curricula vitae

her / In 1986 S had a brief encounter with a person not significantly older than him self. They instantly clicked, took long walks together and sat at the edge of the woods talking during the only three days she was in the region. They spoke German with each other and for those of the readers who are not familiar with German, it is one of those languages where—different than in English—every single subject and object is gendered. Love, death, sculpture, bottle, tree, weather conditions and even shit are masculine or feminine and some things like a child for example, a car, the end, a room and the eye are neuter. Spectators, refugees, authors, consumers, players, artists, losers or students and other unspecified groups of people are spoken of as groups of only males. Over the time the two spent together, all these groups of only males turned into groups of only females through her consistent and solely gendering of everyone feminine in her speaking. The male omnipresence in their native language started to crumble through that same language spoken consciously and intentionally different by her. S remembers the moment he realized what she was doing and how startling and what a thrill it was to witness her changing his imagination and perception of past and future worlds through her use of language. He forgot her name but he remembers her as one of his best teachers. /

nothing / Thomas says he remembers. Until he was five years old, no one in his family had realized that his vision was really weak and that he could hardly see. It made it difficult for him to connect. He couldn’t recognize things or people unless they were no further away from him then his outstretched arms. Even his feet materialized only when he squatted down to put them into the shoes, which also only took on shape the moment he touched them. He was convinced that all things where more or less made from the same soft matter assembled in various but very similarly vague, contoured and colored clouds. All the ingredients for all and everything nascent were always present everywhere. A thing decided what to be, hard or soft, vivacious or inanimate, only a moment before he could touch it. Sister, mother, refrigerator, cherry tree. Everything had the potential to be anything. All arose from a pool of wafting matter. All vanished back into that same pool. He does remember but can only think and talk about it in the language he developed subsequent to the experience. Even if he takes off his thick glasses to visually see the things more or less the way he saw them earlier, he can never again experience the world the way he did. What he describes in retrospect—due to a lack of another language—as a blurry or unclear vision, mist or fog, he remembers to have simply been the way things were. Things were not blurry or obscure. And by saying that, he finds himself curiously handicapped by the fact that he can’t describe or even think about his former perception without comparing it to the perception of the seeing man he is now. He also has to acknowledge that he regularly forgets to mention that the world he lived in not only looked different but was a fundamentally other place. And whilst trying to find words to specify this other place he again has only comparisons to offer. “How do I think and speak today about an experience I’ve made before I had the language I use to speak about it today?” This is why he actually doesn’t think that he remembers anything at all, he says. /

things / M wants the things he makes and his installations named thing-coalitions to be some-things that are not yet objects of his knowledge. Detached and sometimes even radically free from representation they are first of all no-things or ideally even un-subjects. M doesn’t want them to remind him of anything. Or at least not immediately or not anymore after he’s known them for a while. They are nothing, really, but the force of their detachment executed as form. / For M these things work as exemplary devices for the defamiliarization of that which is or has become familiar or been taken for granted. Instruments to impart the sensation of things as they are perceived and not as they are known, inducing a different state of perception. Maybe. M (and any future beholder), the things and the space they share enter a collaborative triangle assigned to question recognition and memory. / Avoiding to recognize something is one of M’s approaches to working with memory. Understanding memory as an institution that makes him repeat and even loop certain perceptions, comprehensions and experiences, M is often worried and affected by the institution of what he calls the membership idea; groups and societies that emphasize attributes, preferences and value propositions to unify under and identify with. From these unions arise the concepts of the kin, the exotic and the monstrous other. The binary concept of the unknown and the known are bound to the idea of a collective knowledge and memory of belonging that is very often a collective teaching of exclusion and apartness. This teaching is what M tries to talk back to through his attempted non-remembering in these things and installations. / M often works with found material. When he’s attracted to things in the material world he notices a drawing force coming from these things. Like the magnetic pull of an atom’s nucleus or the centrifugal force that spirals a galaxy. M is convinced some things choose his company. / Every body (person, plant, furniture, image) comes with an impulse to seek alliances that enhance their vitality. Material can consent or refuse to work with anyone, anything. Some minerals come together to form rocks, others assemble to make my bones, is how he remembers Jane Bennett putting it, in her beautiful book “Vibrant Matter” from 2010. / When working with things M tries not to use force. He’s paying attention. If things fall apart under his hands, that’s where they fall apart. Things are always assemblies of smaller things that are themselves assemblies of even smaller things. Material itself is a coalition of different components and information. A number of particles gathering in constellations to be and to effectuate something larger than themselves. Falling apart is an immanent property of assembled things. / Each distinct element carries on to agitate its own plots, forming particular groups and serving other masters, wills and functions. They remember their own histories, purposes and agendas outside of this particular constellation. They have their own actual, past, potential and secret lives and are always on the move. Rephrasing Jane Bennett again, M tries to take the ‘vitality’ of non-human bodies seriously, the competence of things such as food, artifacts, weather conditions, photographs, electricity, trash, a dead bird etc. to not only work for or against the will and design of humans but to also act as forces with their own trajectories, weight, densities, coerciveness and tendencies. M has learned to understand all things as actants, a term that Bruno Latour introduced in his book Politics of Nature from 1999: “[…] an actant is a source of action that can be either human or non human; it can do things, has sufficient cohesion to make a difference, to produce effects, alter the course of things. It is any entity that modifies any other entity in a trail, something whose competence derives from its performance.” / Ephemeral cold melting metallic and contained organic shape-memory electric old porcelain wood-like wire cotton-weave rubber-band polyethylene inside-out etc. Each thing disputes with its own system-internal lack of imperativeness arising from the surprising and rebelling or contradictory role that other parts or elements play within it. In enlisting multiple things to produce larger things or situations, the larger ones must come to grips with the tendencies of the smaller ones to move in other directions and act on behalf of other aims. That inner cluster of inconsistent motions and motivations might be one feature that attracts M to things. / Material resistance, appeal and ugliness, insignificance and strangeness are gestures of the attracting thing-power; the ability of natural and artificial things to exceed their status as objects and to manifest traces of independence and aliveness. Stubborn materials speak out and form coalitions to resist the notion of a fundamental homogeneity and division, against entity and separation as the allegedly natural and original states of thingness. With the help of these things, M tries to disrupt the perpetuation of a notion of strangeness alleged through the binary thinking of known and unknown. The things he makes and his installations are open-ended inter-relational un-gendered trans-material connections constantly changing and collecting information by interaction with multiple and possibly very different others offering a glimpse onto lively bodies that are not parted into objects and subjects. Sometimes. Maybe./

him / There was a mummified body of a South Asian male in a glass box. Melanie witnessed a small boy looking at this corpse. That was in London 1994. Melanie stood with her back against a thick white pillar close to the head end of the showcase. The mummy was naked, resting on its side in a sort of fetus position on a low pedestal approximately 40 cm elevated from the floor. The boy was about ten years of age. He wore a dark blue school uniform with shorts and white knee socks. He squatted on his haunches to look at what was displayed. He observed the object in front of him with great curiosity, bending further down and forward, almost touching the glass with his forehead. The shiny bronze skin of the mummy was still intact in most places. From where she stood Melanie could see the face of the mummy. The hair on the head as well as the thin mustache were orange. The eyelashes long. From where she stood she could see the boy through two layers of glass. She only saw a tuft of his light blond hair behind the back of the mummy as he moved slowly around the box, remaining in a squatting position. He came around the mummy’s shoulders, around the back of its head and finally crouched in front of its face. From where Melanie stood she could see the boy’s back now. It must have been only now that the boy realized what he was looking at. His head sprang up with a little jolt and his slender back hardened and stretched in one jerk. Falling backwards onto his hands and kicking once or twice with both of his feet he leaped away from the showcase. He came back onto his feet, staggering, supporting himself with one of his hands against the glass box. His head sunk a little bit and a tiny shiver went through his lower back before he vomited onto the glass. It was a small amount of yellowish spew. The teacher came and led him away. For a moment Melanie could see his watery eyes in a haze of disbelief. The museum lights reflected as white circles on the greenish glass surrounding the mummy and made the small pool of vomit sparkle. /

images / Surfing the world wide web D comes across hundreds of images per excursion. Most of the time she’s not looking for something in particular—or she is—and what she finds leads her astray and on the way she’s caught by other pictures and so on. This is how she understands surfing. Taking the waves as they come. D does it when she’s rather tired. To her, surfing is what watching TV might be for others. She categorizes images with one glimpse and makes a quick decision to keep one or a few images in a folder named Un-named and Temporary. Something she would call oscillation or affection makes her hold for an instant, click and drag. And later when looking at the collection in a bigger window, she finds herself clicking through a sequence of pictures whose order changes how-ever she lets the folder arrange itself by the software’s categories like: Name, Kind, Application, Date Last Opened, Date Modified, Date Created, Size, Label and None. This generates a whole new other surfing experience. Susceptible to narrations, she loves how these images start to connect with each other and support each other in different ways according to the mode of arrangement chosen. Some of the emerging narrations catch her more than others. To stay in the surf-language, they create perfect barrels or pipelines for her ride. Some of the individual images begin to look back at her differently than before, depending in what combination or group with other pictures they line up. Some seem to work together to enhance their telling. Others are silenced in the kind of noise that might occur in an arrangement and some of the silent ones then become the ones sticking out. Some images relate only to one or very few others. Some images create with other images a clearance or a fold in between them, a vacancy from where multiple other connections to other images are imaginable. New excursions could start here. She adds more pictures to the folders and when ever she opens them, new connections, distances and narratives have formed. When opening the folder in the mode Show Icons the images arrange themselves on a grid, now connecting not only the image before and the one after but forming liaisons and patterns across a field. Again, by letting the folder arrange itself by Name, Kind, Application, Date Last Opened, Date Modified, Date Created, Size, Label and None, different fields appear with different topographies, complex webs of associations, conjugations, similarities and differences. Un-named and Temporary become generators for interconnections based on image-interstices. For now, this is a practice of finding. /

mirror / I lie in a ditch hiding. Over me tower birch trees with yellow leaves. And there are some pines. It is a mild early afternoon and I can smell the mushroomish scent of autumn all around me. What am I hiding from? I crawl up the slope to find out. In front of me stretched out until the horizon lie vast grasslands. Wild oats gleam in the sunlight. I’m at the edge of a forest somewhere in Midwestern America. Is it the Dakotas or Nebraska? I don’t know. I don’t have the slightest idea how I got here and what I’m supposed to do. A group of about 35 bare-chested Indians are approaching in wild gallop on untamed horses dragging a dust cloud with them. Now I can hear their screams. The thunder from more than one hundred hoofs plowing over the grasslands rolls into my head. The horsemen carry tomahawks. Have you ever seen one of those Wild West movies so popular in 70’s and 80’s Europe? My situation looks exactly like one of those. The horsemen are very close now and I can see their distorted faces. Distorted by the impact the bouncing horses’ bodies have on theirs. When the horses’ front hooves hit the ground and the rider is pushed deep into its back, his lower lip gravitates downwards a bit and reveals some of his lower teeth. The same is true for the face of the horse. From where I watch it looks like a choreographed rhythmical baring of teeth. Like a rhythmically forced frown. Horse frown followed by rider frown. Horse rider horse rider. Not all riders are young men. I’m fascinated by the bouncing of the looser flesh and skin of some of the more matured men. The gallop has become slow motion by now. There is no sound anymore. I see foamy saliva flakes flying off the lip of the horse closest to me. Its rider swings a tomahawk with a blade of white stone. I return horse and rider’s frown. From somewhere a lance comes flying at me and thanks to the steady deceleration of all motion around me I manage to duck down behind one of the birch trees. The splintering bark flies around my head and I see the iridescent yellowish neon-green of the exposed bare wood. I smell the cut wood. The warrior lifts off from the back of his horse and comes flying at me with his white tomahawk cutting through the air. Slow motion is really slow now. I roll over to the right with my arms over my face and then one of my arms flies out and I manage to grab one of his ankles and his trajectory pulls me up and my weight pulls him down. A smooth move that I try to record into my brain thinking it could be something I might like to use in one of my next performances. Bouncing frown rhythms and the pushing and pulling trajectory of flying and crouching men on a brightly lit stage. The warrior turns around now and I see the white blade flying towards my face and I catch the forearm under the hand holding the tomahawk and I jump up and twist the arm and the tomahawk away from me while grabbing the face of the horseman with my other hand. I’m irritated by the materiality of his face in my hand, and the scene at the edge of the forest halts. What if, I think—and while I think it I realize that I’m quite good at lucid dreaming by now—what if this could be the place to change the narrative? What if it is here and now that I participate in the rewriting of a foreign history? What if this is the time for me to let go of my privileges in my own colonial dream? / Rider and horses start moving again. I hear no sound. The horse closest to me spits foam. Its rider swings a tomahawk with a blade of white stone. I stand up and step out of the ditch. From somewhere a lance comes flying at me and I only see it the moment it pierces the right side of my torso and runs into me with the sound of tearing paper. My frown meets that of horse and rider. The rider comes flying at me and a white blade splits open my forehead like a flash. No pain but a funny taste. The lights go out. /

nothing / In 1983, they chose to be homeless for six month. Homeless was the word other people used to describe them. They understood the city to be their home with themselves being street-people. They lived in the park and on the flat roof of the 5-story parking garage next to the train station. When it rained they took shelter in the basement of a newly built and yet uninhabited apartment building not too far away from art-school. Without electricity and windows, the space they spent these nights in was pitch dark. It was so dark that they thought of it as a cube of absent light. They made it a game to walk around in this darkness, to stand in the middle of the space with their eyes open observing what they could see without seeing. “We can see something in complete darkness but we find it extraordinarily difficult to express what we see. Even to our selves. In terms usually associated with visual phenomena, we see nothing. After a few minutes we experience difficulty sensing whether our eyes are opened or closed. We start seeing huge glowing color-fields and shape-shifting forms of various brilliancies and hues floating in front of and behind other glows and groups of glows that look like things whose names we don’t recall. Shreds of lights pierce the colors and moving shadows, clouds of new and changing tones, swarms of shapes followed by their trembling afterimages, flashing diagonal and criss-crossed. A deep rusty red flares up with its afterimage’s bright green swirling glow. Vibrating lilac opens into Fra-Angelico-blue, fringes out into auburn, lime and white dots or sparks falling. Warm orange glides into pink and reads as turquoise. Flat colors flicker into deep spaces without grounds and beginnings and ends. Prismatic eversions waft simultaneously in front of our faces and all the way in the back of our heads. This here must be the end of the field of visual perception. The absence of visual experience results in an overkill of cognition. This cognitive sphere surrounding us is not a phenomenal field. It is not a field of physical experience. It is seeing nothing with seeing eyes. It is shooting through the spinning galaxies between retina and brain. This un-experiencing extends beyond our eyes. Various effects such as fatigue and a great lightness of body overcome us. Bodily coordination is poor and we have difficulty maintaining balance. We float, feel as if pushed or driven. There is the taste of cinnamon and rose not on our tongues but deep down in the chest as if a sweet dust of spices is settling onto our pericardium. We experience dizziness, headache and temporary depersonalization. Image, taste and the nervous noise of the blood rushing through the capillary networks in our ears loosen their connections to the words capturing them so insufficiently. The perception of time is disturbed. Lived and perceived duration have fallen out of sync. All is full of nothing, difficult to describe and impossible to document except trough stuttering telling.” /  So their account. 9 years later they will come in contact with a Tony Smith sculpture from 1968 called “Die”, a hollow steel cube with the measurement of 182.9x 182.9x182.9cm. The box “in human dimensions”—as Tony Smith would say—“not an object nor a monument” will let them remember the basement. Thanks to their experience of seeing nothing they will be able to see how the absence of light inside the cube will make this very cube disintegrate from within, inflating it into nothing. What will look from the outside like approximately six cubic meters of emptiness held together by six 3 cm thick rusty square steel plates, actually contains a rapidly expanding infinite black hole. They will agree that some minimal art has the means to blow their minds. / 

mirror / In the midst of the housing complex built in 1970 lay a playground with swings, monkey bars and a sandbox on one side and an artificial rock formation with a slide on the other. On top of the rocks stood a square blockhouse we children referred to as fort and at its feet two wooden triangles we called teepees. We were about eight or nine years old when we played Indian a lot. Surrounded by windows and balconies like on the stage of a modern suburban amphitheater and under the eyes of the adult bystanders who—not individually but as the grown-up part of society—had provided us children with the set design and the structure for the narratives of conquest and extermination. Contrary to the invaders and their victims in the genocide following Columbus’s landing at the shores of the Americas that modeled for our play—a history we had no knowledge about yet—we could choose teams. The white team used to win. Being in the red team was more fun. We got to scream and dance, we got to be almost naked. We got to smoke the fake pipe and paint our faces with squashed elderberries or dirt. We got to be the good guys who died unjustly, beautifully wasteful protecting freedom and land. We were attacked, vowed vengeance, ran, lurked, hid, fought and we died. We fell in slow motion, rolled down the grassy slope with distorted faces, jolting legs twisted, muscles tensed, trembling, relaxing, rising again to collapse again to then collapse again in a last gasp. The dramatic performance of dying produced beautiful intensely vivid bodies between surrender and revolt. The smell of summer skin, sweaty hair and squashed foliage, our naked skin on the cool grass, being dragged around so very alive in the embodiment of imagined despair and death. The excitement of chasing and being caught, the rough touch of the capturers, their naked knees on the captive’s chest, bare arms clutching squirming skinny waists, being tied up and teased. These explorations into the erotics of domination and surrender made our summer days. Our play was generated on a fictionalized historical terrain that concealed a non-fictional reality where very gruesome developments had taken their course, influencing individual as well as collective realities until today. The conquest of an inhabited continent, the vanishing of millions of indigenous people and their culture, said to be an inescapable necessity for the colonization and “development” of the “New World,” surfaced and found manifestations in the exciting fantasies of children playing genocide in a developing suburb of Zurich in the seventies. It must have been here in the summer of 1972 that we started to learn how to be white. /

body / P is nine years old when he sees a picture on the front page of the Tagesanzeiger, a Swiss daily newspaper. The page depicts a scene that takes place on a sidewalk in front of a big limestone façade. Five or maybe seven people are running away from about the same number of soldiers that are aiming to hit them with the butts of their machine guns. Some of the fleeing ones—all are young men—have long black hair flying around their heads as they turn around with ghastly faces to see what is coming at them. The uniformed trousers of the soldiers are tucked in to their high combat boots. All of them look very young. One of the fleeing men has blood running from behind his ear down his neck forming dark shapes on the collar of his shirt and on his shoulder. His wet hair sticks to his face. One soldier is captured in flight as he jumps onto a young man laying on the ground. The way the soldier hangs in mid air so effortlessly makes him look gracefully elegant. The man on the ground has one foot and both of his arms up in the air trying to protect him self. He wears shiny shoes with flat heals and a white button up shirt tucked into a pair of pale bell–bottomed pants. The arms of his shirt are rolled up, and his forearms, stretched out towards the flying boots, are quiet thin. He wears a watch. Both of his hands are open like two fans. His head is lifted above the pavement and his shoulder-length hair touches the ground. His eyes are wide open, his eyebrows lifted, his mouth opened in a sort of smile on his pretty, very young face. The face of the jumping soldier, shaded by his helmet, is soft and sincere and relaxed and very young as well. With the left hand he holds his rifle lightly, as if it had no weight or even as if he had to hold it back from floating up into the sky. His other arm is held angled outwards with his hand placed horizontally as if to support his jump on a block of air. This scene taking place in front of a limestone wall was photographed by a photographer unknown to P during the first days of the military coup in Chile in the early fall of 1973. In 2001, P’s attention was drawn back to depictions of the first days of the coup circulating in different on-line archives when he was looking for images of people burning books. He came across pictures showing soldiers in Santiago de Chile in the days after the coup burning books on cubism mistaking them for books on Cuba. Since then P frequently returns to the image in his memory for new consultations. His attempts to find the photograph in the archive of the Tagesanzeiger, the dpa and other press agencies remain fruitless. Although he can see the picture clear in his memory, it seems as if it doesn’t exist but is rather a phantasmal montage of a number of images he had seen as a child. Presumably mixing images from Santiago de Chile with images from the coup d’état in Argentina that had happened three years later. P repeatedly zooms in on the soldier’s face under the helmet to understand the unfathomable levity with which he is about to crush the precious life of a young man his age but there is nothing to be seen but the black and white dots of the gritty newspaper print. Even though memory might have made up the image remembered it refuses to facilitate more detail on the soldier’s face. P concentrates on the smile of the young man on the sidewalk; this smile so old, a gesture of placidity from times when humanoids ran around, able to release no more than guttural sounds, not able to discuss the terms under which they met and on what grounds. Back then it might have helped to smile and show a demilune shaped white patch in a dirty face to signal good will and peaceful intentions when encountering humanoids from different clans. It must have helped from time to time. How else would it have gotten into the repertoire of instinctive expressions for “I wish you no harm—don’t harm me”. What a deadly disaster if such a gesture is ignored, back in the Stone Age, in Santiago de Chile and today. P needs to find a way to effectively speak back to the image that sits in his memory since forty or more years like a hard poisonous seed seeping small portions of darkness, to turn that poison into activity. P thinks of something Ernst Bloch mentioned in “The Principle Hope” about crossroads and junctions to alternative futures in history as well as the present. Crucial moments and situations from where the course of events could have developed or can develop differently. Knowing what happened in Chile, it seems imperative to read the jumping soldier’s trajectory as fatally dreadful for the young man on the ground, but applying the idea of alternative futures P registers a slim but tempting likelihood that the soldier is captured in the moment of a change of heart, jumping over the defenseless fellow being to not harm him and to give him a chance to escape. Only days later the young soldier will have deserted the army to join the resistance and his military training will have been helpful in the fight against the dictator and his henchmen. It is even possible that the young man that had fallen to the ground and the soldier sparing him become more but comrades in the long and consuming fight ahead of them. Friends or perhaps even lovers. This is not a pipe-dream fabricated to ignore and sugarcoat real crimes committed by and against real people. This is P’s attempt to use the principle hope to gather energy and find agency. What to do with images and information that touch you, move you, push you, knock you out, poison you, paralyze you, make you angry and distraught. How to activate something in them for your own movement? /

body / When B was sixteen years old, she took what emerged to be the last walk with her grand-uncle Heinrich before he died. He was a very soft and generous man in his nineties. What had fascinated B since she was a small child was the fact that his frail body constantly shook. A grenade had detonated right next to him in the First World War, killing two of his comrades and leaving him spiked with shrapnel and with a so-called agitated paralysis for the rest of his life. B’s granduncle couldn’t hold a cup or glass or spoon without spilling half of what was in it on the way to his mouth. The few times she witnessed him falling asleep on the sofa in the small kitchen of the one-room apartment he shared with wonderful grandaunt Anneliese, his sleeping body kept shaking. Sometimes it shook so hard that the sofa started to beat against the wall and one of them had to squeeze a few folded napkins between sofa and wall to stop the banging. Every fiber in his body was twitching since 1916. Now, 1980, B and Heinrich are taking a walk along the edge of a park or forest exchanging the wisdom of a sixteen and a ninety-year-old. And while they are talking, B sees Heinrich’s jittery shadow in the flat afternoon light passing over a multi-colored, patchy background of autumn leaves covering a dirt road outside the city of Dortmund. And eventually—it happens at that moment—she’s able to see him as a nervous swarm of cells, every single one of them individually constantly jumping for their lives, still trying to escape a grenade. Jumping sort of backwards towards the grenade in the past. Caught in a loop never able to let go of shock and trauma as long as they remembered. /

more than six colors / Carlo and Axx work on the development of a spray for self defence. It will, when coming into contact with displays of power, turn the means used to display power into alliances with those hurt, degraded or humiliated by them. The action-display-gesture-pose-embodiment-language of power turn, translate and transform into tools, means and practices of self-empowerment. Carlo and Axx think of a spray because it will be easy to handle and can be distributed in small cans like teargas. It could be sold under the counter at the public soup kitchen where one of them works or after the next concert of their band t.i.n.a (theory is not action) or in the lefty bookstore that distributes their first comic novel t.i.n.a. (there is no alternative). One will be able to take the spray to school undetected, to a family dinner and to the appointment with one’s caseworker at the Job Center or the foreigners’ registration office and other places where humiliation and discrimination are the order of the day. One can spray it at architecture, design and fashion, at soldiers, at monuments and memorials and take it to the museum of natural history and ethnography. It can end the treating of history as a “natural” product of “neutral” observations and melt dioramas and ethnographic collections as well as the words in the boulevard press. The users will be able to utilize the now crumbling, shattering, twisting, transforming gestures and performances of power for the production of knowledge and to their own glistening liberation. Where do we start? Will such a spray detect if a man holding the door for a woman is displaying power? How can it be equipped with the faculty to distinguish chauvinism from polite courtesy for example? Should it follow any of its user’s orders? Is everything that humiliates and discriminates you and makes you feel powerless caused by an action-display-gesture-pose-embodiment-language of power? Their spray wouldn’t be beneficial for the homophobe, nationalist or racist ignorant asshole however strongly he-she-they would feel humiliated by different people simply existing in their proximity. The spray would turn against bigots and misogynists. It would be an intelligent autonomous agent that checks agendas and detects intentions. The steady heteronormative bla bla will sizzle into liquid fertilizer for the growth of subversive queer rhizomes. Patriarchy will reorganize into non-binary gender non conforming collectives. The spray will have to be secured so that it can’t be overwritten, abused and turned around should it fall into the hands of those in power and those coming to power. / Now Mara and Lor join the laboratory after work and all four of them agree that a no God, no national state, no fatherland component has to be included into that spray. God, nation and patriotism have to die. Without their death patriarchy and the fucking mess it brings along will never end. The unreflected continuity of tradition has to be turned into reflective assimilations thereof if not into its radical separation and exclusion from the idea of identity. The spray will instantly act against the slightest rise—conscious or unconscious—of national, originalist and religious identity-designs. God, nation and patriotism will be turned into play-dough, finger paint and free information and tools for all living and coming generations to experiment with and to develop different and new non-identitarian society-designs. And so on… Now Carlo, Axx, Lor, Mara, (C.A.L.M.) agree that things are not that simple and that some territories make sense sometimes—for some periods. The same is true for identities. Is it not better to fight some of these power issues if necessary with their bare hands? And then again, how much time do they want to spend reacting if it could be spent developing? They also see that a spray is not a completely unproblematic medium to use because of its similarity with gas and the history of gas being used by the power as an agent to kill countless humans, animals and plants. For a while, they try to think of it as a perfume but now they are a little bit discouraged, realizing how much work they have ahead of them. / Later at band rehearsal they turn to their tech-punk version of Jefferson Airplane’s “White Rabbit” and scream: “When logic and proportion have fallen sloppy dead and the white knight is talking backwards and the red queen’s off with her head… remember what the doormouse said: feed your head, feed your head!” Later they go to Mara’s house to pick up spray paint and then bike to Axx’s school and tag: Masturbate Together Visualizing Revolution! over the main entrance. Lor has to be home soon and Carlo, Axx and Mara go back to the laboratory and make out for a while. Lor in her room writes into her diary what she kept from today’s reading in Kathy Ackers “Pussy, King of the Pirates”: The decrease of the separation between private and public property will directly be related to a movement away from, and then to the passing away of, the memory of patriarchy. /

making diorama, from the series we need to talk, black and white photograph, 2018. / using an floor plan from the American Museum of Natural History, New York City, showing areas of the ethnographic collection holding Native American artefacts, photographed in 2010

interstice, from the series temporary sculptures, black and white photograph, 2018

joint forces, from the series temporary sculptures, black and white photograph, 2018

all those that are here are thus from here, from the series temporary sculptures, light blue spray paint on the glass panel at a bus stop in Opfikon-Glattbrugg, a suburb of Zurich where I grew up, black and white photograph, 2018

support your local girl gang (proposition for a public sculpture), chipboard, dark green spray paint, 187x90x90cm, black and white photograph, 2018

history-memory from the series what I remember to tell - what I tell to remember, black and white photograph, 2018. / two images found on the internet in 2009 and 2012. Image sources have since disappeared

mirrors from the series we need to talk, black and white photograph, 2018. / George Catlin, painting a portrait of Mah-to-toh-pa, chief of the Mandan, who he greatly admired. (It became the frontispiece of Catlin’s Illustrations of the Manners and Customs of the North American Indians, vol. 1, 1876). Catlin copied many of his original paintings from the 1830s again and again between 1861 and 1869. He added the teepees in the background of this illustration at the time (the Mandan never lived in teepees) to make the scene look more authentic for his audience. / The other image shows me, photographed by Evelyne Pente in 1972, decorating a shack in my grandparents’ garden with the portrait of a dragon. The dragon, a symbol to protect my hideout from invasion and destruction by my parents or brother. The act of painting served to befriend the dragon and win their protection.

the artefact has left the collection from the series temporary sculptures, black and white photograph, 2018. / Light blue edding on a show-case in the museum of natural history, La Specola, Florence 

17. juni 2005.11:20 AM / 

18. juni 2005.11:20 AM

what my body remembers about time and space, black and white photograph, 2018 

playing indian from the series we need to talk, black and white photograph, 2018. / Both me and my brother in costume, photographed by Evelyne Pente. My brother is dressed as a cowboy and I’m dressed as an Indian. This is long before either of us has the slightest idea of what our costumes could refer to. I’m not older than four. Zürich around 1968. I don’t recall ever having worn such a costume. Indians were not part of my world yet. Maybe my older brother had decided what to wear for carneval. Two years older than me, he might have already realized that in the long run, cowboys will win fighting the Indians. Or maybe my parents picked out the costumes for us. Just two typical boys’ outfits. Two cultural icons, one of which is generally eradicated by the other. Genocide-as- adventure-fantasy costumes. Who knows what parents don’t think about some times. My mother has no recollection about this occasion

making bodies, me, conducting a queer-feminist workshop named Body, Mind, Landscape together with Sabian Baumann, 2011. black and white photograph, 2018