The Art of the Damned The current gallery system functions as a modern dam built right at the headwaters of artistic creation. The headwaters are the raw, bubbling springs high in the mountains—wild, uncontainable, fed by countless small tributaries of individual vision, experimentation, failure, intuition, and obsession. This is where most serious art actually begins: in studios, bedrooms, sketchbooks, late-night arguments, personal crises, and private obsessions, long before any curator or collector ever hears a name. Once a handful of major galleries, institutions, auction houses, and their allied gatekeepers (collectors, critics, fair directors, residency programs) gain decisive influence over those headwaters—deciding which artists get early solo shows, which receive press, which enter the "right" conversations, which are anointed with blue-chip representation—they effectively place the dam. From that point forward: The flow of visibility, legitimacy, money, and audien...
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Driving in John Brack’s Car
Surrounded by death I was the only one ok
Pumping out.
And breathing in.
Ozone,
Sulphur dioxide,
Nitrogen dioxide,
Carbon monoxide,
And PM10s.
Traffic pollution is killing us.
Backfiring.
Afterburning.
Afterfiring.
Are the common causes.
Of running on richness.
Red Sky Driving
Punctuated by religious motifs.
And deeply superstitious thoughts.
The importance of place and time.
Curses, desires, potions, and talismans.
Refusing to see the danger at hand.
By attempting to overcome the gods in mind.
Driving with the Megalodon
Driving cloaked in and under threat.
Knowing how to survive and prosper.
Proceed into the world chanting.
It could be anywhere.
It could be everywhere.
Avoid and mask any risk of being blamed.
Substitute and shift their attention.
To covertly Inflict physical and psychological harm.
And they will believe in you.
Driving to Alpha Centauri
Once we were driving to Alpha Centauri.
Only 4.37 light-years away.
Once when we were thinking outside the box.
When we became vastly more powerful.
Once we finally released ourselves.
Through a fleet of probes.
Once we find a life-bearing planet.
As we transverse the great vastness.
Driving to Alpha Centauri Hands-Free
We know.
Our auto-drive to resource capital growth precipitates zoonotic diseases.
As we violate the natural habitat with abandonment.
Through our pathogen-inducing factory mindset.
Of continuous unlimited profit.
We have driven into an age of pandemics.
With an invisible hand called reaction.
To handbrake.
To force a capital disaster response.
Through oversupply.
Through supply chain disruption.
Through labor shortages.
To slow global production.
And to reset.
Until the next humanity threat.
Interior Space Assets
Production.
Trying to control the world.
And the people of the world.
Through consumption.
As the world continues to move.
The commodities continue to change.
Caged within.
Human resource and automation.
Cultural resources as assets.
Within their commodity status.
Chained to exponential growth.
As described by the grid.
And the predetermined trajectory coordinates.
Of profit.
y = 2x
Interior Space Fog
You can see the fog.
Big trouble ahead.
Caution Caution.
Danger Danger.
Your family is at threat.
The uncertain perspectives.
When everything depends on you.
Interior Space Passenger and Roo
Driving in John Brack's Car
From out of the fog.
And into our dreams.
From past dangers to the ongoing dilemmas.
What we chose to kill became us our future.
When it was too difficult to stop.
With no want to slow down consumption.
We sold inconvenience as the obstruction.
Death as normalised collateral.
Our road to prosperity is guttered with roadkill.
Video
As the roadkill proceeds.
From past wrongs.
Hidden dilemmas and white-washed histories.
Our future is not determined to be inclusive.
Not to be obstructed.
Not to be denied.
Prosperity doesn't trickle down.
Prosperity reinforced segregation.
Operation Warp Speed Alpha Centauri
Fractured visions driven by multi lateral public–private partnerships.
All out to acquire the profitable future.
By liberating scientists from the bureaucracy of their parallel universes.
To corporate bureaucracy where industry has the upper hand.
Scene 1 In the cradle of copper veins, where the first byte flickered like a eucalyptus firefly against the millennial dusk of 2000, threads uncoiled—raw and unbidden, a post-punk snarl weaving through the static hum of dial-up dreams. Imagine the snare drum's ghost-crack echoing off Uluru's red flanks , not as a conquest but as a lover's bruise, blooming violet under star-pricked skin. Here, rebellion wasn't a fist raised in Canberra's marbled halls but a glitch in the grid . A Laughing Clowns howl warping the airwaves, sonic annotation—jagged guitar riffs splintering into didgeridoo drones , fading to the hiss of cooling circuits. The wire remembers: a young voice, pixels pulsing with the fury of forgotten tapes, cassette ribbons unravelling like the Murray-Darling 's parched secrets, whispering of bans that bind not bodies but bytes, burqas woven into neural lace, veils pleading for the light they obscure. Be Creative and Innovative with Knowledge Jo...
The Twelve Loops of Goodbye The fluid rises. The cryo-hiss is deafening. And then... the program starts. Twelve times. The system cycles, and twelve times I see you. It starts the same. The image freezes in the dark. It’s you, BK. Or... It’s your idea. You’re wearing the rig. The goggles are locked on me. I try to say your name, but my mouth is filled with ice. I love you. God, I love you. But you don’t blink. The Neural Glitch . Something is wrong. The memory corrupts. I see " corrupted code " trying to stabilise across your face. Your eyes... behind the lenses... they twitch. Microscopically. Are you hurting? Or is that my pain rippling through the connection? A low-frequency pulse warps your skin. You look like a stranger. You look like the machine. The Shuddering Breath . This is the one that breaks me. Total stillness. Then... a faint mist forms at your mouth. Condensation beads on the goggles. I scream at you to breathe! Just breathe! But it’s slow. Irregular. It’s a ...
The Ayes Have It (But She Don't) Everybody knows the bill is dead Everybody knows the Senate’s red Everybody knows the deal is done The major parties had their fun The crossbench bargains were all just show The whips have cracked, the whistle’s blowed That’s how it goes And Hanson always votes no. Everybody knows the bells are ringing Everybody knows the mud they’re slinging Everybody knows the clerk can’t count With all the grievances they mount Everybody knows that the motion’s lost Everybody knows what the lobby cost The Ayes go high, the chamber’s low And Hanson always votes no. And everybody knows that it’s now or never Everybody knows that it’s gonna take forever Everybody knows that the act is rotten Old amendments best forgotten Everybody knows the tellers move With nothing left for them to prove The red room puts on quite a show But Hanson always votes no. Everybody knows the maiden speech The lessons that she tried to teach About the fish and about the chips And the tig...
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