periander (628–588 bc)

“Like Thales, Solon and Chilon, Periander of Corinth was considered on of the Seven Sages of Greece. To others, like Aristotle, he was simply a tyrant. However, there is a bizarre story about the lengths to which Periander went in order to conceal his place of burial: he instructed two young men to meet a third man at a predetermined place and kill and bury him. Then he arranged for four men to pursue the first two and kill and bury them. Then he arranged for a larger group of men to hunt down the four. Having made all these preparations, he went out to meet the two young men for he, Periander, was the third man.”

(Simon Critchley, The Book of Dead Philosophers, p. 5.)

february 2–february 7

Books

  • John Crowley, Little, Big
  • James McCourt, Delancey’s Way: A Debriefing
  • Lucy Ives, My Thousand Novel

Exhibitions

  • “Every Revolution Is a Roll of the Dice”, Paula Cooper Gallery
  • “Peter Moore: Photographs”, Paula Cooper Gallery
  • “Robert Barry: RB 62–08”, Yvon Lambert
  • “Nick Cave: Recent Soundsuits”, Jack Shainman Gallery
  • “Robert Irwin: “Red Drawing White Drawing Black Painting”, PaceWildenstein
  • “Fred Sandback”, Zwirner & Wirth
  • “On Kawara: One Million Years”, David Zwirner
  • “Al Held: Prints 1983–1999”, Pace Prints
  • “Manzoni: A Retrospective”, Gagosian
  • “Derek Jarman: Early Films (Super-8mm)”, Elizabeth Dee Gallery

a book is a box full of words

“(‘A book is a box full of words,’ the O’ had said. ‘Some books are boxes full of boxes – Chinese boxes.’ ‘An effect resembling the circus clown car.’ ‘Yes, some books are just one big box with five sides that you put over a trapdoor in the floor of the world – and up comes everything until the box bursts.’ The story within the story within one of Marco Polo’s Chinese boxes – and whether or not he ever went to China, I certainly went to Washington.

Or as my favorite exhibit at the LC, Keith Smith’s ‘string book’ – instead of a written story, the reader follows strings shifting into suggestive patterns as they travel [like the ropes the Norns pass back and forth in Götterdämmerung] through the pages. Not knowing from page to page what form the strings will take creates numerous narrative yarns and multiple variations on the theme of loss.)”

(James McCourt, Delancey’s Way, pp. 206–7.)

maps vs. blueprints

“”Waking at dawn, I went out and down to Duval Street for coffee at an all-night stand, then to the southernmost point in the U.S. I sat on a bollard trying to work out the following question – one O’Maurigan had posed on the flight down, quoting an exchange between Hart Crane and one of his critics. Do the compass, the quadrant, and the sextant contrive tides, or do they merely record them? You can see why.”

(James McCourt, Delancey’s Way, p. 157.)

153. finale

“The only philosophy which can be responsibly practised in face of despair is the attempt to contemplate all things as they would present themselves from the standpoint of redemption. Knowledge has no light but that shed on the world by redemption: all else is reconstruction, mere technique. Perspectives must be fashioned that displace and estrange the world, reveal it to be, with its rifts and crevices, as indigent and distorted as it will appear one day in the messianic light. To gain such perspectives without velleity or violence, entirely from felt contact with its objects – this alone is the task of thought. It is the simplest of all things, because the situation calls imperatively for such knowledge, indeed because consummate negativity, once squarely faced, delineates the mirror-image of its opposite. But it is also the utterly impossible thing, because it presupposes a standpoint removed, even though by a hair’s breadth, from the scope of existence, whereas we well know that any possible knowledge must not only be first wrested from what is, if it shall hold good, but is also marked, for this very reason, by the same distortion and indigence which it seeks to escape. The more passionately thought denies its conditionality for the sake of the unconditional, the more unconsciously, and so calamitously, it is delivered up to the world. Even its own impossibility it must at last comprehend for the sake of the possible. But beside the demand thus placed on thought, the question of the reality or unreality of redemption itself hardly matters.”

(Theodor Adorno, Minima Moralia, p. 247.)

rather than flow-through

“I looked at my image in the window again. I had never had a problem conceiving of myself as in a movie. But suddenly came this deconstructionist vogue for the comic book, and I was more and more experiencing stop-frame and panel memory rather than flow-through.”

(James McCourt, Delancey’s Way, pp. 18–19.)

january 29–february 1

Books

  • Pierre Reverdy, Selected Poems (trans. Mary Ann Caws, Patricia Terry & John Ashbery)
  • Sven Birkerts, An Artificial Wilderness: Essays on Twentieth-Century Literature

Films

  • The Toe Tactic, directed by Emily Hubley
  • Pee-Wee’s Big Adventure, dir. Tim Burton

Exhibits

  • The Printed Picture, MoMA
  • Focus: Jasper Johns, MoMA

recapitulating duchamp

“All right. The problem is that there is no new problem. It must awaken from the sleep of being part of some other, old problem, and by that time its new problematical existence will have already begun, carrying it forward into situations with which it cannot cope, since no one recognizes it and it does not even recognize itself yet, or know what it is. It is like the beginning of a beautiful day, with all the birds singing in the trees, reading their joy and excitement into its record as it progresses, and yet the progress of any day, good or bad, brings with it all kinds of difficulties that should have been foreseen but never are, so that it finally seems as though they are what stifles it, in the majesty of a sunset or merely in gradual dullness that gets dimmer and dimmer until it finally sinks into flat, sour darkness. Why is this? Because not one-tenth or even one-hundredth of the ravishing possibilities the birds sing about at dawn could ever be realized in the course of a single day, no matter how crammed with fortunate events it might turn out to be. And this brings on inevitable reproaches, unmerited of course, for we are all like children sulking because they cannot have the moon; and very soon the unreasonableness of these demands is forgotten and overwhelmed in a wave of melancholy of which it is the sole cause. Finally we know only that we are unhappy but we cannot tell why. We forget that it is our own childishness that is to blame.”

(John Ashbery, “The Recital,” pp. 107–108 in Three Poems.)