How to Build Velvet Robots

Dark Magic

There is a powerful magic in our school that seems to make both the North and South Study Conservatory always full, no matter how long you wait and no matter what time you go there. It’s the best place to write since it’s cold and there are lots of people you can watch. The internet is also good. There are never any seats, however.

I secretly think the Lasallian monks are priests for an ancient cult, and they work daily to keep the conservatories full by chanting their evil incantations — the moment they become vacant is the day kindness and rainbows fill the universe in a sign of cosmic harmony.

Wikipedia - List of Turner Prize Winners 

The Turner Prize, named after the painter J. M. W. Turner, is an annual prize presented to a British visual artist under the age of 50. Awarding the prize is organised by the Tate gallery and staged at Tate Britain. Since its beginnings in 1984 it has become the United Kingdom’s most publicised art award. Although it represents all media, and painters have also won the prize, it has become associated primarily with conceptual art.
As of 2004, the monetary award was established at £40,000. There have been different sponsors, including Channel 4 television and Gordon’s Gin. The prize is awarded by a distinguished celebrity: in 2006 this was Yoko Ono.
It is a controversial event, mainly for the exhibits, such as a shark in formaldehyde by Damien Hirst and a dishevelled bed by Tracey Emin. Controversy has also come from other directions, including a Culture Minister (Kim Howells) criticising exhibits, a guest of honour (Madonna) swearing, a prize judge (Lynn Barber) writing in the press, and a speech by Sir Nicholas Serota (about the purchase of a trustee’s work).
The event has also regularly attracted demonstrations, notably the K Foundation and the Stuckists, as well as alternative prizes to assert different artistic values.

Stuckists really scare me and I sometimes have nightmares about them.

What do you mean artists who don’t paint aren’t artists?

Wikipedia:

My Bed is a work by the British artist Tracey Emin. It was exhibited at the Tate Gallery in 1999 as one of the shortlisted works for the Turner Prize. It consisted of her bed with bedroom objects in an abject state, and gained much media attention. Although it did not win the prize, its notoriety has persisted.

The artwork generated considerable media furore, particularly over the fact that the bedsheets were stained with body secretions and the floor had items from the artist’s room (such as condoms, a pair of knickers with menstrual period stains, other detritus, and functional, everyday objects, including a pair of slippers). The bed was presented as it had been when Emin had not got up from it for several days due to suicidal depression brought on by relationship difficulties.

Conceptual Art fascinates me, but doesn’t quite scare me yet.

thedailywhat:

Disgruntled Employee of the Day: An anonymous Toronto Star editor upset over Star publisher John Cruickshank’s decision to outsource union editing jobs to freelancers expresses her displeasure the best way he/she knows how: By marking up the internal memo notifying employees of said decision.

Embiggen.

[via.]

Thanks to Scholarship class, I now think there is nothing more glorious than a proof-read document.

Decoherence

Quantum Physics tells us 
	that in some parallel universe
		we are together (this
	is because there is
		a universe for
			all possibilities) 
it makes me feel bad
		when I think about it
	because I just had to end up
			here, where I
	only long for you--

Cheers to you then,
	parallel me. 

		I am glad you 
			are in love. 

Monologue: Your Crush, Which You Added On Facebook, Still Hasn't Replied To Your Friend Request

What is going on. It’s been two days. He still hasn’t added me. What is he—OH MY GOD. He hates me. He must’ve realized how I felt and now he is looking at that announcement thing and he is thinking if he should be rude and ignore it but feel safe about his masculinity, or if he should indulge in my sodomy and be nice and accept my request. GOD. I am such a moron. Why did I have to do that? I couldn’t I have just be friends with him at school first. I’m sure he sees me stare at him anyway! Fuck, fuck, fuck. He must be laughing with his friends, instant messaging them. “That fag tried to add me on Facebook.” Jesus. Oh Jesus.

How will I ever look at him in school now? I can’t look at him. Ever. He will laugh at me behind my back. He knows. Oh my god why did I have to add him as my friend. I am—my life—I am—-wow. My life is over. I am screwed. it’s been two days. Who the fuck waits that long to add a friend. God! I hate myself. I hate myself. Oh my gggoooddd….

Yes, mom, I’m still using the computer. Hold up. I am not being dramatic. Just… just use your laptop mom… stop bothering me… Mom, please… Just go…

Fountain
Marcel Duchamp
Porcelain
360 x 480 x 610 mm.
Tate Modern, London

Wikipedia:

Fountain is a 1917 work by Marcel Duchamp. It is one of the pieces which he called readymades (also known as found art), because he made use of an already existing object—in this case a urinal, which he titled Fountain and signed “R. Mutt”. The art show to which Duchamp submitted the piece stated that all works would be accepted, but Fountain was not actually displayed, and the original has been lost. The work is regarded by some as a major landmark in 20th century art. Replicas commissioned by Duchamp in the 1960s are now on display in museums.

Jerry Saltz:

Duchamp adamantly asserted that he wanted to “de-deify” the artist. The readymades provide a way around inflexible either-or aesthetic propositions. They represent a Copernican shift in art. Fountain is what’s called an “acheropoietoi,” [sic] an image not shaped by the hands of an artist. Fountain brings us into contact with an original that is still an original but that also exists in an altered philosophical and metaphysical state. It is a manifestation of the Kantian sublime: A work of art that transcends a form but that is also intelligible, an object that strikes down an idea while allowing it to spring up stronger

Let's talk.

pacholo_mercado@yahoo.com

Oh, Lawdy

I have failed three subjects already: math appreciation, introduction of economics, and introduction to philosophy. From the way things are looking, I’m hoping I won’t fail Theology III either.

I’ve maxed out my allowable absences and I failed my midterm exam.

That would be 12 units failed out of the allowable 24.

That subject bores me to tears and I have ethical and logical objections to what it teaches. God, I hope I get through this.

Cigarette Smoke-ahhh

Our teenager selves would probably scoff at the idea that we are not meant to be alone. We would roll our eyes with that fierceness that youth has and raise our fists screaming “freedom! Independence!” We liked to believe we exist apart from the world and from everyone, and that we are heroes meant to fight alone. We thought we were that powerful.

But as we age, slowly, perhaps, or sometimes swiftly, we begin to realize that the opposite is true: solitude is painful, sometimes physically. We long to be with someone, with people. We learn that we are not meant to be alone at all. Sartre may be correct: Hell is other people. What he forgot to mention is that the lack thereof is also an inferno we should exert effort to avoid.

libraryland:

tropfacile:clairefisher:gamblin-ramblin: booktumbling: walkwhilereading:

Jack Kerouac.

In the olden days, artists used to have patrons so they could just lie around doing art all day and they didn’t have to worry (much) about money.

I wish I had a patron.

You do my bad poetry honor, kind and mysterious sir.

I appreciate your appreciation.

1

They called him “the tallest homosexual in the room.” Matangkad na bading. His name was too dignified for him, and they decided that it should not be used because he did not deserve it. He smelled sometimes. They suspected he did not take a bath when he was either too depressed or too lazy. He spoke infrequently, sometimes  when he is spoken to. Aaron Montemayor, the biggest loon in the class, called “pugo” because of his supposedly small dick, would tease him for a long time before he finally asks, “Why don’t you fight back? It’s more fun to call someone names if they fight back,” and, contemptuous but calm, he would not respond. Instead, he would keep his fortitude about him, damning the souls for what they did to him, but otherwise remained motionless against them. “Bading, bading, bakla, bakla,” Aaron would repeatedly say sometimes. It got to him, but not enough for him to give them what they want.

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