The Struggle for Authenticity in Art I want to speak today about authenticity . And about what we quietly give up to be accepted. We’re told that contemporary political art values autonomy . That artists are free. That inquiry sits at the centre of practice. But autonomy, in reality, is often something we *perform*— not something we’re allowed to exercise. Freedom is celebrated rhetorically, while legitimacy is granted only when work conforms to approved languages , approved theories , approved causes . Autonomy isn’t denied outright. It’s curated. This system doesn’t fail artists by accident. It functions mechanically. It rewards work that aligns with predetermined frameworks and filters out work that doesn’t speak the sanctioned dialect. Many voices are excluded not because they lack skill or meaning, but because they refuse to translate their experience into institutionally legible language. I’m not saying all excluded work is good. I am saying much of it is never heard. And ...
Trapped in a cosmic gridlock, navigating space felt less like an adventure and more like rush hour back home. Ahead, the opulent cruise liner, The Stellar Serpent, dominated the view, its countless portholes gleaming with the carefree anticipation of its occupants. We were surrounded by a frenzy of vessels, from elegant private yachts to bulky cargo freighters, all vying for position, their navigation lights impatiently flickering like agitated fireflies.
Our Subi yearned to escape, but felt anchored. Katcha, usually composed, emitted a low growl. Our frustration mounted. This jockeying for position was proving expensive. The Subi’s guidance system incessantly blared “Collision Alert (Minor),” each warning was complemented by a blast of avoidance energy. Days seemed to crawl by, the euphoria of the Kepler Kiss now a fading memory. This wasn't the boundless exploration we'd paid for; nothing is worse than this illogical congestion.
Then, a subtle change. A barely perceptible shift in the massive cruise liner's engines, a slight drift to starboard. Our moment had arrived! With a rush of adrenaline and a sudden, involuntary blast of a space shanty about 'freeing the thrusters' on my comms, the Subi skillfully maneuvered the Stardust Drifter through a narrow opening between a hydroponic supply vessel and a particularly flamboyant pleasure barge. The ship vibrated, the engines roared in glorious protest, and for a magnificent, fleeting instant, we were liberated. Primary Trade Lane Delta-Nine stretched before us. The irritation of the jam evaporated, replaced by an intoxicating euphoria more potent than any synthesised space brew. The unknown beckoned, and we were once again, gloriously, hurtling towards it.
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The Situation - Red Alert JB , a middle-aged mail spaceship pilot . Starship piloting JB is held not by ropes, but by the cryo-unit's nanoweave swaddle —a tight, absolute embrace mimicking paranoiac wrappings. This material presses against him, preventing his shivering flesh from flying apart under the centrifugal force of his panic. He feels a cold burn and constant helplessness sinking in. His anxiety is a crimson klaxon , a "relentless tempest" of warring thoughts. He is mentally back in the cockpit, but the instruments scream in an alien language; every light and warning signifies impending failure. His pure instinct screams ABORT , yet there is no escape route. Confrontation Rising JB is shown the war of impulses tearing him apart—the "lunge and the retreat". His existence is reduced to the strained gasp: "I live for fucks sake, I don't know.” Full Assault a Violet Firestorm JB responds with explosive, automatic violence, his lungs burning from ...
Puppet Master The narrow, high-walled passage swallowed the sound of my boot scraping a broken cobblestone, the echo sharp in the dry air. Above, a sliver of unforgiving sunlight cut down, carving deep shadows where the damp, mossy scent of the gully was now replaced by the smell of dust and ancient stone. I paused, looking not just at my gloved hand—the leather scuffed from my descent, but at what was attached to it. Thin, nearly invisible lines, like high-tensile wires , stretched from the articulated cuff on my wrist and disappeared into the air above the path. I tracked them with my eyes until they converged on a small, stone figure standing motionless in the centre of the walkway. It was a crude marionette , barely a foot tall, carved from the same pale, cracked stone as the surrounding walls. Dressed in a simple tunic, its blank, oval face held a radiating sense of expectant waiting. Its arms were held out, palms up. I held the strings. Yet, the feeling was not one of cont...
The hand that holds the glamour Between the flick of a lighter and the curl of smoke lies a story told in two parts: the hand that holds the glamor, Between the flick of a lighter and the curl of smoke lies a story told in two parts: the hand that holds the glamor, and the eye that chooses to believe it. The art of the obscure and meaningless In the realm of modernist art , exemplified by Eddie's deliberate embrace of abstraction and mystery , artists have increasingly surrendered their authoritative power of intent to a veil of meaningless vagueness, compelling viewers to co-create meaning from fragmented suggestions rather than receiving a clear, directive vision. Her scalpel-wielded dissections—such as her perforated self-portraits or obscured war images—eschew explicit communication in favour of elusive hints, as she professed a desire to remain "mysterious" and avoid revelation, thereby shifting the burden of interpretation onto the audience in a pseudo-spiritual a...
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