Articles

'I'M A REAL ARTIST'

I’M A REAL ARTIST
I’M A REAL MAMMAL

I’M A REAL SON

I’M A REAL AMERICAN

I’M A REAL HOMOSEXUAL

I’M A REAL BROTHER
I’M A REAL HOMINID

I’M A REAL CREATOR
I’M A REAL THIRTY-YEAR-OLD
I’M A REAL FRENCH
I’M A REAL UNCLE
I’M A REAL COOK
I’M A REAL MASTURBATOR
I’M A REAL DESCENDANT

I’M A REAL PRACTITIONER
I’M A REAL READER
I’M A REAL POET
I’M A REAL WORKER

I’M A REAL SLEEPER

I’M A REAL LOVER
I’M A REAL OMNIVORE
I’M A REAL PLAYER
I’M A REAL COUSIN
I’M A REAL EMPLOYEE

I’M A REAL STUDENT
I’M A REAL PISSER
I’M A REAL STEP-SON
I’M A REAL RESEARCHER

I’M A REAL NEPHEW
I’M A REAL DREAMER
I’M A REAL WINE DRINKER

I’M A REAL BIKER
I’M A REAL NON-DRIVER
I’M A REAL MYSTIC
I’M A REAL PEDESTRIAN
I’M A REAL NON-SMOKER
I’M A REAL WHITE MAN
I’M A REAL PRIVILEGED PERSON
I’M A REAL COMPUTER USER
I’M A REAL DIRECTOR
I’M A REAL SEDENTARY MAN
I’M A REAL ADULT
I’M A REAL LOVER
I’M A REAL FELLATOR
I’M A REAL QUÉBÉCOIS
I’M A REAL SWALLOWER
I’M A REAL SON-IN-LAW

I’M A REAL INSOMNIAC
I’M A REAL DRINKER
I’M A REAL VOYEUR

I’M A REAL VIDEOGRAPHER

I’M A REAL LITTLE SON
I’M A REAL SPENDER
I’M A REAL COLLECTOR
I’M A REAL CATHOLIC

I’M A REAL MAN

I’M A REAL ANIMAL

I’M A REAL VISITOR

I’M A REAL HEIR
I’M A REAL OBSERVER
I’M A REAL STEP-BROTHER

I’M A REAL WESTERNER
I’M A REAL SHITTER
I’M A REAL TOURIST

I’M A REAL SPITTER

I’M A REAL LIVING
I’M A REAL LITTLE NEPHEW
I’M A REAL SLOBBERER
I’M A REAL MONTREALER

I’M A REAL HOMO SAPIENS
I’M A REAL FUCKED
I’M A REAL SUPPORTER

I’M A REAL FUCKER

I’M A REAL CONTINENTAL

I’M A REAL FEMINIST

I’M A REAL BELIEVER

I’M A REAL LISTENER
I’M A REAL BOURGEOIS
I’M A REAL BUYER
I’M A REAL PILGRIM
I’M A REAL ISLANDER
I’M A REAL SPEAKER
I’M A REAL SCREWER
I’M A REAL SAVER
I’M A REAL CLEANER
I’M A REAL ASSISTANT
I’M A REAL PERFORMER
I’M A REAL ESSAYIST
I’M A REAL BORROWER
I’M A REAL PAYER
I’M A REAL FAN
I’M A REAL PLAYER
I’M A REAL SPEAKER

I’M A REAL CONSUMER
I’M A REAL MOVIE BUFF
I’M A REAL PARISHIONER
I’M A REAL EATER

I’M A REAL PAPIST
I’M A REAL SUBJECT
I’M A REAL SCHOLAR

I’M A REAL TAXPAYER

I’M A REAL CUSTOMER
I’M A REAL FRIEND
I’M A REAL TENANT
I’M A REAL SPECTATOR
I’M A REAL LEFTIST
I’M A REAL CITIZEN

I’M A REAL THINKER

I’M A REAL UNKNOWN

I’M A REAL CHILD
I’M A REAL MORTAL
I’M A REAL EARTHLING

I’M A REAL TRAVELER

I’M A REAL SINNER
I’M A REAL JOKER
I’M A REAL DESPERATE
I’M A REAL LUNATIC
I’M A REAL MESS
I’M A REAL PLAGIARIST
I’M A REAL ARTIST

“I’M A REAL ARTIST (JE SUIS UN VÉRITABLE ARTISTE)” was first published in May 2012 in French by No Press.

CODA: In 1972, the conceptual artist Keith Arnatt was photographed as a sandwich man, holding a placard which read “I’M A REAL ARTIST” to create his Trouser-Word Piece. This photograph was accompanied by a philosophical text that questioned the term “real.” However, Arnatt’s piece remained ambiguous: Was it simply tautological (an artist says that he is an artist within a work of art …), or was it ironic? Forty years after the creation of Trouser-Word Piece and in a similar spirit, my poem “I’M A REAL ARTIST (JE SUIS UN VÉRITABLE ARTISTE)” questions the possibility of having a “real”/stable identity.

Selections from 'The Beginning'

A way to begin is finding a way to begin without. Writing with brown
outs and without internet on this island is to begin without access to
the etymology of the word begin. On this island you learn to live off
scraps washed up from where. The word begin is made of scraps
washed up on fishermen’s shore. The words are plastic post
apocalyptic bits: a pink child’s wallet, soda bottle wrappers, Shoe
Mart shopping bags. The scrap collector fisherman was bent over
picking through whatever could support his life and house. Things
around here begin like this — salvaging second and third things from
an unknowable life before.

When the Spaniards came, they brought cocks. They trained native
islanders to train the cocks to fight. They brought money, Santo Niño,
cholera, and their language of science that could not be translated into
native tongues. They brought a brain, a globe, and a golden future of
extraction with a pope that would keep returning for his knuckles to
be kissed by a girl who asks “why does god allow so much
prostitution in my country?”

The salty air eats away at things from before, mostly metal: tricycle
jeepneys, motorbikes, window frames, sinks, shower faucets, light
fixtures, Spam cans, pambot motors. Decay and unfinished concrete
structures appear “site-specific,” a tropical minimalist afterthought in
the context of privileged art. This unfinished building will remain
outside, thousands of miles outside of Noah Purifoy, unlocatable,
unnamable, unarchivable, unremembered, and therefore, free.  

In Olango everyone and everything is hashtagless. Crab and fish
variants circulate in the wider sphere of ghostly friends and followers.
Simulacra here is useless. Everyone might be related somehow. There
are only two different kinds of beer, San Miguel and Red Horse.
There are several videoke machines and American lyrics housed in a
binder filled with individual plastic sheets to keep the fantasy clean.
Just before someone wants to become Mariah Carey, cocks crow
biblically like everyone is Peter in denial of their Lord. So deep in my
day dream but its such a sweet sweet fantasy baby.

If a life might begin with/through/because of romance (as a genre),
does it ultimately begin with empire? As visitors we witness a
succession of beginnings that depends on continuous replenishment
and repair. There is no single solution for how to build a home
resistant to salt, typhoons, and earthquakes. Like romance, there is no
single solution for how to buy and sell imaginary love. Can you
imagine
a Danielle Steel narrative taking place in a matriarchal post-
apocaplytic minarchy littered with plastics, coconut trees, and a
language with no word for kitsch?

To begin to exist to others you have to create yourself to receive the
false shine of information, however true. First and last name. Email or
mobile number. New password. Birthday. Female or Male. Sign up. I
drew the internet on the sand, bottle caps for log-in buttons, starfish to
like and share. Crabs crawled out of the screen, water a natural mode
of erasure. Of course this never happened but it’s like so easy to do.

At the height of night, something circles outside of time, dogs and
cocks screaming. Wind the shape of angry wind. There must be
another way of putting it, not exactly bolo knives. You leave the
bathroom light on so the ghosts won’t come to wake you. At least
one’s already there in the room but you pretend you’re better than it.
There’s some kind of telephone in your chest and you call on the
Virgin Mary who might as well be a fair skinned Maria Clara, a
whitening bleach soap commercial, but definitely not a barrio
girlfriend, to come help you. When she doesn’t come, you switch
back and forth between the triangulation of benevolent protectors:
US, Spanish, and pre-colonial gods. Japanese gods didn’t penetrate
hard enough to make you call on them. Which one will come? Which
one will stay? Only sleep can begin to save you.

The screen was small enough to imagine actually being here. There
were no photos of this island, only a nipa hut deep in Surigao del Sur
surrounded by unrecognizable hues of green. On this mangrove
beach, there’s a white raft that could become a façade of a house.
Local children play house on it. Who knows what they imagine. But
without façades, in what direction would paranoia go? Would it go
back home or to a grave? Between the screen and raft is a kind of
heterotopia — not entirely elsewhere nor here too.

A village shares a portable videoke machine. You must slip pesos into
the coin slot to turn it on. You must pay to partake in a journey of
culturally specific repetition and mimicry. No one can tell you which
song to sing, only you can choose which one to lend yourself to. Like
your Filipino father, you give yourself over to a distant yet present
empire: Frank Sinatra, Elvis Presley, The Beatles. (Mimi)cry is also
an intimate relation to an object, one step removed from becoming
that object. This is why impersonators are so powerful; they get to
marvel in the space between relation and becoming. Their becoming
is continuous and meant to never be fulfilled which is why the
machine is full of money.

Press 0 to speak to a customer service agent. You are caller number 2,
therefore, forced to get lost in Für Elise. As you look beyond the half
open window slats, the stupid notes carry you into a hallucination of
bleach white wigs copy and pasted over barrio kids running around a
mangrove. Someone with a neutral accent politely asks what your
technical problem is. You begin to forget what the problem was. Was
it about data roaming on a tropical suburban tourist island, was it
about data charges for photo uploads on instagram? You begin to hear
the neutral accent of millions of voices spread across a thousand call
centers in the Philippines. In trying to remember why you called in
the first place, the neutral accent asks how they can assist you. You
begin to sense that neutrality is a polite way of meaning assimilation.
The question of why anyone would want to sound like you ultimately
points toward a skill set, therefore, a wage. That someone might need
to sound like you is merely a means of survival.

Here there are no communication machines no “assist relations”
between family and friends but there’s a sari sari store filled with
decades old computers and television sets. Media relics undergo slow
and continuous makeovers to unknown ends. Cognitive enslavement
hasn’t begun. Reflected from the dim and lifeless screens are young
men hammering local trees into boats and those boats will have blue
painted windows to imitate a reflection of the sky or sea.

What happens to the code of beheadings or dick pics that have been
scrubbed into nothing? Does it disappear forever or take up space in
the mind of content moderators? Here is one kind of emotional labor.
Here is a different kind of erasure. Human invisibility in the
Philippines is a requisite for the production and flow of palatable
images on US screens. Eat your green beans, it’s good for you. Finish
your rice, it’s a sin to waste food.

What they brought was a holy child or infant. After all, a child or
infant could mean no harm. The twelve inch figure from Belgium was
code for empire; the child armed in a velvet robe holding a gold globe
in its left hand and right hand raised in benediction as if to say “you
can be saved by the monarchy if you let us destroy you.” The tiny
figure just kept multiplying from Prague and reached the Visayas.
Just imagine Humaway, after being crowned queen, receiving this
most sacred code meant to annihilate; a ticking bomb that would keep
exploding for the next several hundred years in the form of feast days
or quietly in the mind.

They went to an underground river tour in Palawan to feel some finite
darkness inside the earth. The feeling could be rented for 45 minutes
with strangers. As the plastic orange canoe moved further into
absolute darkness, the remnants of capitalism stayed bright outside.
The underpaid tour guide yelled from the back of the canoe and
pointed out concrete projections as a way of communicating with the
tourists; the ability to be relatable as a banana leaf motif of emotional
labor. Stalactites and guano accumulated into bratty amorphous
figures that resembled a food market, cathedral, movie star, hot dogs,
Pegasus. Regardless of how far into the darkness they went, an
audience remained inside them, wondering if they got their money’s
worth. When they returned to their Airbnb, they read philosophy and
watched The Butler and Julia & Julie from the dvd library. “The
thinking mind […] is that work which produces reality, that is to say
work as projection” summed up the underground river perfectly.

Like any beautiful self-similar pattern, the young Filipina held hands
with a much older white man. For generations of Spanish and
American empire, their relationship resembled a Koch snowflake.
There’s no snow in the Philippines but infinite iterations of this type
of always oppressive relationship rich with gray areas.

Note: The complete document from which this piece is taken is a collaboration with Ben Segal forthcoming from Urgeruge Books. Photos taken in Cebu, Philippines, by Feliz Lucia Molina.

Manifest

Sophie Calle, “Exquisite Pain #71.”

List or Manifest of Alien Passengers for the Commissioner of Immigration at Port of Arrival
Required by the regulations of the Secretary of the Treasury of the United States, under Act of Congress approved March 3, 1893, to be delivered to the Commissioner of Immigration by the Commanding Officer of any vessel having such passengers on board upon arrival at a port in the United States[1]

1. No. on list
49 x 49 (7 x 7 = 49)

2. Name in full
Your Name Try CUNT INTERNATIONAL

3. Age

One and Three Chairs

4. Sex

OVER AND OVER. OVER AND OVER. AND OVER AND OVER. AND OVER AND OVER.

5. Married or single

Painting to Hammer a Nail In

6. Calling or occupation
I Like America and America Likes Me

7. Able to read | write
I’m Too Sad to Tell You

8. Nationality
Bits & Pieces Put Together to Present a Semblance of a Whole

9. Race or people

One Billion Colored Dots

10. Last residence (province, city or town)

House Beautiful: Bringing the War Home

11. Seaport for landing in the United States

The Residue of a Flare Ignited Upon a Boundary

12. Final destination in the United States (state, city or town)
Thirtyfour Parking Lots

13. Whether having a ticket to such final destination

Protect Me From What I Want

14. By whom passage was paid

Pay Nothing Until April

15. Whether in possession of money, if so, whether more than $30 and how much if $30 or less

Take Care of Yourself

16. Whether ever before in the United States, and if so, when and where

Following Piece

17. Whether going to join a relative, and if so, what relative, their name and address
Portrait of Iris Clert

18. Purpose of coming to the United States

Untitled (Cowboys)

19. Ever in prison, or almshouse, or institution for care and treatment of the insane, or supported by charity. If so, which?
Untitled (Placebo)

20. Whether a polygamist?
Don’t Postpone Joy, or Collecting Can Be Fun

21. Whether an anarchist?
I Will Not Make Any More Boring Art

22. Whether under contract, express or implied, to labor in the United States

Workers who cannot be paid, remunerated to remain inside cardboard boxes

23. Condition of health, mental and physical

Statue of Venus Obliterated By Infinity Nets

24. Deformed or crippled, nature, length of time and cause

I Am Still Alive

25. Height: feet. | Inches.
100 Boots

26. Complexion

Vanilla Nightmares #3

27. Color of — Hair. | eyes.
Artist’s Shit

28. Marks of identification

12 Months with Postcards From Today of Kittens

29. Place of Birth. Country. | City or Town
Exquisite Pain


1. These were the questions my Sicilian great-grandparents were required to answer when they immigrated to the United States ca. 1900.

Little-Richards

There is a morning when it rains in the corner of everybody’s bedroom.
Jack Spicer, excerpt from Oliver Charming’s Diary (1953)

I started a Tumblr in 2011 and called it Little-Richards. For it, I took screenshots of all the dick pics I received without solicitation from dating apps I sometimes use to flirt with other users. I applied two filters to each image. First, a nice sepia tone (Am I projecting? This is very common.), and second, a soft-focus, so as to strip each dick pic from its original context as misfed courage, and hopefully get to a place where each dick can tell me it knows what I want. Maybe something soft, but likely nothing at all. Then I posted them. 

If Little-Richards is any good — and it may not be (none of the photos have gotten any likes) — it is because it stops short of benefiting the real-world context it came from. The conceptual operation at the heart of the project — that I would screen cap these images, fuck with them a bit, and repost them onto an ongoing Tumblr account — doesn’t provide a specific point of entry “into” the piece as a viable channel through which its viewer might gain access to its lurking compiler, nor anything necessarily to do with that compiler’s penchant for lurking, or for looking at dick pics. Rather, Little-Richards hopes to expose no more than the possible behaviors that such a penchant allows for. The preference to look at dick pics, here, is merely the hollow condition that led the compiler to feed on the dicks in the first place. Otherwise, I can say that if Little-Richards is any good, it is because the title makes a pun on the R&B singer’s name and then follows through, with the appearance of many dicks, which are, for the most part, not little. In any case, it is a good idea to bite back the boner that feeds you. If that’s not your thing, fine. Here are three hundred ways to pull out.

Imagine Brown

I went to Brown in March as an “artist in residence” for Interrupt3, a three-day conference on the intersection of art and text and digital things. I was anxious when I arrived because in the days before leaving people had asked me repeatedly what I would make once I got up there. I had no idea.

As soon as I arrived in Providence, I began seeing signs with the words “Imagine Brown” everywhere. They were on lampposts and banners and posters all over Brown’s (quite white — qhite?) campus.

Once at the studios, I stepped outside for a cigarette, hiding from the rain beneath a huge IMAGINE BROWN poster strewn along the whole wall of the arts building. Brown was begging to be imagined and I was there to be imagining.

I gathered everything brown and free that I could find in a fifty-footstep periphery of the studio. I photographed it with David’s fancy DSLR and printed it with the huge printer we were given access to. Brown, Imagined — here:

1 blondie
1 brownie
1 chocolate chocolate chip cookie
1 coffee cup
1 copy of the back of literallydead
1 Gertrude Stein quote from Tender Buttons
1 Helen Mirra/Fred Frith record, “Quail”
1 Klaus
1 necklace
1 notebook that belongs to Michael Anzuoni
1 paper bag
1 pencil sharpener
1 sunglass case
1 trash can
2 boxes
2 leaves
2 packs of RAW rolling papers
2 pairs of glasses, both sun and regular
2 sheets of recycled paper at different stages of wrinkling
3 cigarette butts
3 pieces of cardboard, varying sizes
6 of the wooden sticks you use to stir milk or creamer into coffee
8 rubber bands