Curatorial statement by Efrem Zelony-Mindell on occasion of This is Not Here: Re: Art Show 21
READING FOR ART OPENING IV:
Forgo expectations of an institutional exhibition press release. Instead read creative short, written by the curator, and allow it to represent all theory, thesis, and premise for This Is Not Here: RE 21. It’s easy to imagine if you try.
The Futile Orgasm
There are no minds of great generations. They’re all coming off the accessibility of their nakedness; they are no longer bothered by ideas. Technology accesses them. Minds ruined by the spoils of an unlimited internationalism. No more borders, no more countries, lands slide, down. Through and through the tips of tops and bottoms, cocks and clitoris. The connection is smothered by come. Unprotected. The land is contained, broadcast, and taxed. The heap of a shithouse sits outside the spoils of a forest. They are filled with wanderers, lustful and bloated.
Maybe there’s just not enough for you to be happy. Well, that’s probably true. I wouldn’t exactly say I’m a happy person. That’s not to say I’m incapable of being happy.
But I wouldn’t say that I’m a happy person.
In its amusement satisfaction is without reliance on anything other than the self. Relieving the body takes practice. Individuals need to make themselves before they can rely on others for affirmation. Compensate the self before the flesh, even if that means pressing your own flesh. That sticky fumbly body needs pressing.
Fucking can only feed desire. It is without you. We can be without it. Great climaxes moan within ourselves and to share that is a strange coincidence. Individuals are worthy of reward, but those physically controlling feelings—the totality of sex—it has become futile. Sex indemnifies, that loud wet orgasm, sticky and sloshed. It’s a reward to the great ego.
Your ego is a fuck. Its atonement must be deserted. But not completely—mostly wholly. Nothing gives me the right to say that, but I feel it every time I come to finish. Bound and temporary. My cock floods a dissatisfaction of popular currency. Nothing is clearer after that flood. A surge of certainty. The body fails. Fluids impasto, the impact opulent and obtuse in its abject gesticulation. Satisfaction lay behind the body. It dances elsewhere without gender and it freely finds flight in its identity. It is the most innate you.
Your body is inconsequential.
The essentialness of the self is without constitution. It is yielded in the mind. It is intangible and effervescent. It has no gender. It is something that concentrates in itself the essential qualities of anything more extensive or more general than a specific thing. Obfuscated, arbitrary, agile—the whole thing floats in folly. The frock framed and feeble. The orgasm is glorious, resounding and hallowed.
What’s after? What comes next?
A plea bargain. Paining a painted interest that won’t distract. An abstract or activity, temporary until that bloated feeling returns. Sex. Outside the walls of bedrooms people float. They are crammed and cocky in quandary, but the synthesis of technology keeps them motivated. They are not shunned they shine. Elusive—evasive. Words with vowels and consonants. Like all languages, so vague in definitions. The solidity of ideas and gestures seem to be of disinterest.
Who taught us to communicate? Fornicate. Fuck. Compounded in sexuality that confusion is silly, sly, and senseless. Angrier than happy, excited and motivated by the exorcism of emphasis.
Inside me is an echoing chamber, alone in a dark cave. Screaming. Damp, dewy, humid, coaxed, cocked, bound. Totally trapped in uncertainty. I have no ideas beyond sound and sight; they touch me in an ensemble of taste. The mouth is more powerful. Hands are fruitful in pitch, pressing pounds. Proactive—proclaimed.
I am the greatest slave to my own fuck of an ego. My body won’t absolve me.