Head Gallery a@ Sculpture Centre

#scriptureNOW Party

GuantanamAgogo @#scriptureNOW Party

Friday, June 14, 7-9pm

Hey dudes thank you for following us! It don't matter if you are some kind of fucking crackhead, this free event is for you!
You and your friends are invited to join us for some totally intersubjective encounters as enforced pseudo-casual coercion and group-judgement sessions where we can totally like watch the torture of sinners LOL! If God will allow innocent babies to be murdered, stabbed through the eye socket and left in dirty baths in fucked up tenements and abandoned houses, with goat effigy wire-hanger-brands seared on their little chests, then why wouldn't he allow REAL scum to be tortured for eternity and totally fucked up LOLOL #Guantanamagogo. It'll be like a kind of Leigh Bowery installation where his head is possessed by a black spirit which is infesting the inside of his skull and blowing in and out of its eyes, while flies crawl over the decomposing skin and lay eggs and like in the distance there's these guys nailed through their hands to crucifixes and behind the crucifix is a giant fibreglass vagina which is gushing a torrent of piss between the crosses, running down the hill into a black lake. And in the distance there is a sunset with a post-nuclear landscape stretching away. In the lake there are abominations, dark manifestation of our own perverse desires. All this will be on the main floor.
And you and your friends, oozing surplus coolness, are like totally involved in this. And its dark, like when you turn out the lights at night and you're masturbating and thinking about crucifixion-sex, of how the spirit of St. Paul comes to you and enters your body like a large phallus, or he may just be fisting you, with a rosary like the ones Puerto Ricans use, clutched in his hand, or stabbing your asshole with a scorching wire hanger, and he says to you, or maybe its ‘she’, its not clear, maybe its St Bernadette and she says "I don't mind how pathetic you are. I don't mind how weak you come across. I will always be here for you. I will be in you. Filling you, completing you with my spirit". And you start crying but she fucks you, harshly but wiping away your tears and licks the rivulets of blood that are maybe running down your thigh, and saying gently, "Don’t worry, I'm here for you". And then we can like have a conversation, and talk about the critically praised exhibition Slaughter of the Innocents [Because We're All Born Guilty] curated by Head Gallery, with cold drinks, exorcisms, unlaced boots, and special DJ sets by like top celebrity curators, like Fionn Meade and some other dude … imagine how cool that’s going to be? And then, what's-his-name, Rikrit's assistant, will cook up some tripe. And we can talk about all the awesome things happening in New York, torture in garages, Bard … oh AND Venice...
If you are not already following us on tumblr, facebook, twitter, instagram or YouTube, join the #scriptureNOW conversation and let's socialize! We can like totally talk about the multiple arrangements of sacred objects that are on display in the cold and creepy Sculpture Center cellar - an arrangement of, like, sick orange felt objects, orange overalls, orange candles, a soap bubble machine with Sesame Street Orange Foam Soap with Ernie on the label, and a back-lit, stained-glassed mosaic installed in the central cellar space. And an avocado. I mean imagine how cool that would be. We can all hang out and then maybe there would be this performance with some chick from Hunter and an awesome reproduction of the pixelated image of a dancing, orange tortured demon with a fucked up face like some kind of violent religious radical has punched him again and again, until his cheek bone collapsed and his skull was split. And his face is like rotten fish bait. Like in that movie where the chick gets raped for like 9 minutes by that gross Spanish-looking guy. Whatever-the-fuck-it's-called. With a lot of red in it. Which we can totally screen right at the entrance. And maybe an orange vinyl record can be nailed over the stairwell--we'll like record like porn actors praying or something. And then there'll be this head on a plinth. It's made out of discarded telephone wire, and it looks like Kurt Kobain and then the whole thing is like drawing on a story set in a cellar by H.P. Lovecraft, where this painter has been banished to a New England cellar to paint the abominations that live there with him. But this is rewritten as the story of a hardboiled sixties sculptor-type--but living in 2078--like as a nod, a thing between us, because 1978 is like the cut off birth year for the people we are inviting who are not like cool, like around all the time and totally accessible, like Liam and Lawrence -- and he's psychic and psychotic, and is imagining or constantly “transporting” himself elsewhere. Like teleporting. But each transportation - but it might also be a dream; it's not clear - is splintering him. Like at the same time his work is involved with an engagement with Barry Le Va’s super-rad spilled felt and broken glass pieces—as much as this is possible given that there's no evidence of their existence because this is way in the future after the apocalypse. And anyway the ‘evidence’ was fucked up by a previous collector who mixed up his La Va work with his collection of Guantanamo Bay/Abu Grahaib memorabilia. It is now totally impossible to disentangle the two. Especially after they were covered with super-black oil that he was using to lube up his dick. It didn't all come off. And now this dude in our story is totally unclear on how the assembled objects operate as art, whether the orange costumes were designed by La Va or employed in some 1960s “artists-as-laborers” image-construction-fantasy and/or whether the felt pieces functioned as performance props or instruments of torture, or they belong to an actual Gitmo Habibi prisoner, or perhaps were just for some old homeless guy to sleep on. And disoriented by his subterranean existence – and haunted by the idea that he might in fact be an ‘ironic’ artist engaged in pastiche (despite his earnest ‘truth-to-materials’ demeanour) - he elects to read these objects as like totally a metaphor for the putrefied chthonic innards of the earth and Le Va’s smashed glass panes as the residue of an innovative horizontal stain-glass mosaics of a sexual cult thing looking to transcend the limitations that gravity puts on ecstatic flesh. And then after its presentation at the Sculpture Center, the stained-glass mosaic will be dropped a la Le Va and shattered into millions of pieces and semi-randomly scattered in Death Valley, so it's like blasted by the winds. Like energy and dynamics taking care of the making. Or something like that. Like speculative. And then the work will ultimately exist at the interface between indeterminacy and the infinite - as a totally pre(post)erous meditation upon the relationship between art and politics. Which is cool. And like we’re going to make a whole bunch of like spinning cubes stamped with palm trees and sexy silhouettes and waterfalls and blonde ladies, sexy blond ladies, like the moms of the girls in early Red Hot Chilli Peppers' songs or like from like Nazi Germany, like, you know, the whole Joy Division thing, and maybe like Animal Collective can do a RHCP cover. Or "Love Will Tear Us Apart." Fuck, that song is so great. Animal Collective as funk band. Or a Manchester band. Fuck Brooklyn.