For all you artist types reading this wonderfully contrived blog, I have decided to include some useful information on occasion, to break up the monotiny of the random craziness of my normal ramblings.
What is this?
A book you say!?
Yes this newly translated and released text is a fantastic read. This discourse on the modern image offers a wonderful answer to the question what comes after the death of the image. Jacques Ranciere is a professor in Paris and his new book "The Future of The Image" is a must read.
http://www.chapters.indigo.ca/books/Future-Of-The-Image-Jacques-Ranciere/9781844671076-item.html?ref=Search+Books%3a+
Amorphous blobs, contrived in linear fashion. How you remind me of Ukrainian Easter Egg's. This memory brings back feelings of nostalgia. Oh how we long to have you back, the friends the smells, the innocence of play. It was a simpler time, perhaps our relationship would not have been so strained had we met then. Oh how hindsight is 20/20.
100 grams of pure black injection molded perfection, adorned with silver hexagonal metallic Allen-key. Castoff into the abyss scorned by the Gitzo from which it came. A seemingly useless object, but one which contains such hidden and divine powers. Its dominion is our realm. It breaths by our use, your tightening of screws and fastening of bolts. Certainty resting on the knowledge that everything has its place. That everything is in order. After much internal discourse the notion of such a small hunk of plastic and steel vexes me. I think back to all the Ikea furniture hardware packages, the various car tools and the like acquired over the years. Redundancy, as I have never seen before, but with a twist. "A plastic socket wrench," I exclaim, unsure of the excitement or revulsion. Perhaps an idea born of the 1950's complete infatuation with things space-aged, or a 1960's furniture sensibility. It wreaks of solubility, a lack of permanence shared by soil along rivers edge and snow at the coming of spring. A useless castoff item born in the forge of capitalism.
Although the use value is clear and the utter lack of need apparent, but still, I cannot discard thee. Carried forth on my back I burden you as you gleefully anticipate my next move, to which you will undoubtedly mirror. Mimicry is a form of flattery so they say; but who are they anyway? You are tucked away deep in pocket, but there you hum a ditty to your own cadence, that has always been your way.
I think back to the day we first met. You a recent arrival from Italy, and I a local to southern-Ontario. You traveled so far to enter into such a charged relationship. How could either of us know the contempt we would share for each other.
