"There are more futures than we realize, and more failures too. The past is littered with the debris of these futures, while our present incorporates the unstable collective memory of hopes that have long since been abandoned..."
Read more here
Friday, April 23, 2010
The Otolith Group
"There are more futures than we realize, and more failures too. The past is littered with the debris of these futures, while our present incorporates the unstable collective memory of hopes that have long since been abandoned..."
Read more here
Tuesday, April 20, 2010
Newspaper Persona
We live in an information society where many people, especially across the continent of Africa, are not participating fully. Many South Africans want to realize participatory democracy and equal protection. They crave change: broader employment opportunities, greater housing options and better access to human services. But do they read newspapers and make use of other media to transform desires into real change? The work I seek to create will build a new artistic language that is siteresponsive and accesses sense and emotional memory through what I call the Newspaper Persona.
In this performance, two people are walking together: a South African woman and a foreigner. The man is walking with short and slow, measured steps. He has very strong feelings in his heart for this woman but does not know how to express them in English. They are asking each other simple questions about daily life. The man is asking questions such as “Have you eaten?”, “What do you do for a living?”, “Are you South African?” The woman is asking questions such as “Why do you live in South Africa?”
source
Monday, April 19, 2010
McSweeney's: Reviews of New Food
Canned Brown Bread
Submitted by Lauren Hudson
Every autumn, back in my years spent at F.E. Bellows Elementary, our school would hold a food drive just before Thanksgiving. This would be when we kids were told by our teachers to bring in canned food for people less fortunate than us, and that the class with the most cans at the end of a set period would win a pizza lunch or some other food that didn't come from a can.
This (obviously) meant war. Each class wanted that goddamn pizza lunch. Kids would go home and ask for cans of food from their mothers, who, being the good citizens of the community that they were, would garnish us with a few items (usually the stuff that had remained dormant on shelves for months). But every kid knew two or three cans wouldn't be enough to win the fucking pizza lunch, so, once the lights went out, we would sneak into our respective kitchen cupboards and steal a few cans from our mothers' stores of food. Not wanting to expose our tactics, we were sure to only take one or two cans at a time—always from the back of the shelf. Anything more would be noticeable and warrant punishment.
In fourth grade, I was assigned the task of food drive organizer. I was ecstatic and also anxiety-ridden: it was my job to produce results. If we won I would be loved and applauded! On the other hand, if we lost, I would be to blame and everyone would fucking hate me. I would probably have to eat lunch alone for at least four days, maybe even a week.
As organizer, it was my task every morning to stand by the big cardboard box by the front of the room and receive and record all the canned donations from the other students as their names were called for attendance, and encourage everyone to do better, to do more. One day during role call, as the drive was winding down and each class particularly starved for a cheese and sauce filled forty-five minute victory lunch, one of my fellow classmates, Michelle Channing, was called by the teacher and proceeded to bring up an oversized can.
"What is that?" I asked.
"Bread."
"What?"
"Canned bread."
"What do you do with it?" I asked.
"Make left-over sandwiches."
This fucked me up. Bread came in a plastic bag, not a can. I took the canned item from her and inspected it. It read: "canned brown bread." I threw the can in the wrapping-paper covered cardboard box, marked down another item donated by our class, and didn't give the canned food much thought after that. We lost the drive that year. I only had to eat alone for three days.
Years later, while flipping channels, I came across the Good Eats with Alton Brown episode where he cooks brown bread in a coffee can. FLASHBACK! Remember the girl in fourth grade that brought in canned bread for the food drive? Did that shit still exist or was it a thing of the past? Phased out like Fruity Yummy Mummy cereal and Giggle Cookies?
I immediately felt the need to do a little R&D and walked over to the 24-hour A&P super mart. As the automatic doors slid open I felt a wave of panic: where would I look? Should I start in the canned food section? Logically, one would think bread would be placed next to other bread, but instinct told me this was not the case. Not knowing where to begin, I started down the produce aisles, as they were (and always seem to be) closest to the entrance, and proceeded to walk down the remaining aisles in search of my prize—all the while trying my best not to look out-of-my-mind high at 2:30 am.
After hitting the pasta and juice aisles, and becoming increasingly nervous that I was being shadowed by an A&P employee, I started to think that canned bread no longer existed, and that I would have to think of something else to buy as to not arouse suspicion. (Paper towels? Didn't we just run out?) But, as I turned down aisle seven, I learned I was wrong—holy shit was I wrong! Right there, sitting between the vegetarian baked beans and corned beef hash, was the same oversized can of brown bread that I remembered from my youth. I made a beeline for the register, paid my $2.59 plus applicable tax, and walked back home.
Upon entering my apartment, I sat down at my kitchen table to inspect my canned good. The label looked enticing: a loaf of hearty brown bread resting on a wooden slab set in front of a glowing hearth. Directions read: "REMOVE both ends of can. If necessary, gently push loaf out one end with a spoon."
I shook the can. It made no sound. This struck me as foreign to all other canned food experiences; the silence departing far from the gelatinous "sllllshhhh" noise that is indicative of whatever solid packed in liquid you would soon be ingesting.
I followed the directions and opened both ends of the can. It did not come out. I used a spoon, like the directions had instructed me to do, and, with a little force, it slid out onto the plate. There it was—can indents and all! I inspected my find and questioned my next move. How should I eat it? Should it be toasted with butter? What was the proper way to cut it? Would it have a crust?
I decided on slicing off the edge closest to me and trying it just as it was so I could experience canned bread in its pure form. Upon cutting into I discovered it was denser than I thought it would be. I took a small bite and its weight hit me head on. This was not what I expected of bread. This was some heavy mound of molasses-infused carbs. This was the fruitcake of bread, leading you to believe it would be good and wholesome, but instead as misleading as hell.
Not wanting to waste my purchase, and also to justify the last forty-five minutes of my life, I finished about one-third of the loaf and covered the rest in plastic wrap, asking myself what I would do with the remaining piece. (How long would canned bread last once opened anyway? Would it go stale just like other bread? If so, could it be made into croutons?)
As I pondered the remaining brown bread's fate I was certain of one thing and one thing only: I wasn't about to go and make a leftover sandwich that was for sure.
- - - -
Fabulous Frutini Gum
Submitted by Matthew Mesick
My mother wouldn't let me chew gum. Her rationale was that it wasn't gentlemanly. She was correct, her boarding school- and Seven-Sisters-educated mother had taught her well; and my observations gleaned from movies featuring Douglas Fairbanks confirmed this.
But when I was in medical school, in one of my first acts of rebellion of my life, I thought I would take up gum chewing. I asked my younger brother (who while playing baseball used to mix his Red Man chew with bubble gum) which one I should try.
"Here," he said, slapping an orange packet in my hand.
My parotid and sublingual glands, overcompensated for the artificial sweetener in their midst, shot forth a hot stream of saliva, rich in enzymes, which, were the sugar real, would have broken the bonds and released the chemically stored energy for use by my body. But the active sites did not accommodate the sorbitol, and peptides were spilled, onanastically. My masseter and temporalis muscles strained under the load, and my taste buds and olfactory receptors transduced myriad signals to my cerebral cortex. I was weakened by the experience, as my knees buckled slightly.
"What do you call it?" I asked.
"The real name is Fabulous Frutini, but we just call it Angel Poon."
"Why is that?"
"Because if you were to go down on an angel, this is what it would taste like."
I thought it tasted more like a "Nada-Colada" or "Banana Runts," than the savory, salty warmth I associated with the female anatomy, but I gave him a nod of assent, "Fabulous Frutini indeed."
- - - -
Psychedelic Mini-Brownies
Submitted by Kevin Dyerson
I've made psychedelic brownies for a long-time, but now I've started making psychedelic mini-brownies. These are really good cause lots of the time you just want things to be more psychedelic. And you can make lots of them at once and then stash them all over. And then when you want things to be more psychedelic you can have one or two, and if you want things to be really psychedelic you can have four or five. And you sorta over bake them so they get dry and storeable. And you put them in small containers for when you want to make things more psychedelic. Like if it's a long boring day at your dumb job and you want to make the afternoon a little more psychedelic you can have one. Or if your wife is getting all naggy and saying stuff about things you're not doing and you want to make things more psychedelic. Or if the work you brought home is just hanging over your head and you just need, like, for things to be more psychedelic. These are all good times to have psychedelic mini-brownies around.
source
Submitted by Lauren Hudson
Every autumn, back in my years spent at F.E. Bellows Elementary, our school would hold a food drive just before Thanksgiving. This would be when we kids were told by our teachers to bring in canned food for people less fortunate than us, and that the class with the most cans at the end of a set period would win a pizza lunch or some other food that didn't come from a can.
This (obviously) meant war. Each class wanted that goddamn pizza lunch. Kids would go home and ask for cans of food from their mothers, who, being the good citizens of the community that they were, would garnish us with a few items (usually the stuff that had remained dormant on shelves for months). But every kid knew two or three cans wouldn't be enough to win the fucking pizza lunch, so, once the lights went out, we would sneak into our respective kitchen cupboards and steal a few cans from our mothers' stores of food. Not wanting to expose our tactics, we were sure to only take one or two cans at a time—always from the back of the shelf. Anything more would be noticeable and warrant punishment.
In fourth grade, I was assigned the task of food drive organizer. I was ecstatic and also anxiety-ridden: it was my job to produce results. If we won I would be loved and applauded! On the other hand, if we lost, I would be to blame and everyone would fucking hate me. I would probably have to eat lunch alone for at least four days, maybe even a week.
As organizer, it was my task every morning to stand by the big cardboard box by the front of the room and receive and record all the canned donations from the other students as their names were called for attendance, and encourage everyone to do better, to do more. One day during role call, as the drive was winding down and each class particularly starved for a cheese and sauce filled forty-five minute victory lunch, one of my fellow classmates, Michelle Channing, was called by the teacher and proceeded to bring up an oversized can.
"What is that?" I asked.
"Bread."
"What?"
"Canned bread."
"What do you do with it?" I asked.
"Make left-over sandwiches."
This fucked me up. Bread came in a plastic bag, not a can. I took the canned item from her and inspected it. It read: "canned brown bread." I threw the can in the wrapping-paper covered cardboard box, marked down another item donated by our class, and didn't give the canned food much thought after that. We lost the drive that year. I only had to eat alone for three days.
Years later, while flipping channels, I came across the Good Eats with Alton Brown episode where he cooks brown bread in a coffee can. FLASHBACK! Remember the girl in fourth grade that brought in canned bread for the food drive? Did that shit still exist or was it a thing of the past? Phased out like Fruity Yummy Mummy cereal and Giggle Cookies?
I immediately felt the need to do a little R&D and walked over to the 24-hour A&P super mart. As the automatic doors slid open I felt a wave of panic: where would I look? Should I start in the canned food section? Logically, one would think bread would be placed next to other bread, but instinct told me this was not the case. Not knowing where to begin, I started down the produce aisles, as they were (and always seem to be) closest to the entrance, and proceeded to walk down the remaining aisles in search of my prize—all the while trying my best not to look out-of-my-mind high at 2:30 am.
After hitting the pasta and juice aisles, and becoming increasingly nervous that I was being shadowed by an A&P employee, I started to think that canned bread no longer existed, and that I would have to think of something else to buy as to not arouse suspicion. (Paper towels? Didn't we just run out?) But, as I turned down aisle seven, I learned I was wrong—holy shit was I wrong! Right there, sitting between the vegetarian baked beans and corned beef hash, was the same oversized can of brown bread that I remembered from my youth. I made a beeline for the register, paid my $2.59 plus applicable tax, and walked back home.
Upon entering my apartment, I sat down at my kitchen table to inspect my canned good. The label looked enticing: a loaf of hearty brown bread resting on a wooden slab set in front of a glowing hearth. Directions read: "REMOVE both ends of can. If necessary, gently push loaf out one end with a spoon."
I shook the can. It made no sound. This struck me as foreign to all other canned food experiences; the silence departing far from the gelatinous "sllllshhhh" noise that is indicative of whatever solid packed in liquid you would soon be ingesting.
I followed the directions and opened both ends of the can. It did not come out. I used a spoon, like the directions had instructed me to do, and, with a little force, it slid out onto the plate. There it was—can indents and all! I inspected my find and questioned my next move. How should I eat it? Should it be toasted with butter? What was the proper way to cut it? Would it have a crust?
I decided on slicing off the edge closest to me and trying it just as it was so I could experience canned bread in its pure form. Upon cutting into I discovered it was denser than I thought it would be. I took a small bite and its weight hit me head on. This was not what I expected of bread. This was some heavy mound of molasses-infused carbs. This was the fruitcake of bread, leading you to believe it would be good and wholesome, but instead as misleading as hell.
Not wanting to waste my purchase, and also to justify the last forty-five minutes of my life, I finished about one-third of the loaf and covered the rest in plastic wrap, asking myself what I would do with the remaining piece. (How long would canned bread last once opened anyway? Would it go stale just like other bread? If so, could it be made into croutons?)
As I pondered the remaining brown bread's fate I was certain of one thing and one thing only: I wasn't about to go and make a leftover sandwich that was for sure.
- - - -
Fabulous Frutini Gum
Submitted by Matthew Mesick
My mother wouldn't let me chew gum. Her rationale was that it wasn't gentlemanly. She was correct, her boarding school- and Seven-Sisters-educated mother had taught her well; and my observations gleaned from movies featuring Douglas Fairbanks confirmed this.
But when I was in medical school, in one of my first acts of rebellion of my life, I thought I would take up gum chewing. I asked my younger brother (who while playing baseball used to mix his Red Man chew with bubble gum) which one I should try.
"Here," he said, slapping an orange packet in my hand.
My parotid and sublingual glands, overcompensated for the artificial sweetener in their midst, shot forth a hot stream of saliva, rich in enzymes, which, were the sugar real, would have broken the bonds and released the chemically stored energy for use by my body. But the active sites did not accommodate the sorbitol, and peptides were spilled, onanastically. My masseter and temporalis muscles strained under the load, and my taste buds and olfactory receptors transduced myriad signals to my cerebral cortex. I was weakened by the experience, as my knees buckled slightly.
"What do you call it?" I asked.
"The real name is Fabulous Frutini, but we just call it Angel Poon."
"Why is that?"
"Because if you were to go down on an angel, this is what it would taste like."
I thought it tasted more like a "Nada-Colada" or "Banana Runts," than the savory, salty warmth I associated with the female anatomy, but I gave him a nod of assent, "Fabulous Frutini indeed."
- - - -
Psychedelic Mini-Brownies
Submitted by Kevin Dyerson
I've made psychedelic brownies for a long-time, but now I've started making psychedelic mini-brownies. These are really good cause lots of the time you just want things to be more psychedelic. And you can make lots of them at once and then stash them all over. And then when you want things to be more psychedelic you can have one or two, and if you want things to be really psychedelic you can have four or five. And you sorta over bake them so they get dry and storeable. And you put them in small containers for when you want to make things more psychedelic. Like if it's a long boring day at your dumb job and you want to make the afternoon a little more psychedelic you can have one. Or if your wife is getting all naggy and saying stuff about things you're not doing and you want to make things more psychedelic. Or if the work you brought home is just hanging over your head and you just need, like, for things to be more psychedelic. These are all good times to have psychedelic mini-brownies around.
source
Sunday, April 18, 2010
Most used newspaper fonts.
A study conducted by the font company, Ascender Corp., found that as more newspapers gravitate toward blending their print and online initiatives, many look increasingly toward custom font type designs.
The study, which examined both display and text fonts on newspaper front pages across the United States, revealed that with more than 50,000 fonts to select from, the majority of newspapers relied on a much smaller subset of fonts in their content to convey their message and designs.
“Newspapers have new challenges designing and publishing both print and electronic versions,” said Bill Davis, the study’s author.
“Each medium has different font formats and technologies to create and render fonts with optimal legibility. The jury is still out on the best approach to create electronic editions of newspapers in a manner that preserves the look and feel of the print edition, particularly regarding maintaining brand identity.”
The study found that the 10 most popular typeface families used by today’s newspapers are: Poynter, Franklin Gothic, Helvetica, Utopia, Times, Nimrod, Century Old Style, Interstate, Trade Gothic and Optima.
This makes sense, Davis said, since many of these typefaces were designed specifically for newspapers in that the type designs include features for readablity that address the challenges of reproduction on newsprint.
Additionally, the study found that the vast majority of newspapers studied rely on custom fonts and type faces. Ascender said this is because the use of custom fonts allows publications to strengthen their brand and give a distinct, exclusive quality to their publication.
For example, the study found that each of the top seven daily newspapers use typefaces specifically designed or commissioned on their behalf. Further, 35 of the top 100 daily newspapers use a custom typeface or modified font in addition to retail, off-the-shelf fonts.
The Crisis
"The objective of this publication is to set forth those facts and arfuments which show the danger of race prejudice, particualarly as manifested today toward coloured people. It takes its name from the fact that the editors believe that this is a critical time in the history of the advancement of men." Founding Editor: WEB Du Bois [November 1910]
Tuesday, April 13, 2010
There is no news about old news As soon as all the corrections, which happened to be necessary in any particular number of The Times had been assembled and collated, that number would be reprinted, the original copy destroyed, and the corrected copy placed on the files in its stead. This process of continuous alteration was applied not only to newspapers, but to books, periodicals, pamphlets, posters, leaflets, films, soundtracks, cartoons, photographs – to every kind of literature or documentation, which might conceivably hold any political or ideological significance. Day by day and almost minute by minute the past was brought up to date. In this way, every prediction made by the Party could be shown by documentary evidence to have been correct, nor was any item in the news, or any expression of opinion, which conflicted with the needs of the moment, ever allowed to remain on record. All history was a palimpsest, scraped clean and reinscribed exactly as often as was necessary. In no case would it have been possible, once the deed was done, to prove that any falsification had taken place.
The news ideology of the Party in the novel 1948 by George Orwell seems so tempting, scary and modern at the same time. Tempting to introduce, scary to introduce and modern because it happens daily and is already introduced. Imagine having all news articles, images, books, everything edited and altered so past, present and future melt and fit into one image? Imagine having only one voice, instead of many.
'Many' is one of the key words in the idea behind Old News. There are many voices in Old News #6. Together with Bisi Silva, I have curated Old News #6, but one could hardly call it curating because out of 62 artists we have only selected 2-4 artists. The curatorial idea behind Old News #6 was simple and functioned as a relay race. The curators (situated in Lagos, Nigeria, and Malmö, Sweden) selected one artist each to cut an article on the 1st of August, and after that the two artists selected two new artists to do clippings the following day, the 2nd of August. These artists then selected two new artists and so on.
Although Lagos and Malmö are not traditionally considered major centres of the world, one of the criteria was that the artists should have some relation to the regions, be it through studies, exhibitions, living, teaching, being born in the cities or regions, or having had a grandmother living there. The artists were also asked to select a word or write a statement about their choice of article. If the chain would break or if an artist selected a new artist, who had already chosen and cut an article previously, the selection had to be rebooted and the curator would select a new artist and start the race again. It would continue throughout August 2009.
The total straight-line flight ('as the crow flies') distance between Malmö, Sweden, and Lagos, Nigeria, is 5,517 kilometres. This is equivalent to 3,428 miles or 2,979 nautical miles. The cities and geographical regions are very different, so is the news. Old News #6 has many voices from two different regions. Their choices of news, their palimpsest has not been edited, altered, scraped clean, nor reinscribed.
Enjoy!
The news ideology of the Party in the novel 1948 by George Orwell seems so tempting, scary and modern at the same time. Tempting to introduce, scary to introduce and modern because it happens daily and is already introduced. Imagine having all news articles, images, books, everything edited and altered so past, present and future melt and fit into one image? Imagine having only one voice, instead of many.
'Many' is one of the key words in the idea behind Old News. There are many voices in Old News #6. Together with Bisi Silva, I have curated Old News #6, but one could hardly call it curating because out of 62 artists we have only selected 2-4 artists. The curatorial idea behind Old News #6 was simple and functioned as a relay race. The curators (situated in Lagos, Nigeria, and Malmö, Sweden) selected one artist each to cut an article on the 1st of August, and after that the two artists selected two new artists to do clippings the following day, the 2nd of August. These artists then selected two new artists and so on.
Although Lagos and Malmö are not traditionally considered major centres of the world, one of the criteria was that the artists should have some relation to the regions, be it through studies, exhibitions, living, teaching, being born in the cities or regions, or having had a grandmother living there. The artists were also asked to select a word or write a statement about their choice of article. If the chain would break or if an artist selected a new artist, who had already chosen and cut an article previously, the selection had to be rebooted and the curator would select a new artist and start the race again. It would continue throughout August 2009.
The total straight-line flight ('as the crow flies') distance between Malmö, Sweden, and Lagos, Nigeria, is 5,517 kilometres. This is equivalent to 3,428 miles or 2,979 nautical miles. The cities and geographical regions are very different, so is the news. Old News #6 has many voices from two different regions. Their choices of news, their palimpsest has not been edited, altered, scraped clean, nor reinscribed.
Enjoy!
- Copenhagen, September 1st 2009, Jacob Fabricius
More here.
Download a copy here.
Wednesday, April 7, 2010
searc for 'may 2008'
http://images.google.co.za/imgres?imgurl=http://classicmalema.co.za/wp-content/uploads/2009/10/malema-herm.jpg&imgrefurl=http://classicmalema.co.za/malema-hermaphrodite/&usg=___GXQlFwMQgC3B7cplVBsHEKlSiU=&h=381&w=400&sz=40&hl=en&start=15&sig2=mTtznJV-M9htwgMP5h7jLg&um=1&itbs=1&tbnid=WaIeNrr6Yrye0M:&tbnh=118&tbnw=124&prev=/images%3Fq%3Dmalema%2Bmugabe%26um%3D1%26hl%3Den%26client%3Dfirefox-a%26sa%3DN%26rls%3Dorg.mozilla:en-GB:official%26tbs%3Disch:1&ei=pa-8S4c0odabA7yH3bUI
TO THE READER/LISTENER
This story is imaginary.
The actions are imaginary.
The characters are imaginary.
The country is imaginary - it has no name even.
Reader/listener: may the story take place in the country of your choice!
The story has no fixed time/
Yesterday, the day before yesterday, last week...
Last year...
Or ten years ago?
Reader/listener: may the action take place in the time of your choice!
And it has no fixed space.
Here or there...
This or that village...
This or that region.
Reader/listener: may you place the action in the space of your choice!
And again, it does not demarcate time in terms of seconds
Or minutes
Or hours
Or days.
Reader/listener: may you allocate the duration of any of the actions according to your choice!
So say yes, and I'll tell you a story!
Once upon a time, in a country with no name...
[Chimurenga Chronicle ref. Ntate Ngugi wa Thiong'o, Matigari
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)