time seems to pass really slowly. The performance speaks about hierarchy and oppression.

Like a magpie I started collecting things at an early age. I currently study Jewellery and Metal at the Royal College of Art. Creating jewellery for me is a creative outlet that makes me feel alive. In my practise I use experimentation and hands on play with materials, combining, cutting and contrasting, to create unique pieces that use found, mass manufactured objects to create jewellery pieces. I am especially interested in joints and the creation of tension. Through the use of cheap, plastic consumables my work investigates how we define value. In that way I question the disposability of today’s products.

Transference Medium

Man’s dominion over nature is a limited time offer. We stock up on all the best pieces and throw them in the freezer for later. The half-life of cold storage is quite long, but not quite long enough. So let us look back to see the way forward. To Plutarch’s Lives and Pyrrhic victories, the story finds us right on time — two thousand years later:

“The armies separated; and, it is said, Pyrrhus replied to one that gave him joy of his victory that one other such victory would utterly undo him. For he had lost a great part of the forces he brought with him, and almost all his particular friends and principal commanders; there were no others there to make recruits...”

This piece is a fragment. It is an exemplar of our need to hold on to objects as reminders. A symbol of all that was pure and good, that we chose to pluck.

“…Finally, I have discovered the position, which will bring me income from now on. With the help of this position the student or amateur will be able to produce a technically sound painting at a minimum cost. Believe me or not, this comfy position will explain the savings which are possible through preparing one’s own canvases and painting media. No less useful will be the technical instruction on subjects; such as the consistency of impasto or paint, glazes, painting with a palette knife and polymer paints. A factual position, unconcerned with questions of aesthetics, contextual and critical studies, admirably succeeds in providing the essential skills and information necessary to anyone making a move to be a painter. All these years, I have been trying to define the right to be called ‘an artist’… What a load of bollocks! Sit with me and I will make you an artist!”

Sticks in Mud

The true problem, as I saw it in those days, was not that I could not leave and make it back without getting caught. It was more that I lacked the imagination to go anywhere in specific that seemed truly worth the spectacular risk involved. I am, and was, an almost dangerously optimist young man. I was always more enamoured with this strange world of fantasy and adventure in my mind than an unsupervised trip to Seven Eleven. The grandeur of my ambitions tended to cause full-body paralysis and solipsistic thinking. The escape would have to be majestic and wonderful in order to break the spell. The reality was that, if I was going to go somewhere I would have to go forever and never come back. That was the only way.

Girl balancing gold disk

How does it feel when your long and wavy thick hair touches your shoulder?

Who is anyone to tell you how to dress?

Should I tattoo my skin or not?

Which is more genuine?

Pure skin? Or pure art body?

Why overthink?

Which is the best decision?

Which path should I take?

Should I stop seeing him?

Does he do me well?

Do I feel lonely?

Am I alone?

Live by myself? Or live communally?

Be selfish or share everything?

Greet people or ignore them?

Headphones or sound?

Dance or move?

Enjoy or eat?

You or me?

Bus or underground?

City or countryside?

Old or young?

What is balance in a place so unbalanced?

What is time if we’re living in the past, present, and future tense all at the same time?

“I tried my best.

I liked that idea.”

What is Left in the Absence of Honey

In my culture, honey is the elixir of life. It is the fluid by which sweetness is procured, by which the seed finds the pod, by which love adheres, by which the queen asserts her rule. It is the alchemical means by which legacy is preserved, by which stray wanderers are caught, by which fluid turns to gemstones and the lights are lit. It is the sticky substance by which dough is moistened, by which sticks drip gold, by which hymenopterans find purpose, by which nothing spoils, by which one reaches the afterlife, by which tea transforms. It is the ambrosia by which the gods are fed, by which milk is matched, by which wilderness is reconciled.

This work — this direct photographic process — is about the absence of that. It is unmediated, the bees are dead, and only their inverted shadows are left.

My work comments on current affairs through documentary photography.

Religions cause wars. Religions are a very disruptive institution and especially Christianity has caused a lot of unrest and wars through its missionary work. Yet the church claims to represent peace. This photograph captures this great irony through use of contrast: the building shines through its immaculate whiteness, while the sky – heaven – is really gloomy and dark, announcing an approaching thunderstorm. The thunderstorm is war, and church, the house of peace, provides refuge from this, while also being its initiator. Thus an image of doing good against evil is created, even though it would not have existed without them in the first place.

This piece of work also speaks about abandonment. The only sign of people in the picture are the shortly chopped lawn and the presence of the photographer. The church itself is decaying, with paint coming off and roof tiles missing.

I employ symmetry in my work to create intriguing images that make the viewer pause to look at them and consider the work in its depth and the relation between religious disagreements and political unrest.

Dream 001/100, 2016

I am a dream collage based artist. I collage snippets of dreams that I try to remember which are then recollected in an imaginary 3-dimensional space. Each composition becomes a slice filed into a virtual archive called my ‘Unconscious’. In this composition, the hierarchy of objects versus humans is swapped. What we in this moment perceive as ‘objects’ stretching on the ground are actually beings in the middle of a yoga class. The beheaded ‘human’ is in fact a hologram advertising the latest form of refreshment for these ‘objects’

The emotionless characteristic of the scene is replaced by the sleekness and saturated colours of the space and ‘objects’. Colour is the language by which they communicate between one another. Through these collages I explore the possibility of hyperspaces within our unconscious that could lead to proof that there is life in other dimensions of which we are not yet aware and that objects may have a soul. Through my ‘flat’ practice I offer dimensional possibilities of what may come to be in a not so distant future.

‘And to-morrow I shall be killed, perhaps not even by a Frenchman but by one of our own men, by a soldier discharging a musket close to my ear as one of them did yesterday, and the French will come and take me by head and heels and fling me into a hole that I may not stink under their noses, and new conditions of life will arise, which will seem quite ordinary to others and about which I shall know nothing. I shall not exist.'

Prince Andrew’s reflections on life and death. Book X, chapter XXIV in Tolstoy, War & Peace, p.852.

Subaltern Carries the Flag

Liberty is a strange game we play with one another. Inherent in its upkeep is a message sent to us, by us. “Just to let you know, I’m mining the gaps in your optimism.”

We acquiesce and find that there is really no line of escape, only at times a silo to use as shelter from the storm. Let’s meet up when the coast is clear.

Maybe the sky is this giant one-way mirror built to protect us from ourselves. An elaborate distraction perpetuated by whomever is looking on from the other side. They are rapt with wonder and dismay, mesmerized by our mixture of stupid glee and our overwhelming propensity for violence. It is probably not unlike how we might gaze at a lovesick loner flexing and preening inches away from his own reflection. Maybe there is a great estuary past that, and no matter how hard we try we will never get there... it's probably for the best.

Hand with tree trunk

Wood wrist Wrist wood Wood wood wrist wrist Wrist wrist wood wood Wood hand Hand wood Wood wood hand hand Hand hand wood wood Wood nail Nail wood Wood wood nail nail Nail nail wood wood Wood shadow Shadow wood Wood wood shadow shadow Shadow shadow wood wood Catch throw Throw catch Catch catch throw throw Throw throw catch catch Green skin Green thumb Skin green Thumb green

Bounce, bounce, bounce

I wish to encrust the esophageal cavern, bedazzle the gullet, and make the labyrinthine tangle of viscera a geodic gesture of encapsulated value.

It would be easy to subscribe my work to the cynicism of Adman flare, branding diabetes with a bit of coruscating drama - thrust some of the glitterati shimmer into the perception of lowbrow grease in the more populist fare. However valid this read of the work might be, it is tangential to my desire to crystalize my interior.

What beauty, the epidermal state-change of fried chicken – transitioning from the sick pallid swamp-flesh of raw body, into the cragged metamorphic mystery of the crispy neo-sheath. Is it perverse to believe that I, like the lowly clam, might mull the consumed detritus into an intestinal garden of glory? I know that I am capable of mesmeric alchemy, I only need a bit of ting.

The only thing I can think of maybe there is not enough effort? …Hm. Why, what for ‘the most precious’ often is to tighten up the enormous and countless sorrow, depravation and unhappiness. Having sex, having children or to be successful in life can be done without it. And it is less trouble. Why do we need IT?

Holding Vacuum, 2016

In this piece titled 'Holding vacuum' I use the custom hand shaped sheet of glass to experience and comprehend the space between my fingers. Through the making of this sheet of glass I aim to contain time and space within it, and for there to never be discontinuities in between one thing and the other.

Through my practice, I explore how negative space can be habited and contained within man-made transparent objects. I think of these negative spaces as pockets of unspoken stories that are yet to be heard and I specifically use the material of glass in laminate form, as well as spheres, as a vessel to try to contain them and allowing these spaces and stories to be read and touched. What will the negative space close to your body be trying to say and that you cannot hear?

These objects can be custom shaped around any requested body part with which one wants to experience and read these negative spaces through touch.

“Become an architect”, they said. “Do harm to society”, they continued. “Concrete is THE material that hurts most when children fall down on it”, they laughed. My piece of work illustrates the beauty of a sadistic discipline: The beauty of German engineered plattenbau. Plattenbauten are proven to drive their inhabitants into severe depression. A round mask surrounds the right angle but doesn’t serve as an escape from this dilemma.

‘The glut of my breasts

Fear between my thighs

My dreams are a knife.

I’ll cut you the star you were’

My work is about an apathy that I feel towards the inevitable landscape of my transgender definition. I could care less about your carelessness of recognition and definition. All that is missing from my life around you is, the night and day of it, that and curly hair. I wish I had curly hair. I’m happy not being a benign blonde. I paint to evade you. To invade you. Scarlet, I look forward to building this normal double blind. I am the trees, see how they sing in the distance, not worth giving a cold cloud in the sky? I mute colours to balance my yell of perspective that leans in towards the viewer as if to spoil your vision with my coffee as it falls from the table onto you. There is always a straight line in my paintings, mostly horizontal but here it is vertical with a move to the right, thus creating a V of which I am the centre.

'Awards For Existing', Jo Monk

London 2016

My work interrogates our societies preoccupation with efficiency in the context of the fast-paced capitalism that surrounds our working lives. As a self-confessed slacker with no credible skills or experience, I have been undertaking a self-funded research residency at Liverpool Street Station each day for the past 3 months to try to understand the trials of the commuter population.

'Awards for existing' are trophies of sorts, distributed each day to passers-by. Mimicking the design of bland corporate awards and taking inspiration from tree rings, the awards depict exactly 81.5 lines representing the average life expectancy of a British citizen. These awards are distributed every morning between 8am and 9am with the proviso that they are returned the following morning in time for the next commuter rush.

My research is now embarking on phase two where I will attempt to obtain an unpaid internship.

Jo Monk lives and works in Liverpool Street Station.

He spoke to the others with all his mighty passion and ability, trying to get to their hearts and souls, if they have one but their minds. In the middle of the speech he even quoted The Philosopher: ‘Time gnaws and wears away; it separates; it flies. And by virtue of separation – by separating man from his pain or from the object of his pain – time cures. “Let time do it,” said the King to Don Roderigo’"- Being and Nothingness, Jean-Paul Sartre

…“Let time do it”, he repeated quite vaguely, “and you will be cured, just be patient.”

He could not see their eyes drilling through his head. They were NOT his people, but they could become. In the end that is what he desired.

“You have to trust me, you have to believe, and we will get there!” his voice raised with passion, adding a touch of drama to the proceedings.

There was no reaction, silence. He could not understand, why, he felt his anger and irritation rising. Finally, he turned his back to the crowd and what he saw in front of him was beyond his imagination: “Oh”, was his final words…

Under the moonlight it was quiet and silent so were they.

I make a fool of myself all day every day, as part of my day ra ra ra ra I exert my full rights as an entitled democratic human being (aka brat?!) by singing to my hearts content

Pouring myself onto others


a 21st Century one

And I love myself



And who are you to dare judge my work?

Ask yourself

Are you just another victim of your behavioural, emotional, cognitive brain?

Create, live life to the fullest, be ra ra ra ra

“Night Sky Scene” 2000 (The Beach)

Richard: Françoise?

Françoise: Chut! Etienne will be angry if I wake him. He thinks I waist time taking photos of the sky.

Richard: Oh… *waking up*

*The shutter clicks*

Richard: I think so too.

Françoise: Yeah? Have a look… One night I will get the perfect photograph.

*Richard looks into the camera, Francoise appears magnified in the image*

Françoise: Hi!

Richard: Whoa! *laughing* You realise… that in the eternity of space… there’s probably a planet out there, right… just like this one… where another you… is photographing back down towards us. I mean essentially you are photographing yourself in a parallel universe.

Françoise: Incredible…

Richard: Yeah… There are infinite worlds out there, ya know? Where anything you want to happen… does happen.

Françoise: Richard, do you know something?

Richard: Hm?

Françoise: This is just the kind of pretentious bullshit Americans always say to French girls so they can sleep with them.

Richard: God! Sorry. I thought I was doin’ pretty good.

Françoise: It’s just the sky, Richard. Let’s try.

Richard: Yeah *whispers to himself* Idiot.

*Camera shutter clicks*

Françoise: Un, deux, trois… quatre.

Richard: *Narrating* When you develop an infatuation for someone, you always find a reason to believe that this is exactly the person for you. It doesn’t have to be a good reason. Taking photographs of the night sky, for example. Now in the long run, that’s just the kind of dumb, irritating habit that would cause you to split up. But in the haze of infatuation, it’s just what you’ve been searching for all these years.

My brother, why are you being obsessed with P(ower)? Why does this big ‘P’ trouble you?

Materials list.

-9 4x4 lengths of lumber, cut flush floor-to-ceiling

-18 mounting brackets, to secure lumber floor-to-ceiling


Step 1:

Arbitrarily place wood pylons throughout space.

Secure floor-to-ceiling.

Populate colorless space with forest of utility lumber.

Step 2:

Go wild. Paint lengths like a primary school. Result.

Playfully fleshless bones of an architectural space.

Optional Flourish:

Bridge pylons with scrap lumber and frame stuff. Now you have decoration.

In my practise, I provoke emotional reactions in the viewer, in this particular case sadness. For this piece, I scared ice-cream eaters in public places causing them to drop their ice creams. I am interested in whether people truly believe in the five second rule and tested it and people’s willingness to eat ice cream that has touched the road, through this social experiment. In these unhappy accidents, pure joy is transformed into disappointment through a momentary failure of concentration and hand coordination. This is not helped by the fact that the ice lolly is held by a whimsical transparent plastic lollipop stick that doesn't seem to give much support to the heavy mass of frozen water it carries. The ice-lolly itself gives off a feeling of sadness as it resembles an ice cube more than a joyously colourful and flavoursome ice cream. The immense whiteness of the ice gives an astonishingly dark shadow, that looks like chocolate icing from afar and only adds to the disappointment that lies in the image. The ground is a rich texture of decaying concrete and dirt, that stands in contrast to the crisp and clean whiteness of the ice itself.

This piece of art speaks of human mishaps, mistakes and unconsidered actions that lead to disaster. The ice-lolly is the melting glacier and the hot summer day is global warming.

'The wrinkly surface and the pink thread', Performance Piece at my House

I work with found wrinkled/super creased surfaces, sticking needles in and out of them to stitch them together. Tsh – Tush – Tash –Tush – Tsh – Tush – Tash – Ash – Ass – Aaaaaaaa – Sshhhh…

The technique I employ in these rituals is ‘Free-motion stitching’ and is exactly it says, you have the freedom to move the stitching anywhere you want as well as transfer any sewing technique you feel like mastering that day. There are no political borders or boundaries.

Through the gesture of stitching I want to create and imagine a space in which there are no borders, no centralised structure but practical solidarity of the inclusion and respect of materials and techniques as metaphors. The material used is found, repurposing the language of these objects to give them a new life.

“The city is a mode of spectrality,” Dr. Plasma CR00001 said. “It seeps into your epidermis locking out any form of moisture (prana). It then makes its way through your veins to contaminate you with its histories in consummation of its need to permeate the soul.” Dr. Plasma chuckled, much amused at the ignorance of this human he added: “One could say that the city is soulless, it reverberates with life through the act of parasitising bodies, empty carcasses they are,” it pauses. “It is only through this intellectual and mechanical act of coition that humans exist and are able to wander and question themselves.”

“How would you know?…” Human XY asked.

“I am a fossil, in which a constellation of forces have been calcified over time”

The inadequacy of words to convey meaning or knowledge has permeated my career in the last 10 years.

I find that words no longer are what they used to be.

I consulted the Compass and asked: “How could I express the understanding of what Architectural Education and the British Tradition means?”

The Compass said:

Store 4.

Store 4 is the new revolutionary concept brought to you by award-winning multi-disciplinary design studio VRch. Employing future driven technology capabilities with speculative design solutions in real time, Store 4 creates a modern alternative to investment opportunities in this sector. Ideally located within an area of rapid redevelopment, Store 4 sits as a landmark within the surrounding 2800ppi landscape, complete with 360 degree field of view. Designed to combine luxury with functionality in a truly dynamic hybrid, Store 4 hosts prime commercial and residential opportunities, including four subterranean levels with approved planning for future expansion. Programmed features include personalised avatars for AI-human interaction, voice-activated command centre and fully customisable interiors. Available only through our leading VR platform, Store 4 is the perfect investment for those who wish to secure their assets in prime virtual real estate.

Please Fill Out This Free Fun Survey!

Market research identified a possible opportunity to rebrand and invigorate the franchise functionality for first-time investors. Typically, majority investors and franchise trademark holders (franchisees) are afforded the pre-existing embedded infrastructure of our fully networked corporate conglomerate to facilitate and maintain standards of quality, raw materials, and labour. This network plays a huge role in consolidating consumer expectations while limiting the franchisee’s exposure to liability and maximizing profit margins. When we talk about delivery of services we find that the supply chain is “plug and play” enabling minimal front-end investment when upscaling (especially when speaking of the proliferation of new locations). Optimization of market share goes hand and hand with new product rollouts on a quarterly basis. This quarter, we hope to bring a renewed focus to consumer-facing needs and really get a sense of what the people have to say. Who uses our services? What are they lacking? Where is the next frontier of opportunity?

Monument to Interiority

Documentation and Account: I stood in the corridor where the wrapped, packaged, and near-forgotten paintings are stored. That’s where a visitor would encounter me — colourful and regal, but seemingly misplaced. They would have to have ventured off course to find me — out of the gallery space, perhaps in search of a bathroom.

I looked only at the wall over the course of these four hours, standing still, one hand in a fist, one hand holding the flow of fabric in place. I imagined myself as the Statue of Liberty turned inside-out, with an emphasis on the intestines. I imagined myself as a classical statue of the female figure left in the wrong place, turned the wrong way. Draped in an armour of self, my organs oversized and protective, I was nonetheless vulnerable to an acute gaze by those who found me. But, once encountered, my presence forced them to negotiate the space of passage by me, not unlike immigrants by and through Ellis Island.

Tools to Groom the Soul

“The Orifice is the window to the soul,” Grandmother used to say.

Feed it, bare it, air it.

The devices suggest preciousness: tools in a delicate tradition paced down, made ones own. It makes the negative space positive; it activates the intimacy of grooming, of feeding, of stroking.

In my expression of this relationship, I offer the viewer opposites, in a way. I present you with a slice of stone floating against a field of gray — fixed matter in the place of depth, of openness. And yet, you’ll note, it is bodiless, as bodiless as the image itself: a seeming screenshot of a website’s slide clicked to float, depthless, in a light box.

With its upper left-hand X, this single window of a digital portfolio promises it can slip away. It is merely a ghost, a shell, a scrim of an orifice that truly breathes, that closes and opens, opens and closes, with depth of life inside (in the place of deception).

“Farewell to Glory” 1999 (Renford Rejects)

Ben: All I’m doing is making a short film for my art’s course that’s all.

Stewart: Well I thought you hated films.

Ben: Yeah but that’s before I realised that film is the true art of our times… Poetry is ancient history.

Stewart: Ancient history? And what’s your film about Ben?

Ben: It’s about friendship you know, it’s about what brings human beings together, it’s about…

Stewart: I thought it was about football.

Ben: Well yeah football’s the background to the story.

Image of a white dog sleeping the days away in an even brighter paradise. Lost in a society where humans are boss and he is the friendly comfort blanket on four paws when the girlfriend is gone.

In his sleep, he drifts away, looking for what is beyond this dog to dog world of bad food and water.

Yearning for a life beyond the walks on the windy shores of the English coast.

Exploring a life where there is no paw to stand on, no dog to bark to.

A place without smelly fur and bad breath, no hair or teeth, no longer a slave to all that is human.

If only he could be more than the white fur that god gave him.

drifting away

drifting away

oh drifting away...

Photo of the Earth from outer space

The world is everywhere today. We are the world. But is the world us? How much of the world are we?

I only just realised that the image is in black and white. I shouldn’t be talking about the world then. Planet Earth isn’t black. Planet Earth isn’t grey. Planet Earth isn’t white. Planet Earth is yellow, blue, and green. A black and white existence is sad, like bullfighting. I wouldn’t like to live in such a world, would you? But you do, because bullfighting still takes place in many countries of the world. Like in Spain.

I never dress solely black and white, ever. I always introduce a colour into my outwear. I like to make streetwalkers happy by simply looking at my vividness. They’re so doomed by their dark denim clothes. Urgh, so boring. Please express yourself. Stop being a good citizen. Please. The world needs you, Planet Earth needs you to bring it back to its original colour. At the moment, it’s feeling soooooooo sad… I don’t. Because I, MEEEEEEEE, I dress in colours. And I, MEEEEEEE, I don’t watch bullfighting. Ha ha.

‘Gott Entwirft Für Ikea’ Marwin Marco, 2016

Inspired by the perfect, logical but cruel design of nature, my work explores the way we may idealise and treasure the natural world whilst inadvertently destroying it via cheap, throw away experience and commodity.

For millennia humans, have copied designs and innovations found in nature and attributed the form to a god. In a more secular era where science and capitalism have largely replaced western religion, the installation points to concerns about marine conservation, (above specifically the Razor Clam) using familiar Ikea components i.e. a Shelf. ‘God Designs for Ikea’ is a meditation on consumer culture and using flat pack furniture to inspire natural awakening.

Marco Marwin studied at the Institute of Fine Art in Frankfurt and lives and works in Berlin.

‘The extraordinary turbulence of contemporary art’

In part explained by a modernity which can be characterised as a culture of dissent, ideas and practices of contemporary art are founded on a continuous and restless testing of our underlying assumptions and boundaries. Principles of critique and boundary testing embody this and have done so for decades. None of this should lead us to conclude that the traditional and vital functions of a library are neglected. I am asking fundamental questions about what might constitute a 21st century library for the visual arts. This is not mere rhetorical questioning; the probing, which I describe, occurs in daily practice, which combines traditional library functions with those of collecting and (most significantly) curating. Major national and international museums and galleries wishing to draw on exhibitions, have been made during development of this project. Achievements described are not attained overnight; but as the direct result of decades of keen archival judgement and rigorous scholarship, combined with a deep commitment to some of the most radical and visionary forms of practice and theory, a clear and consistent strategy, today carried forward by taking sides is the key debate of the day. High risk as it were, based on a powerful understanding of the shifting relationship that artists have to printed matter, as well as to a related and more general probing of the ways in which mass production and reproduction have changed our relationship to artefacts in general. This was part of a general recognition that our sense, of how the status and concept of ‘original‘ can never be the same again.

A Balance.

These have been used, re-used and thrown away. Someone found these in different parts of town, picked up and brought them back in; toyed with them and erected the reminder that the art historical strategies including minimalism and the readymade.

Someone’s rubbish – someone’s treasure.

One day there was peace on Earth… She did not worship anyone or anything. She was not a believer either. She was a strange traveller, seeking a shelter. She opened her very bony left hand to the Rifle maker, there was a hole through it. The Rifle maker, who believed in nothing abstract, only solid, material objects, denies the existence of such holes. “You may touch it,” she said…Since when he touched her hand, he has seen the most distressing images of man’s inhumanity to man and he ended his life in a mental asylum.

“Actions have a tense, they are past, present, or future, but this split goes further than the object or the event. Remember this.” She repeated it this twice.

She was not a woman, she was a concept who becomes a woman, and because she does, she is strangely more of an ideal than before, for fleshing out the mystery of her.

There was a trail of mysterious incidents with the rifle makers around the world.

“Holes are images of trauma, trauma is Greek for wound, and just as a wound is a hole in the skin”, she said once…and one day there was peace on Earth.

The redundant gesture of threatening harm to an already dead thing, adheres to a post-existence belief system. The notion that I, with my cold medicinal needle, might puncture the veil of corporeal anchorage and inflict affect on the after-life. This is a work that oscillates between a post-death optimism, and the destructive angst of an insecure harbinger.

The finch, often symbolizing the happy fervor of an energetic life – is presented lifeless, submissively posed in a position uncharacteristic of birds. It is an allusion to flight, whilst simultaneously denying levity completely. This space of contradiction excites me, for it is the fertile oscillation between faith and doubt that adds a bit of dimension to our circumstance. Were the answer to deny our ability to question, what would become of us?

I collect and transform found discarded materials and make satellite maquettes for my own personal satisfaction. I would have loved to be an astronaut and being an artist is the next best thing down the line from being one.

There is no question that I project my own universe onto the abandoned materials, my subjectivity reconstituted within them.

I often find myself questioning the utility of what could be considered, contemporarily or historically, a mix of ‘ready made/feminist art’. I think much of it attempts to avoid domination through the invitation of oppression action. Can self-objectification through the materialising of my subjectivity converted into an object ever be something else without self-objectifying?

I am interested in the process of binary splitting to build a healthy relationship with the debris of the world, using it as a way to provide a central core in which to begin to integrate the contrasting aspects of the self and the outside of the self.

This installation is inspired by the photographs of aging pipes that the artist took last year when visiting the city of Hong Kong. As part of the show, he examined the plumbing system of the gallery and investigated the steel pipes that heat and cool the space, as well as those used for waste removal and water delivery. The result was a body of work about… (nothingness. I am so bored of these artist statements and having to explain what lays behind my work. I did this exhibition because I was lazy, because I hadn’t made enough work, and since nowadays you can get away with almost anything in art, I fucking did this. Yes, I did visit Hong Kong last year, but I couldn’t have cared less about the aging pipes. I really loved the place, I walked for many hours around the city, I was involved in the umbrella protests, and I drank some amazing cocktails with a friend that I knew from back home. I went to Hong Kong for pleasure, because I could afford it, just like I can afford going to art school. And because I’m so conceptual and cool, I can take on a whole gallery and show NOTHING.)

Born in 1979 in Michigan, the artist lives and works in New York. Recent solo exhibitions include Galeria Marta Cervera, Madrid (2016), Kate MacGarry, London (2015) and Wallspace, New York (2013). This exhibition will be on from December 12th until January 7th.

‘Skerlornso’ by The Answer

In-Crypt Gallery, Copenhagen 2016

‘Skerlornso’ is now a well-known portable essential grooming device from the Ikea(tm) ‘post-modern living’ range. Literally translated to English it means: “Everything you need and nothing you don’t for the long dark times ahead”. The concept originally came from the itinerant mystic/tech guru formerly known as “?”, now simply known as “The Answer”. The Answer is known to take her design cues from Bauhaus and update them for the digital age, in this case equipping the ‘Skerlornso’ with the requisite ‘mod cons’ such as a live-streaming webcam, multiple USB and thunderbolt ports and, of course, a chemical toilet. Whether it’s a war zone, migrant crisis or your everyday bourgeois existence, the ‘Skerlornso’ is the portable grooming item nobody can live without.

The Answer lives and works online and her identity remains unknown.

– –

The man dressed in a sphere-shaped gown could not stop staring at the woman sitting opposite him. He observed, that despite trying her best, she was never able to sneeze. The fog saw, it was their witness.

My practice revolves around observing and catching glimpses of inadequacy and absurd stories. I record sights of never-to-be relationships and am interested in the gap that sparks one person’s desire and curiosity between one and the other.

'First Bike Ride With Dad' by Jeremy Sandell

The Archive of Interaction, 2016

My work explores memory and loss, focusing on misremembering’s which enable the creation of alternative histories. The archive of interaction features significant photographs and ephemera from my childhood that have been reimagined. I believe that all memory is fiction and in this way all fact becomes fictionalised.

The title image refers to the moment I became ‘balanced’ with removal of my bicycle stabilisers, prior to the inaugural “Race To The Sea”. My parents always let me win - perhaps this is why, I have such a sense of entitlement and am in denial about my physical fitness which I have explored in previous work, undertaking personal training sessions in the Tate.

This photo is precious and powerful for me as it contains the latent energy and potential of a future yet to be lived where anything is possible.

Jeremy Sandell was born at sea and lives and works from his studio in Brighton.

The three forces of our solar system are 1.) somnambulism, 2.) alopecia and 3.) nonterminating dustbins. Only once every 10800 seconds they choose to open a conference. It is of uber importance that gender imbalance is present! Otherwise there shall be too much wisdom served in bottles. “Can we have an USB-C adapter?” asked the moderator whilst his shirt turned blue. The three forces neglected but offered a set of 7 matching frames on tinder in one single swipe.

“Perhaps this is all a kind of dream, one where I have let myself dissolve into them, let them take me over”

The object wasn’t found nor was it involved in the tragic death of Tippoo Sahib, ruler of Mysore. It rather introduces itself as a small piece of metal that had no appearance as a requisite in Se7en, something too dangerous to let your baby play with it. It came with an environment that is too shy to reveal its unaltered identity. For now, reflections are all we get. “What is its function?” you may ask. “How’s your neighbour’s wife” I might reply! People tried to chew it, but then failed to pronounce the taste. The object in its current state can be described as 50% chewed and 50% not chewed. The not chewed part is found in the east.

Short movie about a pyramid on a journey in its own desert.

Slightly lost, still going strong.

racing through the sand like there is no tomorrow

exploring the lands which were unseen but are now much clearer in future’s sight.

sound recordings are to be imagined by yourself while watching the filmed scenery

In Comprehension of Shadows.

“And yet, when we gaze into the darkness [...], though we know perfectly well it is mere shadow, we are overcome with the feeling that in this small corner of the atmosphere there reigns complete and utter silence; that here in the darkness immutable tranquility holds sway.” - In Praise of Shadows, Junichiro Tanizaki

This work simultaneously considers the subversion of Western architectural ideals and an increasing Eastern influence on modern Western perspectives. Existing both as installation and photographic documentation, the piece responds primarily to Junichiro Tanizaki’s essay ‘In Praise of Shadows’. In this oeuvre, Tanizaki criticizes the Western tendency to bleach rooms with light, illuminating every detail of its interior and eliminating subtle beauty. Placed underground within the disused arches of cavernous railway tunnels, the piece explores the interaction between light, the interior space and the exterior of the human body. Electric light bulbs line the path of travel like candles crossed with car headlights, in an unflickering yet mesmerising trail. In contrast, the figure becomes part of the landscape, shrouded in different shades and textures of darkness. In creating and documenting a new perspective on the city aesthetic, this work exists to re-imagine the Western interaction with darkness and shadow.

‘Little Mother Fucker’

I make music with images and feel the beat in a visual. In this track I made a minimal sound with a driving base like a Norton engine about the break down. I make all my music on my IPhone with apps. After a night of running around Paris as a teenager I met this girl on the street who I wanted to suck my dick, she wouldn’t but I had some weed and this made me more attractive to her so I said we’d go down to the river and smoke. On the way there she picked up two of her friend’s and one of them was Maria a short German who had run away from home three weeks earlier. She had a wicked smile and I was really into her so I tried to get her more stoned than the others and gave her some vodka from my bag. When I thought, the others were dozing off a bit I tried to get my hand up her skirt but the other two girls saw me and jumped up grabbing me with my trousers around my ankles. Those bitches held me down and Maria fucked me in the arse with the bottle of vodka and took photos with my phone. This is one of those pictures.

Box. ‘Box’ is a reaction to a letter I received from a friend after he had a harrowing experience.

Fucking hell. I’m all boxed up. Like the Velvet Underground’s poor Waldo Jeffers sending himself to his girlfriend. Ended up with a sheet metal cutter through the head. And here I am. White paint under my fingernails. Thought I’d stay in the dark for a while. Give me clarity. But then I couldn’t stand it anymore. The fucking dark. So I tore my way out. Scrabbled at the side of the box. Broke a nail. Ripped at the cardboard a bit with my teeth. Light started peering through. Reflected off my sunglasses (darkness to layer upon darkness). Scratched at the hole I’d made. Started gradually getting through the layers of corrugation. Got a bigger bit, pulled it with a deep throated tear. Felt good. Kept going, faster now. False starts, dull vibrations through the cardboard wall as shreds littered my lap. Picked up pace. Breathing heavily. Hole got bigger. Specks of brown in my beard. Brushed them out. Poked my fingers through the growing gap. Tore away evermore hastily. And then, exhaustion. Stopped. Rested my hand through my peephole. I could see. But I was still in a box. Fuck’s sake.

This performance is part of a series of works called Grand Occasion. In this body of work, I investigate the things in life that I would have liked to celebrate but never did, most likely because of unexpected events in my surrounding.

In this particular performance, I celebrate that time in my life when I won my first Judo competition. Unfortunately, my grandmother fell ill while sitting in the audience precisely at the same time as my victory was announced. I saw my family stand up in the crowd – I thought they were going to cheer my name – but instead my mum stood up screaming that nana had a heart attack and that we had to run to the hospital.

As happy as I was about my prize, I was never able to celebrate this moment with both myself and my loved ones, so in this performance I dance on my own dressed in a judo outfit, celebrating my victory for once and for all.

Painted to the likeness of Jean Paul Belmondo à la Jean-Luc Godard’s 1965 film Pierrot le Fou, this portrait is a rehashing of irreverent indecisiveness. Passing through my own contextual organ-grinder, I appropriate the mad-clowning vacillation of Godard’s narrative as my conceptual base-coat. Puncturing the face with a shrapnelled and vacuous abstraction, the figurehead takes on a shallow depth and ghostly essence. Painting with a derisive commitment to form, translucency affords me the oscillating gaze through subject and object. Stylistically, I suppose our dear Jean Paul swings toward a neo-Pop tradition – cocktails of facile suavity mixed with a touch of the Hockneyed ennui out by the pool.

High-noon in the age of the ‘selfie’, our reflexive portrait culture – manifested via self-portrait or not – exists clad in patinas of self-indulgence. Be it the self-mythologizing hubris of the ‘great’-white male, or the fickle self-important isolation of post-internet era attention-spa; Neon Belmondo paints his cool face with his cool blue war-paint. Blue, spelling the casual doom of Godard’s dynamite head-dress.

-Ceramics for the blind.

Touch pots without shame, cuddle with them if you like. Walls are to be licked then quoted out loud.

“Four Lines of WHY:


In between your mouth and mine, 2015

My practice currently speaks of an obsession I have with orifices, more specifically mouths. What started as a dental problem a few years ago it developed into an obsession of acquiring defective dental casts and 3-D scanning them to create animations of dental casts in which they would have a dialogue about platonic love. Through this I explore the oral cavity as the central channel by which the self and the surroundings are brought into relation.

Using Shakespeare as a point of reference the dialogue between the two ‘mouths’, In between your mouth and me, involves drooling over the possibilities of love within a virtual space, re-imagining Shakespeare’s plays in a contemporary setting. Sometimes these characters sing too, specifically serenades about how beautiful their virtual shimmer is, a shear thickening fluid armour stopping viruses coming in and appropriating their structures and thus their virtual beings.

I have a background in forensics and animation, my practice started as an interest in finding out how the corpse operates as a ‘hyperspace.

I photographed this rock because it looked like an erect dick.

This summer, I met an Englishman who had been living in Chile. We met in India, Auroville precisely, the experimental city that everyone should visit. He had been pressured by his family to study law, and just when he was about to open his own law firm and office, he quit everything and flew away to Chile. His friend suggested to work for him writing for Lonely Planet, and so he spent the following years travelling this wonderful Latin country and falling in love with its culture and people.

Seventeen years after that event, we met in India. Janak had just closed down his hostel in Valparaiso because he had had a vision when taking ayahuasca that revealed he had to go back to his family’s country of origin, India, to work with the land farmers.

Janak and I have been writing letters to each other since that day, our words cross the globe to reach each other’s homes and hearts.

My passport will never represent where my heart lives, only where it physically went.

My Passenger

We look at nothing. Disconnection is my currency; neutrality is my capital. He looks at you, but I look away. Which is the I — I eye it not. Both captured, one in flash and one in the driver’s seat with no direction. Are your directions to me direction? ‘What is a likeness,’ I wonder, gazing through the window, sight blurred.

I am he. I am the passenger. My image my own ghost. It accompanies me always, its direct gaze — direction — a haunt. Immigration is my status, your transporter my occupation. My identifier in the driver’s seat.

We are all passengers. Just passengers on a journey to nowhere. Passengers in a taxi, a taxi in transit. In limbo. In a loop.

The light ever lit, the vessel ever simply a taxi. Forth and back, back and forth.

What is a ferryman on the river Styx?

The Granite stone found itself confused when a nose looking dummy-whistle composite object adhered onto itself.

Upon adhering Ms Unknown object said: “Hey Sweetie” whilst whistling away.

The Granite had no orifice to which to make sound and thus speak, but through the vibration of its tightly joint together particles reverberated an answer that could be translatable as: “Get off me! I am no sweetie, I don’t melt!”

Ms Whistle said: “But you are indeed hard and porous!

The materials immersed themselves into deep conversation and eventually they fell on each other, a symbiotic marriage of supposedly inanimate materials took place. Mr. Granite no longer would be misunderstood or ignored as it would itself have an orifice through which to translate and speak its language to non minerals.

Vanitas, a 21st Century Portrait, Digital Collage, 2015

I am a contemporary poet, an interdisciplinary artist that weaves fragments of reality and emotions together through the medium of colour and time.

Green is the colour of balance, harmony and growth. It is an emotionally positive colour, giving us the ability to love and nurture. It loves to observe and therefore relates to the good listener, the social worker. Being a combination of yellow and blue, green encompasses the mental clarity and optimism of yellow with the emotional calm and insight of blue, inspiring hope and generosity.

Through the colour green and symbology within this piece, I am channelling current events into existing within a much calmer and loving dimension fostering a much kinder and better future, if not in this universe then in a parallel one.

“The best preparation for tomorrow is doing your best today.”

H. Jackson Brown Jr., P.S. I Love You

Silver Birch.

Once the tree lived and breathed, filtering toxins from the smoggy air. Now the tree is dead, and taken away to be slow-burned in the fire, each species creating charcoal skeletons with different depths of black. The skeletons are laid onto supple papers, leaving their mark on another material that was once-tree. After fixing these final traces, the papers shroud the body as fabric, furling around the living form like the bark wrapping of the former tree. In this way the tree lives again, and is solemnly remembered.

-Israel is a lost land filled with yellow and red squares.

We are asking to send in triangular.


-Male, 27

Lost at shore, yearning for bigger oceans to swim in, dresses accordingly, loves stripes and slippers. Looking for nice female to drift away to other shores. sportswear is a yes, black socks are a no.

I was perceiving the image with total awareness, it (unlimitedly or infinitely) exceeded the limit, it overflowed itself and reached to me, entered my inner space, and the awareness transcended the body and mind, and that feeling, into the state of oneness. So, now one can question why do we have to set the border of the limit itself? Does that edge really exist? Maybe physically, because we can set the dimensions, but what about our inner space? Is inner space physical? Can we put it into dimensions? I don’t think so. Perhaps, if it is not physical itself, then how can we define the edge of ourselves, in order to reach that space of mindlessness? Does that edge even exist?

How Will I Find You?

It is fortuitous, in some ways, that since the beginning of this new century, aesthetic discourse has slowly jettisoned the rhetorical devices and patterns of the linguistic and ontological field in favour of the cosmic and biological. This could also be described as a tilt-shift from the soft, features and qualities, to the hard, quantities and structures.

All of this is just a net re-appraisal of conceptual scales. A very human attempt to quantify the ever-expanding limits of an increasingly inhuman world through allegorical means. We used to look inward to the mind and to each other. This approach bore much fruit, until the moment we gazed too far and we fell in--into the body, through to chaos.

Technology has always been the catalyst in these flux moments. We use it to adapt, and simultaneously adapt to it. The cool irony of this new order is that we inadvertently reconstructed the cosmos with subjectivity as the central defining characteristic. Truth has little to no traction in this place. The resulting dementia is emblematic of how little we ever understand the things we make.

It appears, as though the most well documented, the most well observed individual, carries the most concentrated influence within the social body. We have not, and do not discuss the unobserved, the forgotten-but-necessary actors and their actions. The fluid places, the places to trade/leverage/exploit that frozen realm of images we have slipped into without recognition. This is where I will find you, I hope, and perhaps where you will find me.

Between the Lines.

“When I was picking the colours I just wanted to find a beautiful pure pigment, “Oh hey, I didn’t know you’d be here, how are you doing? It’s been ages. just this great, flat mauve colour to start with, to coat over the blank page Yeah I’m good, no everything’s fine. How’s it all going? Well done, by the way.

then to layer a different colour on top so it slides across, slick, muddling a bit,

No, yeah it’s good – things are going well – no, I haven’t had enough time for that really,

mixing with a deeper shade as it glides along, finding a shudder,

Yeah it’s all just been pretty intense... you know, I haven’t had much headspace,

pulled all the way down towards the bottom of the page, in juddering strokes

but I mean, it’s fine, it’s hard, but it’s good. I’ve learned loads. Yeah, I wouldn’t do it again.

until the edge is met,

Anyway, it’s great to hear what you’ve been up to

and it spills out into the end.”

I’ll catch you later, good luck with it all.”

I sometimes really dislike the work that I do. I try to be something that I’m not.

I have never left the UK yet I like to paint exotic subjects. I have never seen wild forests, lakes, or stones, yet I see myself posing beside them. Perhaps that’s how I visit these places. Painting as a way to escape to other worlds and realities. The grass is always greener on the other side.

I feel untrue to myself when I paint using non-environment-friendly colours and pigments. Why should I paint nature if the medium I use is precisely one of the causes for the disease of plant life and rivers? I’m so fake.

I don’t have a green thumb either, all the plants in my house die. They dislike me for using turpentine. I intoxicate them. I’m so vain and I want it all: the greenery and the plasticity of acrylic.

Who am I? What does my art represent?

Nature dies every winter only to be reborn again in the spring. Shouldn’t human beings die too, year after year? The time of year to die should be decided by each person individually, depending on one’s own circumstances. I believe I die every November, I’m so certain. What about you? Which month do you consider yourself dead?

What is death and what is life anyway? Why should we divide them? White is black.

I’m sure that the tragedy of life is not death, but what we let die inside of us while we live. That is why I talk of November as the date in which I die, only because that is when I let myself die inside. My emotions, the way I talk to myself, my perception of the world and its surroundings is really terrible in November. I heal myself by reading parts of the Bible, and I talk a lot to Jesus during this time.

Thank you Lord for helping me through hard times.


‘Antowoten,’ ‘Weiterleiten,’ ‘Archivieren,’ ‘Junk,’ ‘Loschen,’ ‘Gesendet,’ ‘Entwurfe,’ ‘Alle Nachrichten,’ ‘Posteingang.’ These words suggest my heritage. I’m interested in language. I use language in my work.

I’m interested in what it is to be from elsewhere. You know it by the smile. You know it by the angle.

I blur the names but not the face. Not my face. And not the place (London). I’m interested in what it is to be me, you see. To be me here.

So I grin with the gleaming monument of a great ruler of a great destination — a destination I’ve arrived in, a destination I’ve documented — and the sun bounces off the sculpture and off of my smile and my glasses. The sky is blue, the photo is proof, the subject is ‘picture,’ and zu klicken Sie senden.

I’m interested in documentation, dissemination, sendenation.