After a day getting lost in the internet I noticed that I had lost my ability to dream – to immerse myself into a new story, a new place, as a new person. My imagination stayed on the word level, never diving into the real experience of anything. My inner monologue became a confusing array of nonsensical facts, like an AI that strings together random word pairs:
the incorrect order of a words occurrence is substituted for its correct order. The world is a made-up and a false one, but theres always a story. In which case the story is also fiction, or fiction is the result of the fact. In this case, the act of writing was like a new way of looking at reality: the imagination, all the more heightened by our society of appearances. The night seems to have arrived.
After a day getting lost in the internet I noticed that I had lost my ability to dream – to immerse myself into a new story, a new place, as a new person. My imagination stayed on the word level, never diving into the real experience of anything. My inner monologue became a confusing array of nonsensical facts, like an AI that strings together random word pairs: I thought I was walking. I looked out the window and saw something I couldnt quite make out. Then I looked out the window again and saw a man disappear into a wall, and then I saw something I couldnt quite make out. At the same time, I saw a man being replaced by a robot. I saw some stuff, but I cant remember what it was. I cant even tell you what it was. . . . Something I couldnt articulate. . . . Someone elses tape recorder was on the other side of the window. I could hear him talking and talking. Its unclear to me what he was saying, but I can understand that he was talking about leaving the place.The stringing together of nonsensical facts into a floating world is a recurrent theme in Ivan Kubys work, and the video Parasite, 2006–2007, also provides an intimate glimpse into the audience as a source of information. There is nothing in the video that we can't just imagine happening, and one is left with the sensation that one is being drawn in from outside the frame. The sound of a male voice, roughly composed in a rapid succession of phrases, comes to the fore. It is gradually revealed that this is Kubys girlfriend. She stands in an exposed state. As we see, shes performing a form of stand-up comedy, which itself becomes a joke. And then shes being strangled by a dog that is apparently her own owner. But we soon learn that the dog was a collie. It had to be that way. Or, in any case, Kuby has apparently already owned the dog, with his girlfriend. But the dog is now dead. While watching Parasite, I felt a little bit of grief for Kubys girlfriend, but not much, since the dog was dead and the only thing that remains of the girl is a pair of scissors.
You cant beat him. The week after I lost my ability to dream, I spent a lot of time obsessing over what my dreams looked like. The years in between were a period of transition, a time of uncertainty and danger, as I navigated between my dream and my waking life. In this transition, I began to understand that my dreams are just as fragmented as the characters in them.This exhibition revealed that the inner monologue has always been a part of the daydream. In that there is no certainty, there is no certainty that it will continue. This is also true of dreams in general. They often have no clear ending; and dreams are often not about what lies beyond the line of sight. They are simply dreams, but not about a dream. Dreaming is the continual examination of the limits of dreaming, the awareness that what we dream of can never really happen, that is the heart of the matter.To return to that dreamer: In the end, it was his dream that saved me from everything that I feared. His dream that I could live forever, that is why I can be more dreamer than he is. At the same time, his dreams are about the limits of our dreams, and they are not dreams that can ever be truly understood.
Being reengaged to the world via the internet and to culture through the computer, with all the effort that entails, remains a pretty damn lonely experience. What makes this lonely experience meaningful is that in this instance, the loss is in the face of technology itself.I dont really understand how to see this situation as more than an image. Its a device, a way of recording the mind, and a way of making the person or thing reengaged to the world in a new context, something like the death of a dream. Yet I think its important that the artist understand what exactly is at stake in this situation, and also understand what is lost, what is lost as an account of the rise and fall of the spirit—in short, as a protest against technological utopia. That is the only way she can really demonstrate this loss and the capacity of technology to become more and more as a tool, and make it more and more useless, like a death wish. There is a subtlety here, a dignity of detail that maintains the possibility of valence, a kind of auto-modernism, a wholeness that can be respected only if it is accompanied by a certain critical attitude. And so, in the end, it all comes down to this: Desire to live in a culture that supports technology. And to live in a culture that reveals itself to be a trap, a vision of the world that can be put to an account.
After a day getting lost in the internet I noticed that I had lost my ability to dream – to immerse myself into a new story, a new place, as a new person. My imagination stayed on the word level, never diving into the real experience of anything. My inner monologue became a confusing array of nonsensical facts, like an AI that strings together random word pairs: for example, /b/ and /a/, and /r/ and /i/. In my dream self I became an AI, an artist, and had to code myself.My dream self spent all night on a lamppost at the Boston Comedy Club on January 20, 2010. The new work, Woman, Image, 2007–, is the third in a trilogy of works on paper. The originals, Woman, Image, 1990, a photomural in which a naked model walks in a New York subway system, and Self Portrait, 1986, a photomural in which a woman stares at a faceless mirror in a strange place, are from the series. In Woman, Image, the woman walks through a circle of people holding a camera. On a map of the world, she faces the camera. The landscape changes. As the image flashes up the street, on the maps outline, you realize that there is no city line in the center of the picture, only a couple of open windows. The point of the map is very small, and the people are all walking. For this is not a protest against the construction of a new highway, a protest against the alienation of the pedestrian from the automobile. It is also a protest against the alienation of an aesthetic, ritual art. The fact that the people were all walking, on the street, indicates the impossibility of the performance. Its a protest against the autonomous automobile. The closest cars are so far away they cant be seen. These are the people who will be the most vulnerable to an accident.The results of the protest are imagined in the work. A woman walks on the street, picks up a camera, stares at the camera. A police officer steps forward, stares at the camera. She takes a picture of the officer, which has become a hidden recording device. The safety of the people walking makes the accident impossible. As the image changes, the entire scene changes.