Ex_ist 3 [Beer & Now]

All images: West Leicester, March 2025

“Now there are objects everywhere like this glass of beer, here on the table. When I see it, I feel like saying: ‘Pax, I’m not playing any more.’ I realise perfectly well that I have gone too far. I don’t suppose you can ‘make allowances’ for solitude. That doesn’t mean that I look under my bed before going to sleep or that I’m afraid of seeing the door of my room open suddenly in the middle of the night. All the same, I am ill at ease: for half an hour I have been avoiding looking at this glass of beer. I look above, below, right and left: but the glass itself I don’t want to see. And I know very well that all the bachelors around me can’t help me in any way: it is too late, and I can no longer take refuge amongst them. They would come and slap me on the back and say to me: ‘well, what’s special about that glass of beer? It’s  just like all the others. It’s bevelled, and it has a handle and a little coat of arms with a spade on it, and on the coat of arms is written Spatenbrau.’ I know all that , but I know that there’s something else. Almost nothing. But I can no longer explain what I see. To anybody. There it is: I am gently slipping into the water’s depths, towards fear.” [1.]

[1.]:  Jean-Paul Sartre, ‘Nausea’ (Trans. Robert Baldick), London/NYC, Penguin, 1963 (1938).

Ex_ist 2 [re_configure/trans_late]

All Photo-Manipulations: February 2025

Reconfigured Appropriated Texts [Translated]:

This sense of adventure certainly doesn't come from events. A new plan will have to be presented to move the project forward. I've proven that it's more about how moments flow into each other. A fire destroyed the surrounding area (I think that's what has happened). Suddenly, it feels as if time is passing, that each moment leads to another, this one to another, and so on; that each moment is destroying itself and there's no point in stopping it, etc. It will deteriorate, be vandalised, and then we attribute this property to the events happening to us at the moment. Leaving things as they are clearly doesn't work. What's formal extends to substance. It's unusable, consisting of thin brick pillars topped with a dilapidated wooden-clad building. For three months of the year, there are no clear signs of progress or imminent construction. In fact, this famous era is much talked about, but barely seen. I think if nothing is done immediately, the situation will get worse.

All Original Images: Old Basford, Nottingham, February 2025

If I remember correctly, this is called the irremediability of time. At this point, it seems impossible to save anything - the feeling of adventure would just be the irremediability of time. I have to face it; every day - a complete waste of time. But why don't we always have it? Is it because time isn't always irremediable? (I would prefer if nothing happened.) There are times when you feel like you can do whatever you want, move forward or backward, it doesn't matter. And then, at other times, it feels like the network has become strained, and you can't accept that when people come here by tram. That’s the first thing to do in those cases. It’s not a failure because you can't start over (no tangible progress has been made). The applicant appealed the decision, but the Inspector upheld it. They hadn't noticed much activity on the site, except for the presence of a man who appeared to be moving rubble and debris.

I'm afraid of cities. But we mustn't abandon them. Someone has to live somewhere. Previous comments have spoken of 'nationalities' in an unfinished housing development on a citywide and national scale. If you go too far, you reach the Vegetation Belt (the greenery stretches for miles toward the cities). It's waiting, but the first thing you see is the dirty desert. When the city dies, vegetation will invade it. It will climb the stones, grab them, dig them out, tear them apart with its long black claws and accelerate its growth. It will fill the holes and plant its green paws everywhere. We must live in cities while they are alive. One should never enter alone into such a mass of hair waiting at their door. It's dangerous for the residents (neither safe nor proper).

Permission has not been implemented. You should be allowed to lift and puncture the old cross-filters, as the approved project isn't considered financially viable in the city. If you know how to do it, choose times when the animals are digesting or sleeping in their burrows (while conveniently ignoring the old, long-abandoned local eyesores hidden behind piles of organic detritus). It's a shame, you rarely find anything there but minerals - the least frightening existents of all.

Ex_ist 1 [Sartreian Spring]

 

All Images: South Leicester, March 2024

“…I started laughing because I suddenly thought of the wonderful springtimes described in books, full of cracking, bursting gigantic blossomings. There were fools who talked  to you about willpower and the struggle for life Hadn’t they ever looked at an animal or a tree? That plane with its scaling bark, that half-rotten oak - they would’ve wanted me to take them for vigorous youthful forces thrusting towards the sky. And that root? I would probably have had to see it as a greedy claw, tearing the earth, snatching its food from it.

‘Impossible to see things that way. Weaknesses, frailties, yes. The trees were floating. Thrusting towards the sky? Collapsing rather: at any moment I expected to see the trunks shrivel like weary pricks, curl up and fall to the ground in a soft, black, crumpled heap. They did not want to exist, only they could not help it; that was the point. So they performed all their little functions, quietly, unenthusiastically, the sap rose slowly and reluctantly in the canals, and the roots penetrated slowly into the earth. But at every moment they seemed on the verge of dropping everything and obliterating themselves. Tired and old, they went on existing, unwillingly and ungraciously, simply because they were too weak to die, because death could come to them only from the outside: melodies alone can proudly carry their own death within them like an internal necessity,; only they don’t exist. Every existent is born without reason, prolongs itself out of weakness, and dies by chance. I leaned back ands I closed my eyes. But pictures, promptly informed, sprang forward and filled my closed eyes with existences: existence is a repletion which man can never abandon.” [1.]

“Did I dream it up, that huge presence? It was there, installed on the park, tumbled into the trees, all soft, gumming everything up, all thick, a jelly. And I was inside with the whole of the park? I was frightened, but above all I was furious, I thought it was so stupid, so out of place, I hated that ignoble jelly. A there was so much of it, so much! It went up as high as the sky, it flowed away everywhere, it filled everything with gelatinous subsidence and I could see it going deeper and deeper, far beyond the limits of the park and the houses and Bouville, I was no longer at Bouville or anywhere, I was floating. I was not surprised. I knew perfectly well that it was the World, the World in all its nakedness which was suddenly revealing itself, and I choked with fury at that huge absurd being. You couldn’t even wonder where it all came from, or how it was that a world should exist rather than nothing. It didn’t make sense, the world was present everywhere, in front, behind. There had been nothing before it. Nothing. There had been no moment at which it might not have existed. It was that which irritated me: naturally there was no reason for it to exist, that flowing larva. But it was not possible for it not to exist. That was unthinkable: In order to imagine nothingness, you had to be there already, right in the world, with your eyes wide open and alive; nothingness was just an idea in my head, an existing idea floating in that immensity: this nothingness hadn’t come before existence, it was an existence like any other and one which had appeared after a great many others. I shouted: ‘What filth! What filth!’ And I shook myself to get rid of that sticky dirt, but it held fast and there was so much of it, tons and tons of existence, indefinitely: I was suffocating at the bottom of that huge boredom. Then, all of a sudden, the park emptied as if through a big hole, the world disappeared in the same way it had come, or else I woke up - in any case I could not see it any more; there remained some yellow earth around me, out of which dead branches stuck up into the air.” [2.]

“Dusk is falling, the first lights are going on in the town. Good Lord, how natural the town looks in spite of all its geometric patterns, how crushed by the evening it seems. It’s so …obvious from here; is it possible that I should be the only one to see it? Is there nowhere another Cassandra on top of a hill, looking down at a town engulfed in the depths of Nature? But what does it matter to me? What could I possibly tell her?

“My body turns very gently towards the east, wobbles slightly and starts walking.” [3.]

[1, 2, 3]:  Excerpts From: Jean-Paul Sartre, ‘Nausea’ (Trans. Robert Baldick), London/NYC, Penguin, 1963 (1938).

Stratified Spaces in Spring Sunshine

 

All Images: South Leicester, March 2025

“The kind of difference that defines every place is not on the order of a juxta-position but other takes the form of imbricated strata. The elements spread out on the same surface can be enumerated; they are available for analysis; they form a manageable surface. Every urban ‘renovation’ nonetheless prefers a tabula rasa on which to write in cement the composition created in the laboratory on the basis of discrete ‘needs’ to which functional responses are to be made. The system also produces need, the primary ‘substance’ of this composition, by isolating it. This unit is as neat and clean (propre) as digits are. Moreover, the lack of satisfaction that defines each need calls for and justifies in advance the construction that combines it with other needs. This is the logic of production: ever since the eighteenth century, it has engendered its own discursive and practical space, on the basis of points of concentration - the office, the factory, the city. It rejects the relevance of places it does not create.

“However, beneath the fabricating and universal writing of technology, opaque and stubborn places remain. The revolutions of history, economic mutations, demographic mixtures lie in layers within it, and remain there, hidden in customs, rites, and spatial practices. The legible discourses that formerly articulated them have disappeared, or left only fragments in language. This place, on its surface, seems to be a collage. In reality, in its depth it is ubiquitous. A piling-up of heterogeneous places. Each one, like a deteriorating page of a book, refers to a different mode of territorial unity, of socioeconomic distribution, of political conflicts and identifying symbolism" [1.].

[1.]:  Michel de Certeau, ‘The Practice of Everyday Life’, (Trans. Steven F. Randall), Berkeley CA, University of California Press, 1984 

P.I.N.K.+ [re_configure]

 

All Images: West Leicester, March 2025

[Reconfigured Appropriated Texts]:

For people who believe that the world should be run by straight white men, these are heady times. But it is not a judicious practice. All these colours are very uncertain with respect to their standing, and researchers of colour psychology have found that this effect only occurs during the initial exposure. The native earths or prepared ochres properly managed will answer equally the same ends. Bright or pale pink makes me feel flirty, astute and like I can accomplish what I need to. Flowers, romantic gestures, and kindness may be preferred by some who feel that the four-letter acronym is a simpler way to represent a wide range of identities. English pink is only a lighter and coarser kind - It dilutes well with water.

Not everyone agrees about what term or variation to use. Legal opposition is building, and there are already signs that business is hiding its diversity programmes in paintings where the holding of the colour is not of great consequence. One of the key features of current rightwing populism is a desire to escape complicated social realities. Politicians would rather admit they’d sexually harassed an intern than gone skiing (you can, of course, do both – and many do). This doesn’t mean that terminology won’t continue to evolve and shift, particularly as people work to achieve greater representation and acceptance (at one time in history, the English word ‘pink’ referred to a yellow colour).

Making new tints out of primary and secondary colours is also more affordable than buying specific shades of pinks whenever needed, especially now that the political climate has fixed on a carbonate. It gives a candy pink colour more or less sustained depending on the binder and the dosage. I think people used to think this stuff was bad and corrosive and potentially politically dangerous - it can be dosed at 20% of the weight of lime merely to enhance public perceptions. While the goal of this initialism is to raise visibility and boost inclusivity, the experiment is being unceremoniously abandoned. When used in prisons, inmates often become even more agitated once they become accustomed to the colour.

In politics, commerce and education, a huge, potentially lasting counterrevolution seems to be under way. The community has been referred to by many words over the years, including many that were intended to be hurtful. Even so, when we review the literature, what the reactionaries want is less clear and coherent than it first seems. Light shades of pink require white pigment to be added to a significantly reddish base. If someone tells you they want to restore a society utterly dominated by straight white men (which is almost certainly impossible), boil them in a gallon of water and then strain off the tincture through flannel. Many advocates argue that the addition of the ‘plus’ is important and should not be overlooked.