There is nothing There is nothing There is nothing Then there is something For a brief moment Then there is nothing again
. Louise Bourgeois
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There is nothing There is nothing There is nothing Then there is something For a brief moment Then there is nothing again
. Louise Bourgeois

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Just as the amen is at the limit of language, without collusion with its system, stripping it of its "reactive mantle," so the proffering of love (I-love-you) stands at the limit of syntax...
Roland Barthes, A Lover's Discourse
Antonio Frasconi, from a hand-printed book
âTo stand at the edge of the sea, to sense the ebb and flow of the tides, to feel the breath of a mist moving over a great salt marsh, to watch the flight of shore birds that have swept up and down the surf lines of the continents for untold thousands of years, to see the running of the old eels and the young shad to the sea, is to have knowledge of things that are as nearly eternal as any earthly life can be. These things were before ever man stood on the shore of the ocean and looked out upon it with wonder; they continue year in, year out, through the centuries and the ages, while manâs kingdoms rise and fall.â
â Rachel Carson, Under the Sea Wind
Winter is coming, Daniel Arsham

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Your masters at Oxford have taught you to idolize reason, drying up the prophetic capacities of your heart!
Umberto Eco, The Name of the Rose
Euripides, Bacchae, National Theatre of Iceland, 2007. Mask/costume/set design: Thanos Vovolis. Stage director: Giorgos Zamboulakis. Photo Š Thanos Vovolis.
As I experience the world, I automatically form desires, aversions, and beliefs. These intentions are neither good nor bad in themselves, but if I become attached to them, I will start to suffer. I will suffer because my attention is constrained to achieving my intended ideals and this prevents me from meeting my needs and the needs of the people around me.
The suffering produced by attachment not only consumes energy, but also limits my ability to respond to what is happening. To be compassionate, I need to be sensitive to everything and everyone. Such sensitivity is not possible when I am profoundly attached because my attention and actions will be concentrated on satisfying my desires, fleeing from my aversions, and confirming my beliefs.
Compassionate action requires that I be fully present and responsive to what is happening, while also maintaining the distance that allows me to remain free of attachment. There is no escaping the paradoxical nature of compassion, and perhaps the most challenging problem of awareness is to see that this paradox is livable and that I can adopt this seemingly contradictory position.
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âPostmodernity is the simultaneity of the destruction of earlier values and their reconstruction. It is renovation within ruination.â
â Jean Baudrillard, Cool Memories
The hotel room, 2018 - by Esperanza Velmock, Spanish

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The âIâ that considers is very different from the âIâ that has fears. To have fears, to have, specifically, the fears on which Keats dwells, is to be immersed in acute sensation. The fear that one will cease to be is unlike the state of chronic fearfulness we call timidity. This fear halts and overtakes, it carries intimations of change or closure or collapse, it threatens to cancel the future. It is primal, unwilled, democratic, urgent; in its presence, all other function is suspended.
Louise GlĂźck, Proofs and Theories
DIRECTOR'S NOTE ⢠Nov. 2023
You can't go home. This play has a particular care for and interest in its victims. The resident
inciting event is endless. tragedy is much more concerned with footnotes than it is with gods.
well acquainted with what happens afterward, storytellers claim they can't diverge from what's
written: resist. rage against what must be. tell a story about war without talking
about love. survive its aftermath. fail to find resolution. make this suffering
a home. There's no breaking this chainâ fate, as always, gets its way.
Poetry assembled from the program of an Oresteia production. Nov. 2023.
âAs children, we have all suspected it: perhaps we are all, moving strangely beneath the sky, victims of a trap, a joke whose secret we will one day know. This reaction is certainly infantile and we turn away from it, living in a world imposed on us as though it were âperfectly natural,â quite different from the one that used to exasperate us. As children, we did not know if we were going to laugh or cry but, as adults, we âpossessâ this world, we make endless use of it, it is made of intelligible and utilizable objects. It is made of earth, stone, wood, plants, animals. We work the earth, we build houses, we eat bread and wine. We have forgotten, out of habit, our childish apprehensions. In a word, we have ceased to mistrust ourselves. Only a few of us, amid the great fabrications of society, hang on to our really childish reactions, still wonder naively what we are doing on the earth and what sort of joke is being played on us.â
â Georges Bataille, âThe Cruel Practice of Artâ
Wojciech Fangor (Polish, 1922-2015), M 12, 1966. Oil on canvas, 24 x 24â in.
Physics, my friend, is a narrow path drawn across a gulf that the human imagination cannot grasp. It is a set of answers to certain questions that we put to the world, and the world supplies the answers on the condition that we will not then ask it other questions, questions shouted out by common sense. And common sense? It is that which is understood by an intelligence using senses no different from those of a baboon. Such an intelligence wishes to know the world in terms that apply to its terrestrial, biological niche. But the world â outside that niche, that incubator of sapient apes â has properties that one cannot take in hand, see, sniff, gnaw, listen to, and in this way appropriate.
StanisĹaw Lem, Fiasco

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Tektronix // Cathode Ray Oscilloscopes //Â built on the Island of Guernsey (!!) 1960s
via
For every historical artwork that is still revered and loved, there are countless others that now receive little attention or are seen only as minor stepping stones to something that came after. While these impressive works once garnered much appreciation and applause, they are now basically forgotten.
Realizing this, we might worry that a similar fate will befall our own greatest achievements. If even the most significant masterpieces are likely to be relegated to the dustbin of history, what point could there possibly be to our own creative efforts?
But to be surpassed is no failure. We will not have failed even if the collective output of our era becomes nothing more than a pile of dirt our successors climb to greater heights. For to contribute to the project of humanity in any way is a great accomplishment, and to create art that might one day become the tools and materials that help future artists make something even better is an enormous success.
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