zero dimensional art

sadoo nogueira, a great early explorer in apophatic aestheticism who rode a lonely skiff of absinthe to the vorticial cliffs of dream, writes –

in the classic age art developed consciousness on the level of the three dimensional sensation – that is art applied itself to a perfect and clear visioning of reality considered as solid. postchristian art has worked constantly towards the creating of a two dimensional art. we must create a one dimensional art

now though, in the presence of the internet, global capitalism, ecological collapse, and the omnipresent toxic mirror of humanity splintered in the plasmatic soul of god, only zero dimensional art is possible

what is zero dimensional art?

it attempts to go nowhere and goes nowhere

in dark emptiness it manifests light and plenitude, light and plenitude that then manifest their manifestor

our nothingness seems so expressed not that it creates an object or an audience, reaches for audience or object, attempts to effect any sensations in ourselves or others, but, if anything, precisely not this: that it remains in the intimacy of objectlessness, it remains without audience, its inevitable sensations contained in that boundaryless cell that does not effect, that cannot

sensations have not disappeared in zero dimensional art but tumble over themselves as numbers falling down a hole

all directions are uncertain. i retreat but this retreat is an advance, i fail but this failure is a success, i deinvest but this deinvestment’s an investment, i go mad but this madness is a sanity. in none of these movements is anything lost (and in this amassing rests a vast heart of forgetting): the retreat though an advance is still a retreat, the failure though a success is still a failure, the deinvestment though an investment is still a deinvestment, the madness though sane is still madness. and these totalities of cancellations are the zero that is written

but no. not even written. seen, but barely seen. glimpsed, but only in thick fogs. intuited, but as a truth in an unspoken formula in a dream

it pitches its tent of identity on the rumoured decentred desert of namelessness. the news, opinions, facts, careers, schools and workshops and degrees, parties and watering holes and openings and jostlings that comprise 0+n dimensional art and so are subsidiaries of transnational conglomerations perhaps worthy of videos taken on phones of plays of ancients

ghoul'd herbert presaged in a particular way zero dimensional art through its withdrawal from the social apparatuses of art, desiring that communication of consciousness to consciousness, that language that hasn’t been toxicied through the scrimmages for power and money, through conventional and clichéd grammars and concepts, propriety and a barbaric elite

in zero as the mystics have long known and articulated in their necessarily elliptical and abstruse ways, god grows. and what is god but possibility (as the woman in white cotton intuited)? : polyforms of the desert, an immense choreograph of emptiness. so zero dimensional art aims – as the protestant reformation aimed to eliminate the unnecessary manifold, bureaucratic and frequently pompous layers between soul and god and long before it hinduism knew that evil was nothing but inserting viability between brahman and atman – to minimally make irrelevant and more fully dissipate solid facticity from art

only zero dimensional art lives what the twentieth century theorized: it erases the artist by denaming, decentering, disappearing, decreating, through untraceable identities that no more experience art as career as shitting. zero dimensional art is breathing and art is the conscious expression of this breathing. zero dimensional art returns to the roots of religion, animism, wildness, wonder by de-arting art in the nothing that is

our frequent dealing in ennui, indifference, renouncement before the sanest and simplest things is entirely intermingled and subsumed in detranscendences that are no more multiplied than divided, added, subtracted, subject to every possible mathematical operation whether irrational or imaginary, resulting in results that have as much to do with sense as bananas with dental benefits

consciousness is a compost of zero that decomposes, an analysis that’s heterogeneously catalytic

of course we concern ourselves with politics, religions, morals, society etc to the extent they concern themselves with us. news is the rain in my nonexistent soul

zero dimensional art is not about art or creating or being an artist. it is at least as much as and maybe more about not being these things – of traveling through time to achieve a new naïveté. any zero dimensional artist (but even this name defies the spirit of our spirit – rather: zero dimensionalist) will dissociate itself from all forms and channels associate with the edifice of art, will sustain itself through activities wholly disconnected with art, will – should it somehow be discovered – immediately and naturally relocate itself to new places of exile and unknown. only in this way does a disparate anonymous tribe of zero creators compost effectively the crude hypocrisies, dominations, wretchednesses, sufferings of the villainous world: by taking these attributes into itself, into the vast plethora of possibility, and maintaining them there

and to our ancestors – chuang tzoo, nogueira blake, billy pessoa, sadoo – we give not our thanks for there is nothing to give – we do not even give our nothing – but possibly a hyphen and a colon, for these are their inheritance to us and what we have effectively become – glyphs of punctuation, indicators of continuation and what follows, pixels of voided colour, a collapsed hyperventilated hypersphere whose once thin grey hint of a shimmer of an outline has been erased by a kind of excess of accounting of functions and relations

-->

cold and timid souls

in this age she says it’s necessarily humiliating having parents and so your not having children is a gift to various nonbeings, saving them from necessity and humiliation

but theirs is just a different humiliation and necessity and so one doesn’t save anything from anything

saving nothing from nothing is our task

we all work productively together to convince us of our irrelevance

we’ve done nothing of the sort – all we’ve done is live and if life so convinces you it is you who are constructed to be so convinced

we are all savages

we are painted faces of the monstrous chimera of the popular

here we, in absent temples of temples

delightful, as always

we are hack and pulp and the annihilation of bears

hither come we the sapiens, polyhaired crazedeyed gonadsinhands thieves reavers slayers with gigantic melancholies and morbidly obese mirths to tread the scatological thrones of the earth under our clopped feet

the yellow leaf not loud but deep dares not their poor troops of friends

you found that in a mccajita feliz

i have spoken to the constructors of construction, the engineers of engineers

and?

they haven’t responded

the way it works she says is it must be thoroughly and ubiquitously humiliating to have parents for everyone has parents but not everyone has children so if it’s thoroughly and ubiquitously humiliating to have children some are exempt

why is exemption unacceptable?

exemption is an illusion

but illusion is the one acceptability

acceptability is happiness

and one's the illusion that's true

we are the cold and timid souls

i am sums of absences

i am that and the thising of that

i dis dat but i don't dis dis but i may dis what follows dis

what follows dis's data

wit's an absence of sums of absences

we build sanctuaries of savagery to our daised gonads

delightful as always

let us rejoice in the holographic carousel of tedium

let us seek mystic asylum in language, that machinery of the coloured up and round and down

benedicto lxxxi

may flirty firefiles

contume your gnats gotts nahts

by a holohollow rerobahting

a graphy quaffic gaff

of gazed & grazing substates

amun ra aum yoni

patatalk in the areolae manasis of the boreal forest

this she says deleteriously and without any tenacious immodesty wouldn’t be the form of thought it is if it didn’t lack a certain ubiquity of absence and if this lack itself didn’t present itself almost substantively and elusively across all things

curious he responds but not too nephologically and with arcane allusions to a certain vituperation which she catches, but fleetingly, as if she were a leftfielder for a defunct mlb team and made the out then didn’t i’ve been thinking along similar lines myself or rather – as these things are – similar lines have been waiting by the platforms at various stations in my mind’s metro for trains that never seem to come

a common problem she muses as if the viscerality of her consciousness were so exposed as to place her in a situation not disanalogous to those times the time escapes us and we’re floating like emblematic beavers on kidneyshaped artificial ponds, those kinds some sometimes pay to go troutfishing in and not one without a touch of saudade, not the type you find in south america but that transplanted into language environments where some consider it an invasive plant and devote almost unreasonable volumes of time, energy and money to developing laboratories to manufacture synthetic mores to eradicate it

i know what you mean he says almost lugubriously although the weed of the saturnine rarely breaks through the asphalt of his articulations which are renowned – though this is far too forceful – in varied circles (though this may suggest a diversity not truly manifest) for their evenhandedness, one wouldn’t really say an enthusiasm or exuberance but some quality as difficult to define and perhaps unnamed as those liminal emotive states we enter when we’re granted by the gods or nature or society (depending on one’s beliefs) a temporary visa for a sort of murky tourism into the unmapped regions, but no one yet has spoken quite clearly of these tendencies in him just yesterday i think though time has been awkward recently, even extending its anxieties into spaces it usually isn’t entitled to, i was boarding a tram at aksaray when – strangely, epiphanously, rudely – a consortium of cantaloupe merchants egressed and not only prevented my travelling but necessitated a costly stay in a nearby hospice

this is fascinating she barely murmurs, and it sounds to him as though she might be faintly satirizing his fourth wife though he can’t figure out how this would be possible considering his knowledge of their networks and more particularly her temperament which would under such conditions – all the tests and indicators point to this – disallow much beyond a memory of a thought of distant mockery and he speculates it could be one of those simulating emotional aspects that refuses – through intent or whimsy, who knows? – to coincide except through those unavailable realities we sometimes glimpse when reading about a mass suicide, for example, of a minor siffleux cult in lower ghana our experiences of transit are so similar yet – since identification is difficult – in their divergence they become a misplaced reminiscence, one of those you find in a corner of a garret of someone else’s grandmother who has recently passed away not through neglect or disease or accident or even geriatricism but a tendency of those who maintain such pieces to transfer their entire will and being into objects

i could only disagree if i were one of the types capable of disagreeing with statements that appear to belong to the sorts of ones that you’ve been making he gesticulates with suburban overtures of lunacy that conjure in her mind, whose synaptic grid if it were laid out in two dimensions would deceive most accountants (regardless of their experience or perspicacity or origins) into thinking it was an electrical schematic for a future utopia designed by a scientific-engineering conglomerate so vast, illuminated and esoteric only two or three homeless hadoti gurus have dreamt its shadow, a stuffed rabbit of her childhood she had loved to such extremes her mother flushed the worn remnants down the toilet one drunken afternoon and i have to thank you – this necessity neither born from any formality or caprice – for introducing, even forcing, though i hesitate to use such diction but am compelled by an image rupturing violently in some obscure wardrobes of what few might call thinking, a train engulfed in such steam and smoke one would hardly call it a train or thought of thought and this i speculate – and i sincerely hope you’ll join me though i doubt with equal authenticity much camaraderie, not from any dislike, uncertainty or animosity but from an impulse our present space doesn’t give sufficient time to identify – is like a fuschia in some alternative dominican in a cloister’s balneary where pious penguins go to pray

and she and i continue talking in that way lacking termini and we would be chatting still (and maybe i think mostly are) if it hadn’t been for the trolley that arrived finally at the platform and she, oblivious and wise, climbed the steps and i (though the reason has never become apparent) stood motionless and waited as i had been doing for as long as i remember, waiting for another stranger to converse with, waiting for the tram i’d finally board