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July 2, 2022

Price and Value

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I have a dear friend who likes to send group emails that introduce topics current in the art dialog. The thing is, he sports a reductivist abstract style, so the word count in his emails after the subject line is in the single digits. This time, the content was a solitary hyperlink.

While I usually try to mirror his manner, I let rip this time:

Consensus of experts depends on the stability and strength of expertise. The dematerialization of art led to a dilation of the meaning of expertise. Art as a river of Modernity had developed from mountaintop mists to icy streams to crystal tributaries to rivers widening and ever muddying until where we are now: oozing, evaporating, steaming, fetid deltas disappearing into the ocean. In other words, consensus had lost its clout and the only hope lies in mountain dew.

Once art became an asset class, art works became fungible. The system of aesthetic valuation, once natural and pegged to artist's agendas have become easily emulated, simulated and controllable. Artists' production became equivalent to minting currency. The value of art objects became fiat, whose worth depended on another kind of consensual decree by those who have figured out how to game the system.

What had underpinned the eclipsed legacy system were a community of artists who asked the question in the quiet of their studios: "...where are we in art history and where are we going?" What had underpinned the now-eclipsed legacy system of art were collectors who understood and believed in pricelessness.

The ironic nature of the value of art is lost in the collective mind of the contemporary art system. The value of commodities such as oil, water, lumber, steel is in what can be done with them. The value of art is in the art object itself, of its' own sake. Money, either in the form of printed paper or stacks of bullion is valuable only what can be done with it. Art is valuable for what it is. The former is expended, the latter is conserved. It's only when art in the possession of a collector, considered priceless in any degree, that it can begin to have a price. Yes, like death, all things priceless will be conquered in time. Eventually, a price can be quoted for the priceless possession. It is the incalculability of worth that renders a price that can be calculated. The world knows all of the superlatives that describe this dynamic: irreplaceable, incomparable, unparalleled, worth a king's ransom... the indices of the priceless. All of this is in the company of metaphysics, where the Real abuts the intangible.

There are no laws, no regulations, no policies that can remedy the problem of the reduction of art to mere currency or an alternative investment instrument, the problem of the evacuation of meaning in art. Only the return of passion can save the day. It's only when collectors join the sphere of creativity and imagination, when their collections are expressions imbued with vision and insight that can rival and put to the shade the shallow exploitation that the art world has become, that our art world can again shine.

Until then, it's all a sad shit show.
Posted by Dennis at 10:06 AM | Comments (0)

a world without a text

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a world without a text
2021
#610
60" x 48", 152 x 122 cm
Oil on Canvas over Wood Panel

Continue reading "a world without a text"
Posted by Dennis at 9:46 AM | Comments (0)

July 1, 2022

Breadcrumbs 2

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About "Make Me Iliad":

I see abstraction and figuration as twin bearings of a shared continuum. So, I would prefer not to untangle them and to see one in relation to the other.

In a discourse that has long since exhausted today's art world, I left grad school during the "death of painting" debates. A proof of life was needed, I thought. I sought my own realization of an afterlife of painting in the specific material of impasto oil after a singular moment in the studio when I lifted a palette knife from a mass and marveled at how the surface tension spent itself out into a diminishing tendril of paint. I did it again, and again and so my first "monad" was created, a name borrowed from Leibniz's "atomic" individuals. Together with the monads, a few more instances of other paint forms together made enough of a vocabulary to encourage me to continue on to this day.

Given that abstraction is both a reduction of visuality and a multiplication of materiality... and that figuration is inescapable either by signaling or pareidolia, I remember thinking that when I place paint down on a canvas and scrape it up with a knife, it leaves a kind of print behind on the surface... that those resultant images could be related to forms above them with some planning... and that together they could both rain down from above or evaporate into clouds above.

Is there a person? I'm delighted that you would suggest this. Given enough time, all art objects tends towards dissolution, save the pyramids. The first to be lost to time is the artist's intentions. From my point to view, the greater an art object, the more it can contain the meanings projected from future generations. Yes, there is a bit of symmetry, a slight suggestion of eyes. Clearly, I did this. Clearly, I had intended the signal even at such small amplitudes. Eyes, yes, looking back, even a head, brains, thoughts swirling? I accept the figure of person!

As for the title, all paintings require titles of course. With vanishingly rare exceptions, I title all my works after I make them by combing through my weblog roughly during the period of its' making. Like a douser looking for water (aka "water witching"), the words will insist themselves into the title from the screen. This has never failed me. For every work that I complete, I post an image of it in the blog and include a hyperlink to the source page of the title. I trust that if I am so very lucky, someday a researcher would be interested enough to follow the trail of breadcrumbs that I have left behind in my online diary.

In the instance of "Make Me Iliad", I had blogged about liking the work of Mary Reid Kelly after seeing her show at Frieze. The title of her video was "You Make Me Iliad", I with fingers crossed, I hoped that eliminating "You" would be enough to make it mine while simultaneously pointing to her. The subject of her video was of the WWI, of soldiers, prostitutes and nurses... and I had been in the Navy when I was a lad, so there was some level of resonance there. Also, I love the Iliad.

I love how Homer balanced the heroic and tragic and how particularly wretched the latter was treated in his poem. In the physicality of my painting, I see a similar trembling fragility in how the forms of paint are formed and sheared, stomped, deformed. Life dances, flickers and all too soon it's over.


***

Notes:

I've had a couple of requests for an artist statement regarding paintings that I made several years ago. If you drill down into the third or fourth paragraphs of the blogpost Hyperlinked Apologetics, you can understand that this post is an object example of what I was saying there. Basically, I'm modeling what I hope that an interested public would do after I'm not around to perform the research myself.

Every work of art is in constant motion, either towards a museum or towards the land fill. If an artist is fortunate, a collector will provide sanctuary pieces of their oeuvre. This is a custodianship when an artwork is invested with enough value to survive multiple lifetimes. During the lifetime of a collector/custodian, the piece might be hung in a valued place in their home, a living room, a bedroom. Artworks compete for wall space. Living room, hallway, garage. Every art work must argue on its own for its survival after the artist passes away. These breadcrumbs are evidence for the courtroom.

Links:

Make Me Iliad
The originating blogpost documenting this painting into my inventory.

Frieze Keepsake
The source of the title. We can see how fragile the internet is for posterity, the Youtube link and the two other hyperlinks in the post no longer function.

The website of Mary Reid and Patrick Kelly

You Make Me Iliad, Art 21 in Youtube.

Posted by Dennis at 10:48 AM | Comments (0)

Breadcrumbs 1

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As part of my practice, I reap the titles of my paintings from my weblog.

In the Spring of 2007, Leland de la Durantaye wrote an essay in Cabinet Magazine titled "BEING THERE, On the trail of Heidegger". I had linked to it in a September 19, 2007 blogpost, an insightful essay regarding the famously cryptic phenomenological philosopher. In the piece, he included Hannah Arendt's curious fable "Heidegger the Fox". As my eyes scanned the blogpost, I alighted on the passage "...so many fall into my trap; I have become the best of all foxes..."

Given that my understanding of Heidegger is always evolving, I appreciate that he is saying that Western Civilization is fundamentally myopic, overly given to instrumental reasoning, as de la Durantaye wrote. I understand this better now than in 2007, but my intuition seems firm throughout the years that the thought process that could declare painting dead is itself in a dead end. Therefore the way out of our particular cul de sac was a path outside, an avenue that was a focus on something like the being of painting.

In Arendt's fable, Heidegger "...built himself a trap as a den, pretended it was a normal den (not out of cunning but because he had always taken the traps of others for their dens). The trap was only big enough for him. Nobody could fall into his trap, because he was sitting in it himself..."

The stickiness of impasto paint is my trap, and it is a very cozy one indeed. The thing about wet into wet painting is that the sequence of one action into the next is not endlessly recombinant. Laying paint into a pattern, picking it up and laying it down again will not bring you back to the initial state anew. Like the entropic flow of time, each new condition is irreversible. Black line and color fill, once sliced up, reveals a printed image. A sweep of paint knifed flat in planes like weather systems from coast to coast, covering up the landscape. Scooping up the sheet of paint will not bring you back to the previous imagery. Paint comes out of the tubes in refined states. Paint laid down and picked up again complicates things in the direction from whence it came, from mud. There are only so many acts of mixing that can occur until the wall of dullness arrives. Even oil paint dries even though this can take some time, and when a skin begins to set, the ability to lick butter soft one color into the next becomes truncated. The clock is ticking. No do-overs allowed, the virgin canvas allows only one go. Entanglement, enmeshment, entrapment, a cozy den in all of this.

Once the major notes are established, punctuation. A Gulf Stream of paint swirls into eddies here and there, enforcing the constraints of pictorial law. With new tools, baby fisted balled up daubers made from rags, paint is stomped into flowers, letting color come up from the substrate into blooms here and there. Stiff paper peeled from the palette renders fractal patterns that can sweep across the canvas. Monads, hemispheres made of arrays of tendrils, rain across the landscape, pointing up color notes along the way. All of this muster collides one into the other within the limits of coherence, ensnared, entangled, enmeshed. Snug as a bug. A home worthy of the best of all foxes.


***


Notes:

I've had a couple of requests for an artist statement regarding paintings that I made several years ago. If you drill down into the third or fourth paragraphs of the blogpost Hyperlinked Apologetics, you can understand that this post is an object example of what I was saying there. Basically, I'm modeling what I hope that an interested public would do after I'm not around to perform the research myself.

Every work of art is in constant motion, either towards a museum or towards the land fill. If an artist is fortunate, a collector will provide sanctuary pieces of their oeuvre. This is a custodianship when an artwork is invested with enough value to survive multiple lifetimes. During the lifetime of a collector/custodian, the piece might be hung in a valued place in their home, a living room, a bedroom. Artworks compete for wall space. Living room, hallway, garage. Every art work must argue on its own for its survival after the artist passes away. These breadcrumbs are evidence for the courtroom.

Links:

Best of All Foxes
Here, you might notice that back in 2007, I hadn't yet employed the hyperlinked title strategy yet. Don't have the time at the moment to scroll through the archive to see when I started the practice, but I'll put the task in my to-do list.

It Was Kinda Like That
This post was about how "Best of All Foxes" put me through the paces.

Trapping Hey Digger
This is the source of the title for "Best of All Foxes".

BEING THERE, On the trail of Heidegger
This is the link to the article mentioned in my statement.

Posted by Dennis at 10:44 AM | Comments (0)

June 30, 2022

Hyperlinked Apologetics

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When I have visitors to the studio or when I find myself showing my art works to interested parties out in the world, inevitable questions arise. Most of them deal with the usual topics: "Why do you paint this way? ... Is this abstraction or figuration? ... How do you do this?" All easy questions, and I can go on at length and keep the audience captivated.

One of the issues I usually am called to address is the apparent diversity of expressions of all the works. That's an easy one: "Through contrast, one becomes conscious." This must be a quote I heard from somewhere. I can track in a direction for three, five, ten pieces and then I have to shift in an opposite direction. Or, I simply have to follow inspiration wherever the spirit drives me. No muse, no art. If this explanation doesn't satisfy, I summon the image of a sailboat, tacking into the wind. Port, starboard, repeat. If we haven't moved on to other topics yet, I could always drop the nuke: "Being half American and half Filipino, my identity was always a constant interpolation." But I usually don't unleash the beast, it's too complicated, gratuitous, and sublimated.

Fire and Forget.

Sometimes, I get the question that will usually stump me: "What's the title?" The Cheshire's grin blooms and I look squarely into their eyes and say: "I don't remember." Cocked and loaded comes the exegesis: I title my paintings after I make them. My method is to comb the weblog for words that will leap out to me, insist themselves to be the title for the piece. The words will ring out. The weblog has never failed me as a source of the names of my art works yet. I inscribe the title and sign the back of the painting, post images of the painting in the weblog and hyperlink the title to the source post where I divined it in the blog and boom, I'm off to the next adventure. Yes, this practice might be post hoc in terms of the manifestation of the art work in relation to titling, but it has the advantage of thwarting the urge to illustrate. Illustrative art is problematic, at least for me. If you want to delve into the meaning of a title, click on the hyperlink of the title of the painting that you'll find in this blog, this will start a trail of bread crumbs that can potentially lead you towards my intentions.

There are certain other moments in an art conversation where I tend to draw a blank. Not fun. For example, I met up with an old collector friend the other week, the ever delightful Steve Shane, catching up after the long pandemic period of social isolation. Refreshing. We toured an exhibition at the Whitney as a pretext for the meet, a surprisingly insightful show, by the way. So as not to distract our attention of the tour, we chatted outside with a cup of coffee at a table on the terrace. Along the conversation, he asked out of the blue:

"Who are your favorite artists?"

My mind went blank. Nothing. Nada. Bupkis. But what of question is this, so devoid of context? Well, it was innocent. Provocative, yes. If you want to get to know an artist better, it could be an effective opener. Metaphorically, I pulled my pockets inside out. Got nothing for you right now, Steve.

Days later, my mind drifted to what I could have said. Malevich, I have a book open in my studio. Ryman, his works drove me to expand the plasticity of paintings' support all the way to the nail on the wall. Lasker, a formative influence in that Hans-Michael Herzog's coining "frozen spontaneity!" defined his paintings so effectively. This drove me to think of what my painting could be if I could invert this formulation. But why stop here? Why not the titan Goya, whose "Saturn Devouring His Children" had transfixed me in my thirteenth year... or Picasso, who kept challenging himself in multiple sequential genres... or Kandinsky, whose legendary non-objective abstraction doesn't hold water since he really was representing music, whose works for me are a remarkable delimited recombinatorial menu of singular paint applications? Any short list I could have delivered to Steve at that moment would effectively cut short my universe of influence going forward. On the other hand, I had short changed my ability to sell myself to an interested party. Not very smart on a tactical level. But then again, Steve's already an old friend, an ally.

There's an art to talking about your art. You don't want your words to replace the object you've created. Upstage it. Hype it out of existence. But the words of my mother come to mind: "You sell with stories." Back in the 90's, she used to shop Europe for antique fabric and sell them stateside. Textile arbitrage. Her stories were real and natural catnip in a Californian antique fair: "This vestment was from a retired bishop in Southern France... We arrived at the estate, met by guard dogs at the gate, the owner let us look into his dusty attic covered in spider webs and long unopened crates..."

Ellipsis: "...the omission from speech or writing of a word or words that are superfluous or able to be understood from contextual clues."

If you don't want to oversell the work, kill it with words, suck attention away from the piece to yourself (now I'm thinking about Dali, but then he was his own living art object), you have to learn how to master a kind of ellipsis. Andy Warhol was famously coy. Was he being deceptive when he denied transparency with the public? Is there an adversarial relationship between an artist and an audience whose proclivities are to box him/her in? Bruce Conner was a magnificent asshole. Caustic, abrasive, his letters to museum curators are a marvel of withering disregard. He was defending his art and all art from trivialization by art industrial career professionals. Boy, what an aura that guy had... or has, still. It's longer essay or great dinner conversation to truck out all of the artists who had slipped the noose of public image. Yves Klein, Sigmar Polke, Alfred Jarry, Duchamp... the night would be long and the wine would flow.

Posted by Dennis at 5:27 PM | Comments (0)

June 16, 2022

Mosquito Hands

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When talking to collectors about my paintings, a typical question arises. How long does it take to make a painting?

Since I'm painting within the drying time of paint, it could be anywhere between two days to a week. Different colors dry at different rates. If the painting is dark, I know that I will be under a lot of pressure since a skin can develop overnight. My experience with midnight to dawn Navy watches and architectural charettes had prepared me very well for this eventuality. In fact, the wee hours are magical for me. If the painting is light, I can relax a bit. I can stretch out.

But the actual physical time of painting is only part of the story. Aside from building and stretching the panels, there's a crucial aspect most people don't factor when such a question arises.

Ideation, the x factor.

Creative stimulus. Inspiration. Visionary motivation. This is not about romanticism despite how loaded the terms are. It's simply about the wellsprings of imagination, a kind of customs passport control for the mental agents who enter the studio. Sometimes it comes in a flash. Sometimes it comes in a kind of argument / counter-argument, inspiration / counter-inspiration... an occasion that requires of course, disambiguation. This is usually, most difficult... and a sign of trouble since this means that my mind is perhaps not tuned as finely as it should.

I'm not making products. I'm not cycling random variations. I'm not anticipating a market. I'm not illustrating theory or political program. I require, I need that flash of insight, a lit imagination, what the ancients called the visit from the muse. In the 17th century, they called it afflatus, inspiration attributed to the divine. Such an event has a signature. It makes me happy. I feel elation. Wonder. I feel awe. I feel a sense of adventure. This last characteristic is most important. Sometimes, trouble arises when the vision seems too complete. What's best is to know with strength how to enter into a painting. What is usually bad is anticipating with too much certainty how a painting will end. Each painting needs a sense of discovery.

A current example.

Sometime before I met up with friend and collector Steve Shane at the Whitney to see At the Dawn of a New Age: Early Twentieth-Century American Modernism, somehow the paintings of Florine Stettheimer arose in my mind. She was a big influence on NYC early modernism of the 20's and 30's, comparable to Georgia O'Keefe. So when Steve and I turned a corner in the exhibit, it was utterly delightful to find two of Stettheimer's paintings on the wall. Kismet! Steve, also was delighted since he owns paintings from an artist who could be considered comparable. He flipped out his phone to show me the works of Thomas Trosch. I recalled at that moment James Ensor's Christ's Entry into Brussels. The aspect of Stettheimer's painting that struck me was less about her palette and more about the scale of her touch. Little bits of color, drawn one into the other with what looks like small brushes, drag scratch scratch scratch scumble right at the edge of clotted mud.

What if a mosquito painted a painting? A brush or even finger painting with its' tarsomeres (scientific classification for fingers, I love new words). Or better and to a scale more suitable to my purposes, a gecko. A brush in the grip of its sticky toe pads (or since I tend to not use brushes, think instead of palette knives, daubers and probes) would have to contend with the extremely small scale of impasto paint, the relation between mass, surface tension and resistance.

What was behind this impulse? A favorite saying of mine, especially when a collector is asking about the diversity of my painting, is to say in response that with contrast, one can become conscious. When I am painting too long in one particular vein, I tend to feel restless, or dulled in some way. Seeking out a contrapposto. Something different so that I can key up an awareness of what I had done and what is coming. I used to illustrate this as a sailboat tacking upwind. Or maybe this impulse is built into my genes? I'm a halfbreed, a mongrel mix of Caucasian and Malay. Forever interpolating my identity, I had never countenanced a singular category of who I am. Everyone is a mongrel, so I can't plant flags in any special way. It is what it is.

So after I was previously immersed in a brace of monochrome painting, I started to think of what could come afterwards. After the fields of color, drawing seemed to be a logical recourse. Beyond logic, the realm of the muse, the scale of touch emerged in my mind. To make the large monochromes, I had fashioned a plywood tool roughly the size of a fat skateboard. Beforehand, area coverage was a challenge given the nature of the paint I use and the skateboard let me think of a future when I could be in the middle of acres of canvas. Schnabel tennis courts.

And then, my boat tacked into the wind. A mosquito painter in a tiny garret.

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Posted by Dennis at 11:33 AM | Comments (0)

June 12, 2022

Heaven on Earth

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Heaven on Earth
#609
2021
48" x 36"
Oil on Canvas over Wood Panel

Continue reading "Heaven on Earth"
Posted by Dennis at 11:49 PM | Comments (0)

Attention Span

Worth your attention: A Warning On the Future of Music: with Author Ted Gioia. I've enjoyed Rick Beato's channel for many years now. He is also a fine interviewer as you will see in this video.

TL;DListen? (Irony Alert) This is about power brokers, decision makers who are driving shortened attention spans either by intention or coincidence or via capture by historical tides. Ted Gioia not only delivers a sharp critique but also provides fascinating solutions. There's hope despite all the gloom.

I'm wary of social media. It's a driver of heightened narcissism. After having to contend with multiple narcissists in my lifetime, I've had to study the subject. The world is in a very bad place in this regard. I've said long ago that for artists, temerity is an occupational hazard, but the narcissism of today is a pandemic of another kind. Social media is a disease vector.

Adding insult to injury, the art world encourages/demands artists to take on the labor of marketing by maintaining social media accounts, feeding the beasts daily, hourly, hazarding an all-consuming preoccupation. Artists are compelled to think of their works in terms of its suitability for use in social media as backdrops for selfies or its ability to cater to its currency. Yes, maybe you've made a fine thing, but will it look good on a smartphone screen? We are forced, at least in passing, to consider which topical currents to contextualize our art works within. Social movements? Identity? Academe?

I've been encouraged, demanded, by at least one influential gallerist to reframe my practice towards the needs of larger markets defined by big business. His argument was to bypass a dying art market and feed a larger, more vibrant one. Madness. Life is short and art is long... and business life is shorter still. Businesses rely on advertising to spread awareness of their products and services in the mediascape. Commercials run in lengths of seconds. The sensational has priority. What sense in any world does it make to drop the focus of twenty years and counting to cater to these concerns?

The constrained art world.
Anticipations of the market.
Galleries: what might sell
Auction houses: what will sell the most
Art fairs, even worse.

Constraints on attention.

***

Related:

Biennials: Ben Davis' article What Does It Mean to Be a 'Biennial Artist,' Anyway?

The names that dominate Biennial World are not at all the names that dominate Art Market World. In fact, the two worlds don't seem to interact much at all [...]

Why the difference? I've been thinking about the film world as a useful parallel. Biennial Art is, to some extent, the equivalent of Festival Film. Just as a splashy biennial vernissage is thought of as the glitziest and highest-profile event in the art industry, the film festival red carpet defines a certain image of glamour for cinema.
 
And yet, the Venice, Cannes, or Berlin film festivals--or even the Academy Awards, actually, for all their Hollywood-centricity--have a funny relation to the mainstream of commercial film, existing as counterpoint as much as extension. They tend to honor works considered worthy rather than the blockbusters that will find a big commercial audience no matter what. Festival Film tends to be driven by social concern and topical relevance, to reward "actor-ly" work and modest experimentation--the kinds of traits that justify cinema as an art form and that play well to an educated audience.

So it is with Biennial Art. As anyone who has had to read a biennial catalogue or press release recently will know, it is defined, in general, by a sense of virtuous cultural consumption. So it seems that the list of the major biennial artists of the period will also be a portrait of how cultural virtue was defined in art in the last turbulent half decade.

We have from this, two categories and their bracketing:

Biennial Art > educated = social concerns + topical relevance = virtuous cultural consumption
Art Market World > "blockbuster" = big commercial audience
Further, we can derive two kinds of audiences:
1. Social return on investment
2. Financial return on investment

You might glean from this, that art... the artist... is not in the driver's seat. The audience is.

***

There's another kind of elite, the one(s) who thinks of where we are in art history and where we are going.

Posted by Dennis at 11:26 PM | Comments (0)

June 4, 2022

Underground Spirit

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Underground Spirit
#608
2021
60" x 36"
Oil on Canvas over Wood Panel

Continue reading "Underground Spirit"
Posted by Dennis at 10:20 AM | Comments (0)

Revolutions

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Highly recommended: Mike Duncan's Revolutions podcast. You'll find it in your favorite podcast app.

Mike Duncan is a historian and author of several projects, including this podcast series that I've tunneled into recently. At 300 episodes and counting, Duncan is engaged in a granular crawl into the history of revolution, the history of Modernity, actually. The episodes are all roughly thirty minutes each, easy to take in piecemeal.

Here's an outline:

- English Revolution spanning from the Kingdom of Charles Stuart to the Restoration (1600)
- American Revolution from the Stamp Act to the Bill of Rights
- French Revolution from the end of the Ancient Regime to Napoleon
- Haitian Revolution from the establishment of Saint-Dominique to the Haitian Declaration of Independence
- Revolutions against the Spanish Empire in the Americas
- Revolutions in Europe, 1830's - 1848
- The French Commune of 1871
- Mexican Revolution
- Russian Revolution

The Haitian, Mexican and Bolivarian Revolutions were especially enlightening.

What am I gleaning from Duncan? Modernity is a bewildering swarm of ego contra ego, a great blooming, buzzing confusion... more so than the usual take of history as a record of bad behavior because the cast of actors on the stage of history was vastly expanded from the previous ambit of decisions made by an elite. Modernity is revolution itself. People, groups, factions, rivalries, all struggling, checking, vying blindly against one another.

It loitered long and drawn out until it became a torrent, the Classical encasement ruptured and Modernity sprung out in gushing cascades of revolution, one after the other... Hobbes' war of "...of every man, against every man" but in slow enough motion to prevent inhibition due to horror overload.

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"The baby, assailed by eyes, ears, nose, skin, and entrails at once, feels it all as one great blooming, buzzing confusion; and to the very end of life, our location of all things in one space is due to the fact that the original extents or bignesses of all the sensations which came to our notice at once, coalesced together into one and the same space."
-William James
Principles of Psychology (1890)

I learned a long time ago from I don't remember where or even if this is indeed a fact, that when babies get overwhelmed, they resort to gazing at their hands.

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Posted by Dennis at 9:10 AM | Comments (0)