The Barbarian and long haired book master rode again through the streets over highways and threw the air finding the mob lining up with deepening hunger fueled by lustful desire. Caught by the impending doom of missing the starting gates twice in two cities we sweat on to the opening moments thwarted by neither by power failures or near missed material drop offs. As the world tries to send us down to the lands of the silly we vanquish daily humdrum thoughts with our books of innocent mystery akin to the land of never never. Nay Sayer's drop the criticism that we are only making a joke not worthy of art. Have they forgotten our well venerated art form of comedy, lightening the heart for the days deary duties in this world of tragedy. We need only to have them come and be served our portion of laughing child like wonder and imagination making the serious questions we are seeding that more easy to swallow and digest. When we laugh and wonder we are not hurting each other instead we are embracing those around us with a kinship of joy.
As for the continuing adventures of the deep fried book I need only say that travel has begotten responses that have begotten more responses which have begotten questions. I say so because, I have felt my heart waver when it is thought that what we do is only the one-liner joke of hacks. I know that one book may not change the world or one persons life in response to what we ask as we create together but, it has a relationship to all other books the we as people encounter in combined force of a book, a-bomb.
Often we as a culture hold events to raise money for a cause of compassion to save people, places or our world in general. We have a fundraiser with entrainment and chances to win prizes to lure people into contributing and it works. As we play together the ground work is laid for the serious questions to come. We hope later that as people recount the event and discuss why or why not that these two pseudo-violent men playing jester to the book that our participants become emissaries of the growing project. Like the fund raisers of common use we lure with curiosity to gain pledges of hopeful changing relationships with the world at large and the book in particular.
Once a great library stood that held renown throughout the ancient world. The building itself was a book of sorts in itself housing unknowable amounts of collective knowledge. It like so many other great works fell to censorship through fire. As with all censorship the issue of control and manipulation comes into play. Often it is asked "isn't what you are doing like burning books?" I say yes, similar in our re-editing our re-representation of the object you take home but, it has become poetic in the form that results. A six-sided book replacing the common form of pages. You can read a painting or touch a sculpture and feel music so to you can read the newly renovated book we present to you. A collaborative work of all that encounter the project in person or by any other means possible.
Video cameras, loud music and microphones were newly encountered parts of the most recent adventure which have brought this lasted chapter to an even more surreal realm as the web content grows touching the boundaries of this vast world. How and what all this means is yet to be determined as the project has taken on a larger life where people actual have heard about the Deep Fried book before we meet them for the first time. It is funny now as we hear " oh, you are the one doing that," as our working efforts encounter others while presenting other works of ours. I hope we are not seen as just an act but more as a action with an intent of good to be done in the world. Like any favored character in the midst of a story we know not what will come as the pages turn and finding new type put down the next telling the next part of the story.
Soon another set of ventures will pull us back together onto the road and to another side of our shared country and perhaps the world as we spread like any invasive species that infects an area for good or ill. Lastly, I depart with the only words on the next page.....
Perhaps not a barbarian but, still appearing crude and perhaps not yet, a book master our two companions laugh in the exhaustion of many days of travel. Thankful for our crowds and support they now know that the world has only begun to take in this project of Deep frying books. Imagining the possibilities we consider what will happen as time goes on and history take hold on a daily basis.
Thursday, September 27, 2007
Tuesday, September 4, 2007
Regarding the question, Why?
I would love to say that over the past ten or so years that the one question I dread the most has changed or even gained a new face, it has not. The first person to ask me was my mother as I was her kitchen as a sophomore in college at the time. Phrasings have change as the lines progress at each performance although the reflection in the glass orb of the mind is the same swimming undefined interest despite any qualitative decision. Why do you(we) do this? I can see the years peel away from the faces like fragmenting shelf's of sedentary rock revealing the three year old in all of us, Why, Why, Why, in the most cherished of inquiries that should be left intact throughout the aging which is human life. Salute!, Cheers!, Bravo!, and all other praises to those who take part. Our journey to the answer of why is not a trivial carnival likened act but, one of crashing the car beyond the concrete barrier where we are supposed to park the car made by the mind.
I took a literal pun based upon heart-ache in the cliche of artistic love lost in the initial creation, fried, burned out and an old sense of romance. What we do as we meet on the street or other arena is not bound by those infantile reaction any more than you are the child doting upon your parents affections because, the sun and time causes growth from celestial bound mysteries. I can be topical and say it represent the unhealthy lives so many Americans and other world citizens live but, to say that would be to cap the ideas conceived within. I can say it is a call to all to transform there vision of the ordinary, finding the sacred from in profane in a manner of a formerly sacred object form. I can say be absurd and reek your world to less materialism. We can scream Hallelujah in remembrance of St. John who left unscathed by boiling oil due to his faith of God. Or, I can say that our dependence on fossil fuels will kill us all. I can claim that America has become so anti-intellectual that we can no longer find reason or compassion beyond our self interests, greed, anger or fatigue. To do so would be to forget that you are as crucial in the meaning as the sunlight is to our collective existence or bane of our future times.
You may think at this point that I and we do not have a meaning for doing this, it is not so. Our action puts meaning into each artifact created which is what is done as we fry each book with and without direction. In honor of the Taoist thought the remains become the material for the notion of the 'Uncarved Block,' forgive any lack of explanation here as it is a breach of contract (Universal). I claim humility, being just a simple being at the feet of the masses which have placed there energy into this project by participating making it so democratic that one voice is no voice rather all voices are of the harmonies, bending light upon our observations and life.
I wonder myself after each performance leading to the artist book and beyond how I will change statements as I learn more about the human condition of what I may lay claim to?
Pleading as the eyes ask, as I do my humble choirs of handling the books chosen and asking in return why, we complete a revolution around the sun in moments to be yet judged if ever. As the imagined archaeologists of the future find the actions in solid form of our collaboration, what will they think of our world and the statement we were making or our beliefs. Can they be wrong even under our most adamant refusal because, we have lost sight of who we are and what we represent. Can I define you through your cooperation with this project or are you likely to state you are but, one of many in an action of exploration. I hope for exploration in all categories of existence and being. I as a humble servant say I know not as I am but, one who is of many.
DFB
I took a literal pun based upon heart-ache in the cliche of artistic love lost in the initial creation, fried, burned out and an old sense of romance. What we do as we meet on the street or other arena is not bound by those infantile reaction any more than you are the child doting upon your parents affections because, the sun and time causes growth from celestial bound mysteries. I can be topical and say it represent the unhealthy lives so many Americans and other world citizens live but, to say that would be to cap the ideas conceived within. I can say it is a call to all to transform there vision of the ordinary, finding the sacred from in profane in a manner of a formerly sacred object form. I can say be absurd and reek your world to less materialism. We can scream Hallelujah in remembrance of St. John who left unscathed by boiling oil due to his faith of God. Or, I can say that our dependence on fossil fuels will kill us all. I can claim that America has become so anti-intellectual that we can no longer find reason or compassion beyond our self interests, greed, anger or fatigue. To do so would be to forget that you are as crucial in the meaning as the sunlight is to our collective existence or bane of our future times.
You may think at this point that I and we do not have a meaning for doing this, it is not so. Our action puts meaning into each artifact created which is what is done as we fry each book with and without direction. In honor of the Taoist thought the remains become the material for the notion of the 'Uncarved Block,' forgive any lack of explanation here as it is a breach of contract (Universal). I claim humility, being just a simple being at the feet of the masses which have placed there energy into this project by participating making it so democratic that one voice is no voice rather all voices are of the harmonies, bending light upon our observations and life.
I wonder myself after each performance leading to the artist book and beyond how I will change statements as I learn more about the human condition of what I may lay claim to?
Pleading as the eyes ask, as I do my humble choirs of handling the books chosen and asking in return why, we complete a revolution around the sun in moments to be yet judged if ever. As the imagined archaeologists of the future find the actions in solid form of our collaboration, what will they think of our world and the statement we were making or our beliefs. Can they be wrong even under our most adamant refusal because, we have lost sight of who we are and what we represent. Can I define you through your cooperation with this project or are you likely to state you are but, one of many in an action of exploration. I hope for exploration in all categories of existence and being. I as a humble servant say I know not as I am but, one who is of many.
DFB
Hammering whiskey oars of book children
Hammering nails fight to fatigue the words being hammered over there attempts to quite the spirit that forces them into wood. The great and drumming creative monkey that rides the backs of men like some kind of surreal Darwinian Cowboy. Hie, Hie they call with their long tails whipping the ears of the driven to increasing speed. As the hammer falls again the beginnings of the conversation fall upon deaf ears but, not a deafened heart. "Book arts......Pow...Pow...Pow.. strict conservation..Pow..Pow.. giving me greive..Pow..over.Pow..pow.. my projects....Poww Pow pow. Pow, you know what would..POW.POW..POW.. really kick their...Pow Goat.. POw.. my Deep fried book..Pow," so it went until laughter halted the hammer blows causing sweat to mix with tears of laughter and salty irritation.
We took a deep breath and held our tongues till the days labor was finalized, savoring the sweet treats to come on the river in a moment of relaxation, before our muscles ceased from grunting day after day for the glory of newly remolded basement. With whiskey wished oars we drift into the small cove of a tiny river laughing-in-reunion over the absurd reception the imagination put forth when joking about the deep fried book I once made. If you ever are to make a contract, I tell you it must be from the gut as ours was that day hands replaced by the shaking of bellies in the riots of fervor that had broken hold of its dam. Whether damned and dismissed or heralded as a heretic we would resurrect my one time object so to collaborate on the book project we now undertake.
Of the many art disciplines in the world, books arts has always had its eyes on making well crafted works meant to last for generation to reach a venerated realm of cherished care. Antithesis might come to your lips but, when handling cancers bred into the body you acknowledge your cherished realm of veneration will be in memory and not in the physical everlasting. After all how many mass produced books are meant too last. Still, as always mutation or transmutation can produce unexpected results so when considering the life of our collaborative children only history has the privilege of counting our blessings.
Like all births we have relished the joy of the spontaneous moments of conception but, we have had to raise the project through trial and error as any parent must with a child of an odd nature. I am sure you can remember at least one time when you defied your parents best efforts to pen you into some idea they had about or for you. As such I feel that way about every book we have made as each is a branch of its own yet, part of largest of trees.
DFB
We took a deep breath and held our tongues till the days labor was finalized, savoring the sweet treats to come on the river in a moment of relaxation, before our muscles ceased from grunting day after day for the glory of newly remolded basement. With whiskey wished oars we drift into the small cove of a tiny river laughing-in-reunion over the absurd reception the imagination put forth when joking about the deep fried book I once made. If you ever are to make a contract, I tell you it must be from the gut as ours was that day hands replaced by the shaking of bellies in the riots of fervor that had broken hold of its dam. Whether damned and dismissed or heralded as a heretic we would resurrect my one time object so to collaborate on the book project we now undertake.
Of the many art disciplines in the world, books arts has always had its eyes on making well crafted works meant to last for generation to reach a venerated realm of cherished care. Antithesis might come to your lips but, when handling cancers bred into the body you acknowledge your cherished realm of veneration will be in memory and not in the physical everlasting. After all how many mass produced books are meant too last. Still, as always mutation or transmutation can produce unexpected results so when considering the life of our collaborative children only history has the privilege of counting our blessings.
Like all births we have relished the joy of the spontaneous moments of conception but, we have had to raise the project through trial and error as any parent must with a child of an odd nature. I am sure you can remember at least one time when you defied your parents best efforts to pen you into some idea they had about or for you. As such I feel that way about every book we have made as each is a branch of its own yet, part of largest of trees.
DFB
Monday, September 3, 2007
A Lightning Stroke from My Stove to My Heart
Ten or so years ago I sat at my dinner table with a days hard work half completed. Eyes blankly fixated upon the stove to my right caught in the black abyss of the still hot cast iron pan filled with the remains of dinner all brown and clumped in the soon to be coagulated aromatic oils of my desire. I chewed like an animal grazing. My mind as simple as the innocent idiot of so many stories. The sound of my cat Butter pawing over my plate just behind the book I had been studying drove my gaze to protect my meal. In the fields of my restful mind the electric illumination cast bright light of recognition over the the not so distant horizon, flash burning the circuit of the imagined upon my eyes. Golden and hearty with the presence of security only found in the memories of a much needed meal prepared by your mother radiated out in the ethereal disconnection of the world, bring dawning to my days worry of the question at hand. One deep inhale and the smell that had blotted out all recognition became the obvious as to what I was to do in the coming days.
I would spend hours in the coming days passing over books with my finger tips like a man with a dozing stick looking for water before I found what would soon be the first book to be baptised in the oil and fried into a new life. I now relish the expression and absurd dawning on the faces I see as I take book into hand and immerse it into the ingredients for frying a book, it is the same look I received from my mother as she finally understood that I was not using a metaphor but, really was going to put a book into the pot of boiling oil. In this way for every person I have made a book for as they look at me I see the face of my mother for a moment behind the eyes which still cannot believe we are doing what we are doing together.
As to how I came upon this idea it is as told, as to why the conscience mind has placed many meanings over the years but, it boils out to the transformation that takes place and topically the transformation is no one person as this is and will always be a collaborative project and experience.
If you have participated in the project I would love to hear from you as you can tell the story you have lived in the pages now fused into a new existence. If you have not taken part I hope you do, as we venture into the world to present this performance in its ongoing collaborative project.
We are looking forward to creating the artist book to complete a circle built into this project which is one part performance, one part artifact created together and one part artist book. This is only one of what will be many more projects to come meant to collectively bring the lightning stroke of reexamination into our lives as we question what has been for a better world and society.
Like the smell that emanates from the tables used during the performance the imagined concept seeps into the greater conciseness of our brief time and like the pebble thrown into water the ripples change history. We have begun to see the ripples caused by our absurd pebble thrown at the world and hope you will cast more with us in time to come.
DFB!
I would spend hours in the coming days passing over books with my finger tips like a man with a dozing stick looking for water before I found what would soon be the first book to be baptised in the oil and fried into a new life. I now relish the expression and absurd dawning on the faces I see as I take book into hand and immerse it into the ingredients for frying a book, it is the same look I received from my mother as she finally understood that I was not using a metaphor but, really was going to put a book into the pot of boiling oil. In this way for every person I have made a book for as they look at me I see the face of my mother for a moment behind the eyes which still cannot believe we are doing what we are doing together.
As to how I came upon this idea it is as told, as to why the conscience mind has placed many meanings over the years but, it boils out to the transformation that takes place and topically the transformation is no one person as this is and will always be a collaborative project and experience.
If you have participated in the project I would love to hear from you as you can tell the story you have lived in the pages now fused into a new existence. If you have not taken part I hope you do, as we venture into the world to present this performance in its ongoing collaborative project.
We are looking forward to creating the artist book to complete a circle built into this project which is one part performance, one part artifact created together and one part artist book. This is only one of what will be many more projects to come meant to collectively bring the lightning stroke of reexamination into our lives as we question what has been for a better world and society.
Like the smell that emanates from the tables used during the performance the imagined concept seeps into the greater conciseness of our brief time and like the pebble thrown into water the ripples change history. We have begun to see the ripples caused by our absurd pebble thrown at the world and hope you will cast more with us in time to come.
DFB!
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