by Tina LaPadula
Begin with a brusque cinematic exposé of the male lead. Make it uncomfortably up close and personal. Zoom in on his apartment, his family, his drug use, his genitals. Invite a strong female director to make it. To make demands. I mean really order him around. Objectify him.
Let this set the stage. Now that the audience is hip to the sad nitty gritty on this guy, we can start the live performance.
There’s a male protagonist, and an older male character. Both men sift through photographs, cutting them up and taping them together. Both utilize reel to reel audio tape machines. There’s a female character too. Her movements are halting and herky jerky. The protagonist leads her like a puppet. There is a relationship here. She reaches for him but he remains somehow unattainable. He keeps her at arms length. A tactile movement sequence on astroturf shows her appearing frustrated, repetitive and stuck. He is the main character, the hero. He has the power and she appears...
by Andrew J.S.
38 weekends ago I lost my mind. A bad trip. I awoke in an elastic semblance of my life, one that was permeable, one in which I could peer into flexing interstices of space, the gaps between reality’s essential structures. I clamored for order in a realm where opening doors yielded more doors opening, where scrolling proof of my identity spilled liquidly from the screen of my iPhone, where each sibilance I emitted would scuttle across the ceiling like a cockroach. The living room and couch upon which I laid writhing was a construct of my mind, or perhaps its interior.
I saw the present assembled in real time. Time had become place. I considered then the past. Not anymore just as things that had happened, but as destinations — physical as much as temporal. This materiality of time and my new uniform vision of it provided a terrifying, tantalizing insight. I could almost see the future.
I found these conditions...
by Nikolai Lesnikov
the 'straight' white male has nowhere to hide from the inevitable deconstruction of his power and desire. the veil is the barrier of his assumed power separating his things from out here where the real people are. deconstruction affects the phallus every time. Not sorry and thank you. The power dynamic is thus: hot mess vs curious agile being with agency and strength to persevere beyond all disregard. add 'old man' brackets for a dose of perspective on wasted time trying to recollect long lost principles while clinging to a perverse sense of enduring self. the range of impact is to be determined in the sense that it expands much like the universe of our perceived existence.
by Richard Lefebvre
Who hasn't had nights like that? Where you go all the way down the rabbit hole, googling connections between war criminals running guns and 7-11 Redbox machines. I recently had no connectivity in Burien while I was briefly between homes, and I discovered Redbox: last chance for entertainment before Albertson's closes. Redbox videos targeted to those bereft of even the barest of services, messages to whole groups of society who had flipped their lid, blew their cool, staying along Meyer's Way watching tiny TVs with batteries in tents. Plus it's not just me, there is evidence to support some of these theories, Facebook posts, targeted marketing, no-fly lists... You could take benzos to go to sleep, but they make you too dozey, you are wasting the time when you work everything out while you could have been sleeping. A think tank, when you are sharp.
I've never been a morning person really. I asked Bucci what all of it meant but he was no help, he appeared to be swearing at...
by Petra Zanki
With its unsettling silence that permeates every sound, every word and gesture, biograph, last year was pretty//sh*tty is a wonderful work of art.
There are words, fragments, wisps and are many: they come and they go. There are gestures, and started, startled, interrupted reverberations, never quite those that were then, back then, and not even those that might have been or maybe, just a little, just there then, it was like that, or maybe just a little like this. Now this, it’s just like then. That touch, or a word, just like that. And then that silence that sits and sits on everything, like the dust that sits on furniture, silently, permanently, unemotionally, it does not ask, it is not even a question
It goes like this:
A man in a light peach shirt. A video first, and then Or was it
a memory of someone or something so dear, down, down, past chest, past lungs, in the quietest hour, a memory, a way low down, so down the heart with the mind...
by Steve Peters
It begins with a cinéma vérité-style video (or is it acting?) of a stereotypical "Bad Boy." A woman (playwright Young Jean Lee) directs him/orders him around. She asks him personal questions that he seems uncomfortable answering. She tells him to take a shower and to wash his balls and his ass, then she tells him to take a piss, and he reluctantly complies as we reluctantly observe. The accompanying text says something about reversing the male gaze. I suppose this is intended to be transgressive, or a critique of pornography. There is definitely nothing sexy about it.
The video ends and we see the same Bad Boy with the same naked ass getting back into the same clothes he had on before the shower scene. He's wandering around what looks like a cluttered theater dressing room, behind a scrim. He spends most of the show stumbling around, not doing much of anything. Sometimes he drinks a beer, or plays with a roll of packing tape or a tape...
self-portrait by Claudia La Rocco
Your hands do this, do that
Unwinding the wire, the fabric unwinding
Why would it be better if we knew?
Knees crack the boy was feral
He held it, took it from us
We are all, it seems, going to die
–Claudia La Rocco
Self-portrait by Claudia La Rocco
“Just go for it, go for it” was developed during the creation of biograph, last year was pretty/shitty (January 2013, Oslo, Norway), by the Norway based interdisciplinary performance company Findlay//Sandsmark. It was published in The Best Most Useless Dress (Badlands Unlimited, 2014), a selection of Claudia La Rocco’s poetry, performance texts, criticism and images, and includes found lines from:
1. Cynthia Carr, The...