Zoals tussen de eigen naam en de eigenaar ervan het luisteren staat, zo staat tussen wat gezien wordt en het oog , het kijken. Een kijken, waarvan het belangrijkste element niet de mogelijkheid tot waarnemen is, maar de mogelijkheid gezien te worden. Want als mensen kunnen kijken dan zijn zij zelf ook zichtbaar.
Al weet ik dit, ik weet niet hoe ik zichtbaar ben en of wat ik wil, dat de ander van mij ziet ook zichtbaar is. Dat wil zeggen, gezien wordt. Het is een bijzondere ervaring wanner dit samenvalt. In deze wisselwerking van zien en gezien worden, wordt kenbaar hoe wij zijn.
Het kunstwerk beschikt slechts over een aspect van het kijken, namelijk het gezien worden. Zijn zichtbaarheid is zijn sterkste eigenschap en alleen voor dit doel werd het gemaakt. Zijn zichtbaarheid verbindt het met de kijker en hierdoor wordt kenbaar hoe wij kijken. Dit laat het zien. Maar hoe kijk ik?
Het kijken roept datgene in herinnering, wat ik zag. Het beeld toont de geschiedenis van dat kijken.

At The Soundless Dawn

Alone and Unaware, the Landscape was Transformed in Front of Our Eyes. Buildings Began to Stretch Wide Across the Sky, And the Air Filled With A Reddish Glow. The Soundless Dawn Came Alive as Cities Began to Mark the Horizon. Mechanical Sounds Cascaded Through the City Walls and Everyone Reveled in Their Ignorance. A Brief Moment of Clarity Broke Through the Deafening Hum, But It Was Too Late. Our Happiest Days Slowly Began to Turn into Dust. The Sixth Extinction Crept Up Slowly, Like Sunlight Through the Shutters, As We Looked Back in Regret.

Every Red Heart Shines Towards The Red Sun

The Great Leap Forward Poured Down Upon Us One Day Like a Mighty Storm Suddenly and Furiously Sweeping Everything Away. We Stood Transfixed in Blank Devotion as Our Leader Spoke to Us, Looking Down Upon Our Mute Faces With a Great, Raging, and Unseeing Eye. Like the Howling Glory of the Darkest Winds, This Voice Was Thunder and the Words Holy, Tangling Their Way Around Our Hearts and Clutching Our Innocent Awe. A Message of Avarice Rained Down Upon Us and Carried Us Away Into False Dreams of Endless Riches. “Annihilate the Sparrow, That Stealer of Seed, and Our Harvests Will Abound; We Will Watch Our Wealth Flood In.” And by Our Own Hand Did Every Last Bird Lie Silent in Their Puddles, the Air Barren of Song as the Clouds Drifted Away. For Killing Their Greatest Enemy, the Locusts Noisily Thanked Us and Turned Their Jaws Toward Our Crops, Swallowing Our Greed Whole. Millions Starved, and as We Became Skinnier and Skinnier, Our Leaders Became Fatter and Fatter. As That Blazing Sun Shone Down Upon Us, We Knew That True Enemy Was the Voice of Blind Idolatry; and Only Then Did We Begin to Think for Ourselves.

Earth - Extra-Capsular Extraction

Exposition of photos by Jonas Bendiksen in the Jewish Historical Museum, Amsterdam. Very wonderful.

Lawrence Weiner - Up on (in) the air

John Baldessari - Subject matter

Two great shamanistic drone albums:

Toho Sara - Hourouurin

Uton - Whispers From The Woods

"Space tells bodies how to move and bodies tell space how to curve."

(John Archibald Wheeler)

Sunn O))) - My Wall

And I do walk upon Wan’s Dyke
And I do survey the land
And I did become the Reaper with my own bare hands+
For I am Wodan,
Though, some call me Hermes,
Some call me Roman Mercury,
God of cargos,
God of weather,
Hanging God of boundaries,
Hanging God of Gibbet Hill
Killing God of hidden doorways.

Spinning the yarn from Wansdyke to Silbury
Spinning the taelbook, telling the tale
Telling the tellbook to all and sundry
Keltiberians and Irish Gael
Then I hear camp followers bellow afar
Their shrieking lament for Johnny Guitar:

"Look to the farthest far horizon
Look to the bloodlust deepest scar
Look to the scattering Brythonic uprising
For this be the wall of Johnny Guitar

There be the ditch that you shall die in
Here be the wall that I shall cry on
Ditch dug with antler and ox bone shovel
This rising wall that shades our ancient hovel."

Look to the north a quick mile yonder
Look to our Yggdrasilbury
Look to the Saxon chasing Viking
Look to the Norman chasing Saxon
Look to the German chasing German
German German German German
Here in the bloodlust deeper scar
For here be the wall of Johnny Guitar

"Play your gloom axe Stephen O’Malley
Sub bass clinging to the sides of the valley
Sub bass ringing in each last ditch and combe
Greg Anderson purvey a sonic doom."

To rage in sound this valiant despair
Doom and gloom as each a splendid pair
To rage in sound the valiant despair:

Not Abraham,
Not Moses
And not Christ
Neither Jove to whom we sacrificed,
Not Attis
Not Mohammed,
But to hilltop Thor
We rave and dance and weep and we implore:
Look to the farthest far horizon
Don’t blame the messenger,
Don’t blame the messenger,
Look to the farthest far horizon
Don’t blame the messenger.
Don’t blame the messenger,
For I am Death so Ragnarock with me
For I am Doom so Ragnarock with me.

And I stood upon Wan’s Dyke
And I did survey the land
And I did become the Reaper with my own bare hands...

And then I was King Vikar with his arms outstretched
And then I was King Vikar with his broken neck
And then I was the villain and the victim and the priest
Was grim misunderstanding and was grim as death itself

My Wall My Wall caught in the thrall of my Wall
My Wall My Wall caught beneath the thrall of my Wall.

Here in the bloodlust deeper scar
For here be the wall of Johnny Guitar
Here in the bloodlust deeper scar
For here be the wall of Johnny Guitar
Play your gloom axe Stephen O’Malley
Sub bass ringing the sides of the valley
Sub bass climbing up each last ditch and combe
Greg Anderson purvey a sonic doom.

Stand in the thrall
Stand in the thrall
Stand in the thrall of my tidal wall
Stand in the thrall
Stand in the thrall
Stand in the thrall of my tidal wall
Stand in the thrall
Stand in the thrall
Stand in the thrall of my tidal wall

Mothers to your bosoms,
Grab your child and sing,
As to your breasts cascade and sing:
Brothers and fathers,
Down to the thing in the middle of the town
To judge at the thing

These the effeminate priests of Frey
That don their drag
And shriek through the day
That drag their God through the muddiest fields
Spilling seed to raise the yields
These the odd castrated womb-men
On this onerous land of no men

There the infernal priestess of Freyja,
These her people layer on layer
Then the infernal priestess of Freyja
Visiting the farms
The seething seer
Visiting the farms
And rarely leaving
Mounting the tumulus
The people grieving
Dodens doddering dead and dying.

Hear the modest priests of Ing
Who’s harkening always let us sing
That let’s us free our tightest waistband
Let’s us fertilise our own land
Spunked entire nations from one phallus
Spunked the vegetation into being
Spilled the super seed into the one day superceded earth.

Old Mother Fucker
She was a cocksucker
To give her poor family a home
Went down on their ding song
And drank for a sing song
But ended her sad life alone.

Around the church in Yatesbury the dead
Lie scattered underneath the sacred yew
As Sheila the Witch attending Sunday prayer
Praises a God but never tells them who
And from my Wall observing Sheila the Witch
Praises her God but never explaining which.

And every Monday night by the light of Moon
Those Meddlesome meddlesome meddlesome bells
And the heavy metal of the heathen bells
Meddlesome meddlesome meddlesome bells
And the bad heavy metal of the heathen bells
Meddlesome meddlesome meddlesome bells
And the heavy metal of the heathen bells
Meddlesome meddlesome meddlesome bells
And the bad heavy metal of the heathen bells

And Doggen can testify to my claim
That the Christians of Yatesbury are Christian in name
But their stomping pounding actions attest
To their Christianity happiest at rest
And Doggen who played at the John Stewart Hall
Can attest that its keeper is the heathenest of all
Is a shapeshifter tending to her hogweed hidden
And her dear Paul wallows in the village pond nay midden

For all of us are boundaried by Wan’s Dyke at the west
And the great world hill which spies us and can never let us rest
Bringing on Iranian Mithra
From its home beneath the east
Caught always in the thrall of my Wall
Caught always in the thrall of my Wall

Stand in the thrall
Stand in the thrall
Stand in the thrall of my wall
Stand in the thrall
Stand in the thrall
Stand in the thrall of my wall
Stand in the thrall
Stand in the thrall
Stand in the thrall of my wall

Here in the bloodlust deeper scar
For here be the wall of Johnny Guitar
Here in the bloodlust deeper scar
For here be the wall of Johnny Guitar
Play your gloom axe Stephen O’Malley
Sub bass ringing the sides of the valley
Sub bass climbing up each last ditch and combe
Greg Anderson purvey a sonic doom...

Don’t blame the messenger of gloom,
Don’t blame the messenger of doom,
For this be the Ragmarockingest aeion
In stillness O’Malley and Anderson play on... play on... play on...