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Lorna Mills and Sally McKay
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Yesterday, Jennifer McMackon's new blog, simpleposie, asked the question: "Who is your favourite artist?" I responded with the following: 1. Michael Balser, 2. Kristin Lucas, 3. Anne McGuire, 4. Andrew J. Paterson (listed here in alphabetical order). This list interests me in that it popped out easily, and the artists all have a lot in common: video, performance, and a playful-yet-dire, articulate approach to the languages of technology and media.
1. Michael Balser: A Canadian video artist, dead and sorely missed, whose work is full of wit, pop culture, on-the-edge-big-science, petty art world gossip and debate, science fiction, low-fi cable tv production, high-end broadcast quality tv production, and rattle-your-bones mortality woven in so tight together that you can't pull out any of the threads. (You can easily find Balser's titles here in V Tape's excellent catalogue.
Excerpt below from the beginning of Michael Balser's "2014. An odd essay ", published in Lola #3, 1998.
2. Kristin Lucas: A brilliant video, web, and performance artist who is not a cyberfeminist simply because there is nothing predictable, and barely anything explicable, about this woman's work. I love and respect the courage she has to put resources into her own surprising imagery, rather than fulfilling narrative or dogmatic expectations.Xanax, Zerit and Indinovir stood poised at the edge of intergalactic eternity, their enlarged crania jutting forward like three eliptical crixivans, collectively forming an image of magnetic resonance."Do you think this will work as animation or should we use live action with digital spaceships and shit?" Dave Bergmark was hunched over his GatesPowerMac 196000 super-computer (20,000 terabyte and 64,000 megahertz).
"Where do we deposit the testicular repligene?"
"Xanax has replaced the modular neopostplastic smegma simulator in the psychotomax."
Their crypto-pharmacologica-tech-talk was interrupted by the familiar sound of webmusak at 600 beats per minute, so fast that only Zerit, with his huge aural endowment, could detect the vibrations and react appropriately. He began the Dance of the Zadivudine Genomes. Very soon, mutant Transcriptors were appearing from the transparent, multifaceted, rotating trhee dimensional CoprLogos which filled the infinite space that the three superheros had previously occupied.
"We need more fucking memory," he screamed, pounding his fist onto the keyboard, doing more damage than good, I suspect ... (hmm ... I also suspect that he would not have a keyboard. Note ... think of a ridiculous post-space-age substitute for keyboard. Maybe a genetically controlled wand of some sort with a corporate name that sounds like a mood altering drug -- World Weary Wastetime presents the Wazax Wand 3000).
NB: if you want to read the rest of this most excellent article, contact me here and I'll try to figure out what to do about it.
Excerpts below from "My First Person is Tired of Shooting" a somewhat dated attempt at written dialogue-with-artwork that I produced for the catalogue of Kristin Lucas's show Temporary Housing for the Despondent Citizen at the OK Centre for Contemporary Art in Upper Austria, 2000.
The [surveillance] video picked up information about the money. Microscopic elements travelled back and forth between Nora's hands and the money all day long.There is good writing by Tom Moody about some of Kristin Lucas's more recent artwork here.
Please tell me a story. To hear something you have to say something. The foodcourt is like a TV show with no beginning middle or end. It's on all the channels all the time. At the airport the carpet is grey. You can lie down on it to sleep and people will walk around you as if you weren't even there. Say something. Trash talks.
Lawrence Weiner put a stick in a stream. But it was just an idea.
My first person is tired of shooting. I need better ammo. I need to find something and pick it up. I need something better to carry around with me.
I'm breaking up. I am here and here. You can have me. I am dissolving. It's all in your hands. You are dissolving. Quick find a peg, and another, and another.
The sunlight is very very bright and it is getting brighter. Things are getting lost in the lights and in the darks. We are losing information at the far ends of the scale.
3. Anne McGuire: I love this woman's work for its lowbudget yet whole-hearted dedication to a trope. It seems like bad theatre and maybe it is. There's a use of amateur actors that makes no apologies for its clunky style, yet dives into the language of representation with supreme confidence. It's irony and straight-ahead narrative fused together in a compact, somewhat painful, package.
McGuire's "I'm Crazy, You're Not Wrong" both broke me up and broke my heart. This flowsy-frumpy, wig-bearing bombshell perches, with much lady-like, druken lurching, on a high stool and carefully , tenderly, imparts to us her madness and complete abdication of agency in a sad-sack, crazy-ass torch song that seems as if she is making it up as she goes along. I was sold in an instant.
I very recently found out that Anne McGuire also did a backwards version of my nearly very favourite film ever, Andromeda Strain. There's normally a nice blurb here at Video Data Bank, but tonight the search function seems to be down. Check back later, either there or here.
4. Andrew J. Paterson: A brilliant Canadian performance and video artist whose cellular structure is coded for centre stage, yet who is at the same time both generous and keenly political. Click this for an earlier review on this blog of Paterson's recent Pleasuredome performance.
Excerpts below from a piece of ficto-criticism (time for a new term) that I wrote in response to Andrew J. Paterson's 2001 video, "Snowjob" for the catalogue to Pleasuredome's video curation Blueprint: moving images in the 21st century:
If Money were a space alien that took over the planet Earth, I would be one of its worker drones. To Money I would not be a person. I would be an Unidentified Animate Object. That wouldn't leave me many options, would it? But Money does not come from outer space.
Digimon are like cute, tiny money, and we kids are like their tiny worker drones. If Digimon were space aliens that took over the planet Earth, we would be their Unidentified Animate Objects -- slaves to the Digimon! But Digimon do not come from outer space.
So if Money does not come from outer space, and Digimon do not come from outer space (and neither do GAP, Imperial Oil, and the art market), how come we are all employed at pushing these things around from here to there? Maybe we are Money. We are Digimon. We are GAP and we are Imperial Oil and we are the art market. We make these things, and we make pictures of these things and show them to one another, in order that we may continue to make all of it some more.
"pictures r words r pictures r words r pictures r words r pictures r words ..." I'm losing track. I don't know where to go from here. I think its a snowjob.