From Alex Frost 1976
2004
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Margit Endormie, 1989
Photo: Ronald Amstutz
Dia Art Foundation, New York.
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Not to Be the Second Winner
Aldo Rossi chair on base
1987
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Installation view, Monika Sprüth Galerie, Cologne, May 5–July 29, 1995
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Installation
Felt, stool, sculptor’s trestle, copper, tin, wire and rubber
Photograph by Volker Döhne
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Continuous Profile
Sculpture, 2004
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born in San Gabriel, CA
raised in Cerritos, CA
working in Los Angeles, CA
instrumentalist - piano, violin, clarinet, guitar
songwriter
composer
New York CPA (2019 - 2021)
Last Updated 25.12.07
IT LASTS FOREVER AND THEN IT’S OVER
by Anne De Marken
A story of loss from a zombie’s POV in a puzzling afterlife. I was confused on the first read. I liked it on the second read. I loved it by the third read.
- Mitchem says I’m dead. That I am depressed because I am indulging in a sense of loss instead of wonder. “Embrace your new existence,” he says. I picture myself trying to do this with one arm.(p.4)
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Mitchem says it is important to do small, ordinary tasks when you’re depressed. That even if I don’t do anything else all day, I should make the bed. This morning he came in and opened the curtains. He stood over me, that half-moon head of his backlit by the window. He picked up the arm from where it was lying on the floor and held it out like something I needed to account for. He said, “It isn’t just your arm.: He said, “You’re grieving your life.” (p. 4)
Perhaps the chief difference between me now and me then is my tolerance for terror. I think this has to be related to the abstraction of pain. Physical pain. Emotional pain. The pain of others. My own. The flinch is there still. And I think the pain itself is there somewhere. But it is locked up. Locked up in a tiny, invisible, apocalypse-proof kernel. The tiny translucent egg of a subatomic insect laid at the center of each of us. When we’re gone, if we’re ever gone, this is what will remain of us. Fossilized pain. Not carbon. there will be a pain stratum where all pain will settle. Pain shale. Pain veins. Quartzy ligatures made of tears, sighs, sobs, moans, terrible screams. Maybe when there are no more living, pain will have real value. Pain inflation will drive a pain market. There will be pain panners like gold panners, shaking out the suffering. We will build a giant pain collider to crack open its secret structure and release the tiny, lace-winged gasp of our lost humanity. Humanity. That word.Maybe we kill the living to get at their pain. Or our own. (p. 10)
But then it wasn’t just a joke to myself. It became an idea. A middle-of-the-night idea. All my ideas now are middle-of-the-night- ideas. Perfectly lucid and perfectly flawed. I am having a very long sleepless night. Exactly the opposite of the endless sleep that is death.(p.11)There are no more three-day long days. That feeling of abundance depended not upon ecess and not scarcity, but finitude and a kind of thrift. It had to do with there being only so much time in the day but still more than just enough and using up every ounce of it, not wasting a moment. But to be undead is to be superfluous, perpetual. The moon is always full. We dream without sleeping. We refuse to return to the earth. Hunger is relentless.
A hotel might once have been a metaphor for the body, for purgatory, for any trasitory site. Muffled hallways. The repeating pattern of low-pile carpet. Muffled hallways. The repeating pattern of low-pile carpet. Sconce lighting. Echoing emergency stairwells that smell vaguely familiar. The sound of doors closing. Plastic ice buckets. Theft-proof hangers without hooks. Drawers no one ever uses. Perfect. And now here we actually are, non of us sure when we checked in or whether this is really our luggage.And of course us. Zombies used to be drug addicts, television watchers, videogame players. Now zombies are zombies. Consumers are consumers.”
live your life!
¡viva su vida!
过你的生活!