Tuche & Automaton

Monday, June 25, 2007

Little Leeks like Poirot


Carolee Schneemann, multidisciplinary artist. Transformed the definition of art, especially discourse on the body, sexuality, and gender. The history of her work is characterized by research into archaic visual traditions, pleasure wrested from suppressive taboos, the body of the artist in dynamic relationship with the social body.

Painting, photography, performance art and installation works shown at Los Angeles Museum of Contemporary Art; Whitney Museum of American Art; Museum of Modern Art, NYC; Centre Georges Pompidou, Paris; and most recently in a retrospective at the New Museum of Contemporary Art in New York entitled “Up To And Including Her Limits”. Film and video retrospectives Centre Georges Pompidou, Paris; Museum of Modern Art, NY; National Film Theatre, London; Whitney Museum, NY; San Francisco Cinematheque; Anthology Film Archives, NYC.

She has taught at many institutions including New York University, California Institute of the Arts, Bard College, the School of the Art Institute of Chicago. Recipient of a 1999 Art Pace International Artist Residency, San Antonio, Texas; Pollock-Krasner Foundation Grant (1997, 1998); 1993 Guggenheim Fellowship; Gottlieb Foundation Grant; National Endowment for the Arts Fellowship. Honorary Doctor of Fine Arts, Maine College of Art, Portland, ME. Lifetime Achievement Award, College Art Association, 2000.

Schneemann has published widely; books include Cezanne, She Was A Great Painter (1976), Early and Recent Work (1983); More Than Meat Joy: Performance Works and Selected Writings (1979, 1997). Forthcoming publications include Imaging Her Erotics, from MIT Press. A selection of her letters edited by Kristine Stiles is also forthcoming.

Saturday, June 16, 2007


Section One.

In the Laughing Spaghetti Factory there are:

(a) Hand-woven portraits of Mama Pork rendered in multicoloured silks and fuse-wire.

(b) A mock-up of the Sistine Chapel circa 1693 made from toothpaste.

(c) A selection of Andy warhol's wigs, including the one he wore when he died.

(Pick one of the above and go to Section Two)

In the Laughing Spaghetti Factory there are:

(a) A series of mildly racist jokes specifically designed to be offensive to Spanish people. They mostly involve incest and crying statues of the Blessed virgin. (The curators take no legal responsibility for any (i) riots, (ii) wars or (iii) accidental births that may occur as a result of this exhibition. The Laughing Spaghetti Factory exists outside of any known legal system and/or recognised conceptual continuality.)

(b) A wall of snails.

Section Two.

This is Section two. Please go to Section Four.

In the Laughing Spaghetti Factory there are:

(a) A number of water-colours (post-industrialist landscapes of Lowell, Georgia, mainly) painted using the diluted vomit of Jack Keruouac and his mother.

(b) Some old chipped marbles belonging to my father when he was a child that have been placed in an old Maxwell House coffee jar.

(c) A sty full of pigs wearing human masks. One of them is a representation of your face, drawn in wax crayons. Can you see it?

You're lying.

Section Three.

This is serious. Stop laughing. Go to Section Nine.

Section Four.

Go to Section Three. No, don't go.

Section Five.

In the Laughing Spaghetti Factory there are:

(a) Eleven blind men dressed as monks. None of them believe in God.

(b) A blind God dressed as a man. He believes in nothing.

(c) A choir of rotting cats.

(d) A row of telephones, endlessly ringing.

(Select one of the above that most closely resembles your body weight, then go home. If you die in your sleep then magpies will pick at your skin, half-heartedly searching for ticks.)

Section Six.

Close your eyes. Imagine there is a secret wardrobe that contains a homemade replica of JFK's blood-soaked shirt. There are strands of hair on the collar and tiny fragments of bone. Ignore this. Can you see me yet? I'm wearing ribbons. Open your eyes.

Go outside for fresh air. The cafeteria is now open.

Section Seven.

This is not Section Seven.

There is no Laughing Spaghetti Factory.

There is no Laughing Spaghetti Factory.

There is no Laughing Spaghetti Factory.
There is no Laughing Spaghetti Factory.
There is no Laughing Spaghetti Factory.

There is no Laughing Spaghetti Factory.

This is not Section Seven.

Section Eight.

Please, I'm begging you. Please Don't leave me.

Friday, June 15, 2007


Friday, June 08, 2007

Green Fluxus

Thursday, June 07, 2007

Winding Gamma Nude

In came the Winding Gamma Nude, a n n n n n n n odd seethe, a blocked drain of a manchild, a pulsing oedema of.... (here even Henry trailed into disinterest; they all hated it - and coughed loudly - whenever the words themselves started to leak sobriety) a nnn nnnn nnnnnd more flecks of fruit per metre than anything Christy had ever seen.

(((((What big eyes you have etc.))))))

The Gamma Nude smiled annnnnnnnnnnd started rolling itself in, hoping to disappear completly my midnight.

"Don't you ever just... relate?" Christy asked.

The Gamma Nude shook his head, the hair grew outwards so quick that before Christy could really get her bearings he had flippd from:

<<<<according to a NELogic>>>>

"You never listen!" yelled Malcolm, already teaming with lice and lichen from his spell in the bush (cue jokes half-heartedly pushed out of Christy on a Bungle Bungle theme) but by then the Winding Gamma Nude was long long long.

Mordant Music - Winding Ourselves Into The Ground

a Yousendit sodluckenfullpip production