i'm often afraid to look directly at what i want, in case it scatters and disappears, maybe that's cowardly, i don't know. but i've always felt like, to get what you want through intelligence or hard work or talent is to diminish that thing somehow, to turn it into another empty token of the will. and that the only way things come with their original charge of desire intact is as a miracle, as specifically the one thing that we didn't dare to think about, didn't dare wish for.
so you can spend your time vamping, drawing circles around the magic incantation. and these circles can be interesting enough in themselves. you try something or find something once, and it works so you do it again, again and again, until it becomes a stock phrase, a familiar presence in the bag of tricks. and maybe over time it changes, maybe it becomes one of those things that passes far enough through familiarity that it becomes strange to us again, we pause and feel confused at how well our own hands seem to know these contours, maybe they start to wear away, or maybe we start to wear away ourselves, we have to do things differently, not being able to rely upon the old sharpness. so they develop their own histories. but it's a false history unless we somehow view it in tandem with that of their counterparts, the non-tools - whatever it was that couldn't be added to the bag, whatever we couldn't bring ourselves to try to fake.
i feel averse to art that has no dead parts, no listlessnesses, no flubs - "nothing but the best". as if meaning and value were so rare that they could never be left to chance. a paranoia that diminishes the thing it's trying to celebrate, converting it to yet another luxury good to be stockpiled by those of means or exquisite sensitivity. i think the only thing you can do when you run across the good is to let it go again. i think whatever you risk losing in doing so is balanced out by the beauty of the notion that there's always more to find.
i like lucidity in art because it's an acknowledgement of its own limits - a lucidity that means marking the points where lucidity itself can only stop talking and start to gesture.
art as a lucky dip bag that holds equal chance of turning out to contain a plastic whistle, two lollipops, a magic ring or somebody's hand.
i like irony because it's a way of holding two ideas at once. imagine i'm sad, so sad, so forlorn, so overcome with weighty despair that all i can do is throw up into a trash can. now imagine a member of janitorial staff finding it the next day and going what the fuck? by putting these things together with different levels of emphasis you can have as comic or as tragicomic an effect as you could like - or if you like you can hold them both at a remove, emphasising the broad scope of your own vision. but the kind of irony i am interested in is whatever could hold both these things in suspense - each one chafing against the other, holding off on final meaning as if waiting for the scales to tip, like a make-your-own-allegory kit where the final part rolled under the couch.
sometimes i think about the old idea that wanting anything is folly, is childish, that as soon as you get it you'll just want something else. and there's something to this, but i hate that smug moralism, that defensive incuriosity, and i feel drawn to people brave enough to continue wanting even knowing how futile it might be. so maybe the value in chasing something is in getting to want something else, layer after layer of discarded promise building up, becoming stranger, less straightforward, the path of your desire getting cluttered with your own debris, having to wind, become sidetracked - like the snake from "snake", growing longer as it eats apples(?) in the void, forever surprising its own body at odd angles, circling its own old movements. is this what william blake meant by "if a fool would persist in his knowledge he would become wise"?? see how long you can avoid self knowledge while eating fruit. eve simulator 2000.
in magic wand there's a part where you find the magic wand, this thinly sketched signpost for alterity, desire, and it makes a weird noise and then the world is changed, in a way it's hard to read as good or bad. certainly more cluttered - the plains outside are now covered in debris, gigantic heads and hands, pictures of the demiurge. there doesn't seem like much to choose from between these places, so maybe the only thing you've gained is to have seen them both, the old and new, and have the old slide a little further into memory, the secret alchemical medium that can absorb all contradictions.
i always feel like to represent something is to travesty it, to turn it into an icon of the unliving - that to put whatever you most cherish, love or friendship or whatever, into a work of art is like putting it inside the mouth of a corpse. if these have value it's as human things while art draws its lustre from being inhuman. that being said… there's something moving about the frozen and unproblematized emblems of pleasure that bob around the screen in a videogame, the hearts and blue skies, candy worlds and golden bells. they become moving because nobody believes in them anymore, because there's no insistence that these things might actually represent the good - they're harmless tokens, light as air. in the very indifference with which they seem to regard how near or far they might be from actual happiness there's something tensionless and dreamy, forgetful and beautiful. we might suspect that a secret substitution's taken place.
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