Did you know that the world is ending?
i wish the earth would j swallow me. Keep on dancing till the world ends. Dreams of the volcanoes in Tamaki Makaurau violently convulsing. Clasping hands together under a table. Our breath moving in sync. Stripping back the flesh to reveal the whiteness of our bones. Grinding bones into dust. Bone marrow and blood absorbed by the plants. Plants in water asymmetrically climbing and twisting towards the light. The birds going silent. Grazing your skin against the rocks thinking about how soft my skin is and how it is slowly melting off my body. Thinking about the touch. Thinking about the traces u leave behind and how to erase them. Curing my chronic depression through materialism. The perfect feature wall. A metal hat stand on a lean. My grandma’s photo frame that says ‘Love you’ and ‘family forever’. The last protest I went to was in 2009. A police officer bashed me in the face and busted my lip. Dripping with blood. Its okay to not protest. U can always be more supportive to ppl who rly need it.
IKEA. Assembling banality to take up space. There are too many things in this world. A sculpture that fails, lacks purpose, disappears back into the world. It never really existed. Im not even convinced that I really exist. Callum taped a heater to a wall until it fell. I believe it was already broken. Lol. Beautiful ideas should be destructive. Break. Broken. Fall. Smash. Shatter. Spill the tea. The violence of objects. Fragile masculinity makes a big fuck off sculpture. We smashed the walls in with a mallet. The indenture of bodies in the production of too many things. The intangibility of our lives. Stop making. Wind rippling through a room. Art is like that expression about a grain of salt. Young wma selling his brand of clean huge sculptures that lack thought, originality, skill. U take up too much space. Making through wild assemblages that test the limits of what an artwork can mean. How can space be constructed? How can the body be experienced? The privileging of language. Always in relation to the body. Ephemerality. The clunkiness of permanence. The nausea of very formulaic ‘performance’ that's either pointless or ‘insert 1970s performance art troupe here’ or so theatrical it makes me blush. Its tired. Im tired. Its 4:28am. Every public art institution destroying its collections. Sacking all of the curators who have had positions for longer than two years j to really mix it up. The ‘firemen’ in Fahrenheit 451 burning books for the benefit of a futuristic utopian society where education has no value. Returning to communism in 2076. Max writing about a businesswoman in Ponsonby lint rolling herself before a meeting as a performance. Performing self management rituals. Kim Gordon dancing in the Ciccone Youth video for Addicted to love. Astrological mind map of every artist u know. Know yourself & love urself.
My heart is so broken I need to 3D print a new one. Harvesting organs in 2046. Listening to Black Tambourine with u and touching ur hand to reassure u we will not die. Keep on dancing till the world ends. What purpose does art have? Objects without a purpose. What if u made work that just didn’t exist, that was intended to disappear or like u just show up to ur opening and thats the work. Network #workbitch The invisibility of emotional labour as performance. Ornamental severity Apolitical indie rock during Bush era America really meant nothing to anyone but Zack Braff and the guy who coined the misogynistic af term ‘manic pixie dream girl’. White male academic from Texas tells a predominantly pākehā audience that ‘we’re all islanders’.Rhizomatic methodologies. Asthma attacks walking from point A to point B. Dying America. The disease of racism. Having empathy. The vastness of the ocean. Escaping into the cracks of the ocean’s floor. All of the ships and aircrafts that disappeared somewhere in the Bermuda triangle. Patting a shark. The ice caps melting by 2045. The great barrier reef dying. The water became too warm and the algae vomited itself out of the coral, bleaching it and disrupting the life cycle of the entire reef and everything that feeds off of the algae. Destroying all of the ecosystems. Becoming an underwater civilisation by 2130. Disintegrating within the deep web. Wearing camo. Clothes as armour.
- Soul is the place,
- stretched like a surface of millstone grit between body and mind,
- where such necessity grinds itself out.1
Keep on dancing till the world ends. Nasty orangey fake tan. A mass murderer war criminal versus a racist rapist endorsed by the KKK. Kris Jenner selling the Kardashian Kollection on the shopping network in 2009. Families starving. Without. Ten people living in one two bedroom house. A family of five living in their car. Helplessness. Kim Kardashian ASMR. Hunger being eradicated between 2025-2028. Brains spill out like spaghetti. Mom’s spaghetti. The weight of privilege and what to do with it. Community art as a colonising and ultimately gentrifying practice. The failure of making. The failure of art. Failing. Flailing. Im afraid to make anything truth be told. I just want to make videos for instagram and pretend that my content isn’t being taken and analysed by a corporation in order to establish me as a marketable brand by using my data to streamline the kinds of content I might be interested in consuming. Nothing is free.
Its all good baby baby.
Wanting u to hit me in the face so i know its real and not an episode of black mirror. Weapon video systems capturing missiles exploding into children and other innocent bodies. Hunting an enemy that was fed off the corporate greed that dictates the governance of America and the western world. Detention centres dedicated to the subjugation of ‘illegal aliens’. Apolitical art. Everything wearing you down. An energy emerges from the womb of Papatuanuku towards Ranginui. When Jordana said she thought the lights flashing during the earthquake were aliens I completely agreed. It wasn’t electrical currents. It was the aliens emerging from Papatuanuku’s womb coming to save us. Everyone is popping off about Donald Drumpf and Brexit but haven’t bothered to consider what is happening in Australia. Pauline Pantsdown. Fascism cracking apart the systems of apparent ‘togetherness’ white supremacy wanted us to believe existed. We just aren’t. Keep calm and carry on. The constant flux of existence. Watching my flowers die and thinking it was more satisfying than fucking. Who can fuck anyone when everything is so chronically depressing? Who can have empathy? Who can even love anything or anyone? Who can exist? What should exist? Who can be critical? Who is allowed to speak? Who should take on labour? Who should shut the fuck up?
I heard Dido white flag in the supermarket while drinking an iced coffee and cried. Everything is so broken and I feel so ashamed. Keep dancing till the world ends. Prejudice I don’t experience. Struggling to enact ways of resistance. The fraught nature of identity and space. Of course Im a performer. I’ve never stopped performing. Performing or serving? The emotional labour of being alive. Drinking gin naked in my bed under the covers concerned my roof might collapse, but also waiting for the locusts and the sky to turn dark and the sea to swell red with blood. Capitalist robot slave. Why would anyone in Australia or New Zealand believe that our governments would actually try and fundamentally change anything within our current system of governance? The trees grew emotions and died. Gabriel saying that the horns on the ram in Daniel’s vision were kings of Media and Persia. Maybe we should burn. Lightness and heaviness. The goal of destabilising power structures. The end of the world in 3797. The fake band (as performance art) Milli Vanilli accepting a grammy for the song ‘blame it on the rain.’
-Hana Pera Aoake, November 2016