Armando Jaramillo Garcia


No Need to Feel Afraid

Others have made the trip but not you
And that implies a certain thing
No one ever wants to hear
So what if you weren’t raised
Where you were born
And have been forced to eat
This variety of confusing foods
Experience the boon built into the system
Always expanding even in redundancy
Only fools figure it out
The rest form an unlikely community
Some fond of bland crispy rice
Others wounding themselves with hot sauce
All wanting to be sophisticated enough
To accept everything
What a sermon you thought
As guilt turned into insults
Let’s get ahead of ourselves and relax
A Fire Island rental and all that means
Traded for a no-frills vacation to the arctic
On a cargo ship taking advantage
Of weather change
And newly available routes
It’s obvious what I’m trying to say
That we’re going to hell happy
And we’re going to complain
Even as we’re amazed

 
 
 
 
 
 
**
 
 
 
 
 
 

Dream Disaster #2

An oddly composed squirrel perched on a ledge
Was surveying the street below seen mostly
In silhouette it looked like a mini-gargoyle
Or a superhero calmly exuding dread
Then underwater I was naked and struggling
With gooey vegetation that held me in its grip
As a giant squid approached in its florescent menace
Just then a muscled man who looked like Kirk Douglas
With high-wasted navy-blue briefs dove into the water
With a knife between his teeth and the mood
Was now one of confidence
And the problem with the objects
That were attacking from all directions
And now subdued is the idea of them
As something else that you can turn on or off
And just as the thought was about to subside
An airplane crashed into a building
But the film they show is of the Hindenburg
In Lakehurst New Jersey already a memorial
Even as it burned into a floating skeleton
Whose black spindly bones kept waving in silence

 
 
 
 
 
 
**
 
 
 
 
 
 

The Grid of Elements

I’m growing old right before your eyes
My days as a Plantagenet in royal purple and ermine
Pushing people around with thoughts and malice
Will soon end and I’ll be just another commoner
At the meat market exchanging coins for scraps
What do you call it when the tables are turned
When the adjustment is brutal but deserved
The practical side of transformation unexplained
The imminent law of threes turns up with a fury
There are seven ages to get through
But the math gets fuzzy at the top of the chain
Growing impatient with others whenever you’re not alone
Company only interesting when it’s with nuggets of gold
And I’ve never been the type to find solace
In the devotion of dogs who should be with their own
Hunting in packs and tearing flesh from the bone
At night by the sea’s bioluminescence I’ve seen
The mindless extraction of what remains of the self
Float away perplexed and unclean

 
 
 

**

ARMANDO JARAMILLO GARCIA is the author of The Portable Man (Prelude Books, 2017). His work has appeared in Boston Review, TYPO, Pinwheel, Inter|rupture, Black Sun Lit and others. He is the current co-editor of poetry at preludemag.com.

Julianne Neely

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**

JULIANNE NEELY received her MFA degree from the Iowa Writer’s Workshop, where she received the Truman Capote Fellowship, the 2017 John Logan Poetry Prize, and a Schupes Fellowship for Poetry. She is currently a Poetics PhD candidate and an English Department Fellow at the University at Buffalo.

Theo Eliezer

 
 
 
 
 

“We are never real historians, but always near poets, and our emotion is perhaps nothing but an expression of a poetry that was lost.”

– Gaston Bachelard, The Poetics of Space

 
 

House of the Rising Sun is an interactive self-portrait about the phenomenology of heartbreak, presented as a choose-your-own-adventure game. Exploring the interconnection between physical architecture and emotional architecture, House of the Rising Sun investigates how the home becomes a living extension of memory, intimate relationships, and the human body.

 
 

House of the Rising Sun

 
 

**

THEO ELIEZER is a transmedia artist whose practice is characterized by interconnected narratives in installation, lens-based media, digital and physical artifacts, and related critical theory. Much of her work explores a literal interpretation of the adage “print is dead,” the implications of media as being subject to mortality, and feminist considerations of the body, identity, aesthetics, and technoethics. Influenced by Masahiro Mori and Donna Haraway, her recent work uses augmented reality to present concerns about the future rights of sentient machines.

Matthew Tuckner

What’s in a Name
 

Wax-sealed letters from my parents. Diphthongs.
A dollar. A dollop of saddle grease.
Ground to stand on. The question
 

spoken from the pit just below
the lungs that had been transcribed
as: “Siri, where should I dispose of my
 

Body?” Lifeguards. Superfluous lifeguards.
Thickets. Untold thickets. Untold
thickets topped by birds. Whippoorwill.
 

Feasible Whippoorwill, the most. Growing
discontent with the heliotrope, a rope, rafter
slung. The question emerging just below
 

the tailbone oft-recounted as: “Siri is this the
coin slot? Or the bill mouth? And where
is my money going?” Wherever the horses
 

are going. The corn belt filled to the brim
with beer bellies. Around and around
the ring like a horse is likely to do, the planets.
 

Inflorescence of the heliotrope, believed, at once,
to grow towards the sun, in fact, doesn’t
so, nothing. So, everything. A soft, wet,
 

shapeless mass of material, the one rose in the rose bush left
unsniffed is. Science Fiction and Fact are in there sure.
The Battle of Oriskany is in there sure.
 

The Mars Rover Curiosity sings itself
happy birthday from deep within
The foothills of Olympus Mons as
 

a year that is a bit longer than our year
commences. So, it is definitely in there
sure. The Hamlet of Carkeel, sure. Beyond
 

Reality, sure. The Uffington White Horse,
sure. Two dollars. The Flux Capacitor.
Why we eat when we’re not hungry.
 

Why we eat when we are hungry.
The vocal cord responsible for an ah
overperformed for the doctor. Erroneously,
 

several umlauts. Several hands. Several more
fingers. Furthermore fingernails. Chuck-
Will’s-Widow’s. Many Chuck-Will’s Widow’s.
 

The frame of a Mitsubishi, reservoir-drunk. Deadhorse,
a town in North Slope Borough, Alaska.
The Trans-Alaska Pipeline System. The crude
 

lugged by the Trans-Alaska Pipeline System.
The Pastry War. The Ragamuffin War.
The War of the Oranges. The War of
 

The Oaken Bucket. The War Fought Over
The Water Within The Oaken Bucket.
The man who was rescued after two days
 

at the bottom of a mine shaft searching for gold. Gold.
Mercury before it is turned into gold by
Cleopatra the Alchemist in an alembic. Blood.
 

More blood than reasonable. The seven feet of large
intestine in a horse. The seventy feet of small
intestine in a horse. Passwords. Several hints.
 

What was the name of your first pet?
A zoo. The pipistrelles in the batcave of the zoo.
The sounds they see with their ears.

 
 
 
**
 
 
 

Safe and Sound
 
after Christopher Kondrich
 

My system is armed, so I can
remove my arms from my pockets,
and let my hands breathe, my hands
that partake in so much I have never
 

directly bequeathed upon them. I mother
my arms so carefully that the oilcloth
I clean them with grows a visage some
would like to call prophet, but
 

others would write off simply as smudge.
Choosing between the SimpliSafe
triggered by a central button capped
by a bright red exclamation point
 

and the LoudBlaster HomeSiren,
I choose to inhale powdered toad
secretions once a month because its
tested that it will keep me happy, because
 

every system should be tested before being
fully implemented on a larger scale. Not
I’ll, not despair over the raccoon who set
the sirens off, gifting me my daily portion
 

of threat I suck down like a communion
wafer. Because a man says to the universe,
Sir I exist, I must make it clear that men
are mostly superfluous according to my
 

nutritionist which is why she says I keep
getting sick. I agree. I’m as not needed
as the next guy, knock-kneed, a hack-
neyed toadlicker. The system plunges through
 

the heavy clay, but I do not wish to call on
the horses of disaster quite yet. I still
have miles left to go down this hallway
my arms trace the walls of. Somebody
 

tell the poets all the death is happening two
states away, and that to turn a toad back into
a man with a kiss is just another endless vamp
I’d like to put an end to if my happiness weren’t on
 

the line. If my safety. My nutritionist,
administering to me what she can scrape from
the animals, without scaring them away, says
the shapes I will see are made of pure
 

understanding. There is no need to be
scared. But I have too many arms in my pockets to feel
safe. I should move my arms back to the safe
because even they are scared. A toad running its tongue
 

along a shard of glass tastes all the latent human
hidden within it. The sand some child labored over
only to watch it cower under a wave and disappear.
The child signed its name because it is said that it is nice
 

to own your labor unlike the legion of statues unearthed
from under antiquity; authorless and armless. Venus, the God
of understanding, question: would you like to borrow
these abacuses? They can get you all the way to ten, no further.

 
 
 
  
**

MATTHEW TUCKNER recently received his BA from Bennington College, where he worked as a Production and Editorial Assistant for Bennington Review. He also recently received the 2019 Green Prize for Poetry from the Academy of American Poets, selected by Rick Barot. His work has appeared in the Eunoia Review. He has received support for his fiction and poetry from the Roxbury Writers Residency, where he was an inaugural resident, the NYS Writers Institute, and the Summer Seminar for Writers at Sarah Lawrence College. He currently resides in Westchester, NY.

Stephen Ira


 

 

Tony Perkins at the Ice Capades

 
 

1.

a paparazzi

You’re looking straight
at me, away from Tab
who’s touching your arm
looking into your long
face, which is sweeter
than my lover’s, sweeter
than any other star
I photograph, sweeter
than the starlets’
flanking you and Tab
on either side. But—oh!
You’re angry with me,
Tony, for trying to see you
and with the studio
for setting up this Ice

Capade against the rumors.
It smudges your face
into sharpness Tab
cannot ease out. Your feet
are up, your hands are on
his arm, you’re saying, “We
are being photographed—”
 

 

 

 
2.

Tab Hunter

Why didn’t you realize
when we arrived?
I saw the fellow,
and Norma’s enthralled.
She’ll overwhelm the shot
or I will.  I will
not even touch you,
only reach as agents
do and then pull back
or shake, spread fingers
red, extended, “This
son of a bitch, here—”
Would we be sent here
if someone out there
didn’t need to see us
at the Ice Capades together?
 
 
 

 

 
3.

Jan Chaney

Follies, actually,
The Ice Follies, Los
Angeles. Off brand
but I adored it.
All night they axelled,
double, triple axelled
in skirts too small to flair.
Their open muscles
reminded me of baseball

and the player Tab
had played before, who
Tony was playing
then. One on TV
and one on the screen.
I barely watched them,
that night or ever.
I knew why I
was there, a privilege
few alive have.
And I didn’t know
that Tab would be mocked
into worklessness soon,
like me, and Tony
lose his beauty.
 
 
 
 

 
4.

Norma Moore

The whole time I put my face on he fingered the small of his back. Twice he stopped, to zip me up and to (unusual) take Seconal.  At last I asked. And as if practiced he turned his back and lifted his shirt. I loved its drape. In the last decent place, straight in the landscape’s dip, a little slit.  A coin of glass.  He pulled the lens a little way out. When he saw I was frightened he told me, “Most of us get something installed.”

 
 
 
  
 
 
 
  
 
 
 
**
 
 
  
 
  
 

 
The Knowers
 
 
  
  
 
 

 
Time Cube was a personal web page and cult internet phenomenon, founded in 1997 by the self-proclaimed “wisest man on earth”, the late Otis Eugene “Gene” Ray. It outlined a theory of everything. Gene Ray died in 2015, and his domain expired shortly after, but devoted fans have resurrected the site in mirror form.
 
 
 
 
  
  
 
 
 
  
 
 
 
 
 
 
 

Time is cubic because it has a front, back, top, bottom, and two sides. I have him the way that I do because the two of you did something different. He did good and bad things because that time was different. He does good and bad things. You and I know something nobody knows. 4 CORNER DAYS, CUBES 4 QUAD EARTH. No 1 Day God. I don’t know about Time Cube because it is useful. I don’t know. I don’t know you.

 
 
 
 
  
  
 
 
 
  
 
 
  
  
 
 
 
 

I walk towards him through water, the first time. I almost turn back, but I put a stop to my putting of stops, and that’s when I run into you. I walk towards him through water. I do it again. And again, and a lot. You do too. This all happened in order. That doesn’t matter. If this were happening in order, it would be over by now.

 
 
 
 
  
  
 
 
 
  
 
 
  
  
 

 
 
 
 

Belly Button Logic Works. When Does Teenager Die? Adults Eat Teenagers Alive, No Record Of Their Deaths. Did you have any Time Cube tattoos? I think I saw in a picture. “Sex Is Suffering” was one one tattoo I saw. Is sex suffering? This seems important, important to know. You don’t even have ears anymore (like plenty of people) or a tongue (imagine a life with a tongue!) or tattoos. “I’m serious about sex.” I think that’s what “Sex Is Suffering” means. “I might not seem so, but I am.” I was told, actually, you weren’t serious—ever. Seems likely. I’m sorry. I’m desperate and know it and know it.

 
 
 
 
  
  
 
 
 
  
 
 
  
  
 

 
 
 
 

One person wakes up a desire and gets help from the person who has it. Another one finds the desire. He walks out there as far as he can. One person wakes up a desire, walks away from it for hours, burns to death. In that order. A third person is not a transsexual. At the same time. In order. One person burns to death for no reason except for the world. Indignity of death by unrelated world. What I have avoided. A third person is not a transsexual. Any third person, impossible. One person wakes up a desire. And you have a question, I hope.

 
 
 
 
 
  
  
 
 
 
  
 
 
  
  
 
 
 
 

Even when the bride’s a stranger, I see all my friends at the trans woman funeral. I see yours—they’re mine too. Time to not foul (already wrong) bible time. I go to tend grief and find mine. “She’d never have gotten on hormones without him, she always said that.” It was like they all said it at once. What he refused to want someone to say. She was always saying it. If we were saying what people should say, and if he weren’t one of the people, he’d want me to say it. I know and I know.

 
 
 
 
 
  
  
 
 
 
  
 
 
  
  
 
 
 
 

A third person is not a transsexual, another one is with the third on an abandoned beach and loves him and loves him and asks how desire began. And that third kind answers how the third kind always answers—Is it as bad as it feels, though I like it? They always tell the story of their lives. And I was happy then, when he was telling me about you. How did it begin? Maybe a Genius knew Math to achieve my Cubic Wisdom. He isn’t like the rest of them, but he does the things they do. He does them slowly. The eyes of the flounder fish were relocated, why were yours relocated?

 
 
 
 
 
  
  
 
 
 
  
 
 
  
  
 
 
 
 

Never heard from him about holding your hand or not holding your hand. I heard it from your lover and I held it all day long. Heard and heard it and carried. While I comforted him later, I was carrying. And elsewhere I was on his arm, all over places at so many parties. Sorry. Sorry. In silence, what I carry, I carry on water. Something your lover said when I said mine was sad. I understand. Would I say much, in silence, on water? She would understand what it means. How it’s all that he means. How he’s all that it means, or means, or means.

 
 
 
 
 
 
  
  
 
 
 
  
 
 
  
  
 
 
 

Do you know Time Cube? I said. And he, naturally, said no. I pulled up the new mirror—the real one is gone. Nothing happened. Well, it either gets you or not. The ONEist educated with their flawed 1 eye perspective. This third person, he tried to actually read it. This is the place within which we wouldn’t say much. And he wouldn’t like it; we’d have that together. When I am good to him is it for you? If it’s true, then it’s useless. I was good to you, in the water. I did try. Is that sad? Do you think that is sad?

 
 
 
 
 
  
  
 
 
 
  
 
 
  
  
 
 
 
 

I am outside of what you have with him. You are outside of what I have with him. He is outside of what we have together. If it’s true that we have it together. If this very old impulse is real. And what we have together is not what either has with him—we are strangers. What lives between us does because of what we are instead of who. We thought we’d have more time between the water and the words. I am a Knower of 4 corner simultaneous 24 hour Days that occur within a single rotation of Earth.

 
 
  
  
  
 
 

**

STEPHEN IRA is a writer and performer. His work has appeared or is forthcoming in FENCE, Poetry, and other venues. He is a co-founder and co-editor of Vetch: A Magazine of Trans Poetry and Poetics. Ira has performed his solo work at venues like La Mama, directed several short plays, and originated roles in new works by Maxe Crandall and Bernadette Mayer. In 2013, he was a Lambda Literary Fellow. He studied poetry at the Iowa Writers’ Workshop.

Elizaveta Shneyderman


Banu Cennetoğlu at SculptureCenter

I almost missed it: a photo of two white men sandwiched between an advertisement for Turkish rugs and the latest soccer score. One man sports a red fedora and red tee; the other has glasses and a shirt boasting the Creative Commons logo. The two stand in front of a laptop adorned with stickers. Squinting, I make out stickers that read I <3 the Internet and FIGHT FOR YOUR DIGITAL RIGHTS! effacing the Apple logo. The only German word I decipher in the accompanying caption translates as “journalists.” Next to the image is an unusually frigid weather report, suggesting that I am a time-traveler gawking at the anachronism, making sense of the misinformation before me.

The clipping is part of a 142-volume bound compilation of all newspapers published in a country in a single day—in this case, (11.08.2015) in Wolfsburger Allgemeine. The newspaper project features prominently in Banu Cennetoğlu’s solo exhibition at the SculptureCenter, with a devoted reading room set up for the viewer-time-traveler. The volumes vary in size and scale depending on the country, but their methodology is clear: no single viewer can comprehend the work in its entirety. Instead, what one encounters is a particularity—a happenstance relationship between text and image (the journalists I spotted occupy a tiny speck of the German compilation, glanced over entirely by chance.) The optical clash is at times glossily banal (German Creative Commons advocates), at times painfully foundational (disproportionate numbers of scantily clad femmes across time and space). The encounter is mystifying, opening onto a greater theme embedded in the exhibition: information overload and the kind of looking that accompanies it.

The newspapers become a single image, prompting a viewer to adopt an ethnographic type of looking. A story is woven in the margins, the negative space between bylines, and the offbeat advertisements aggressively spliced into them. Images become the indexical traces of what once happened in the world, including detritus ordinarily left out—rubbish, spam, hyperbole. Flipping through a large quantity of the compilations sees certain themes emerge. The unsurprising indulgence of sexist base tropes; malicious advertising strategies based on racial profiling; political cartoons with remarkably violent imagery —the tropes are possible to see when looking en masse. The patchwork of images frozen in time read as cinematic stills, while the subtended text performs the role of resuscitation, quietly animating them. Newspaper-as-viewing-apparatus through which to see many worldly sectors—advertising, headlines, weather, scores, solicitation—as interrelated.

 
 
19_01_11_SC_Banu_0214
Installation view, Banu Cennetoğlu, SculptureCenter, New York, 2019. Photo: Kyle Knodell
 
 

The leather-bound volumes which make up the newspaper project pay homage to the existing depth of information left unprocessed. Some countries are better represented than others; together, they allude to the breadth of international coverage and the fact of its distribution. They are the negative space of the encounter, the spam cast aside of the spectacular newscycle. The classic hierarchy of information is evacuated by the sex workers, Turkish rug advertisements, off-cycle weather reports, and German journalists. The volumes hardly account for five cubic square feet, and yet, they are inexhaustible. The combined visitation history of viewers of the exhibition would still not be enough to piece together the entirety of its contents.

Cennetoğlu’s other works play with this triangulation of forces—artwork, archive, and indexicality. At the heart of the exhibition is a colossal work occupying most of the gallery space, consisting of the artist’s entire personal archive. Entitled 1 January 1970 – 21 March 2018 · H O W B E I T · Guilty feet have got no rhythm · Keçiboynuzu · AS IS · MurMur · I measure every grief I meet · Taq u Raq · A piercing Comfort it affords · Stitch · Made in Fall · Yes. But. We had a golden heart. · One day soon I’m gonna tell the moon about the crying game (2018), the work is an unedited stream of data. Playing on a 128-hour loop—again, impossible to view in one-sitting—Yes. But. We had a golden heart (the titles comprising the work are interchangeable with one another) moves through film, video, and stills (and in doing so informally indexes the history of visual recording devices in the 2000s.) Watching the archive is similar to the experience of leafing through the newspaper volumes. It is possible to encounter a long loop of children’s toys belonging to the artist’s daughter or a violent clash between police in riot gear and protestors, but it is unclear where in the five-day loop either stands.

The possibility of a forceful juxtaposition presents itself again, absorbing two unrelated images into one overarching look. Perhaps the disorientation is intentional—more akin to the experience of actualized violence and the way in which it disenfranchises its enemies. The difference here, of course, is in positionality: there is no comparing the voyeurism of an exhibition with a body at real risk. A viewer stands at a remove from the violence on display, literally and figuratively (the projection requires a good deal of distance to get into view). Discomfort ushers forth from watching the events unfold in a collegial space. You don’t know what you’ll get: either real people staving away real violence from the purported safety of a rooftop or flitting images of colorful playthings. Either an outdated weather report or an image of a military strike sitting side-by-side a pastel illustration of a swan swaddling a lake. The transitions are dizzying, an uncomfortable reminder of the temporal lag between the images’ capture and their presentation.

 
 
19_01_11_SC_Banu_0085
Banu Cennetoğlu, 1 January 1970 – 21 March 2018 · H O W B E I T · Guilty feet have got no rhythm · Keçiboynuzu · AS IS · MurMur · I measure every grief I meet · Taq u Raq · A piercing Comfort it affords · Stitch · Made in Fall · Yes. But. We had a golden heart. · One day soon I’m gonna tell the moon about the crying game, 2018, installation view, SculptureCenter, New York, 2019. Video, images, sound; 22 parts, 46,685 files. 128 hours and 22 minutes. Metadata: 687 pages, 11.7 x 16.5 inches (279 mm x 432 mm). Commissioned and produced by Chisenhale Gallery, London. Courtesy the artist and Rodeo, London/Piraeus. Photo: Kyle Knodell
 
 

Through this contradictory valence of images, what comes into view is images and their mediation. Sight is attached and reattached by proxy. Horror becomes invisible enough to make its counterpart visible. Advertisements that digital-era eyes are trained to glaze over suddenly appear as monoliths. Equivocation is set up by the terms of engagement, in the unsuspecting time of infinitely different viewing experiences. It is for these reasons that it is not magnitude on display, but the chance encounter.

This is a familiar mechanism. With the advent of targeted advertising, it is becoming easier to accidentally censor what information comes in and what information stays out. The algorithmic choreography of targeted advertising and Google-backed surveillance renders the space of viewing quantifiable. Neuromarketing claims to understand its users through (nonconsensually obtained) data, which poses the risk of discrimination, stigmatization, and coercion. And just this past year, AI proved its capacity to auto-generate a convincing stream of fake news, suggesting the ubiquity of misinformation to come.

The superficially coherent image-stream of Guilty feet have got no rhythm (2018) mimics the discriminatory mechanism of targeted advertising, only in reverse. Cennetoğlu’s work is not concerned with the free flow of information, but in the capacity for violence hidden in the attention span of contemporary constituents. Because the works operate squarely within the realm of art, the awkward voyeurism is theoretically easier to brush off. It is an uncomfortable reminder of the training in spectatorial passivity undergone in the digital-era.

Another work in the exhibition, What is it that you are worried about? (2014), further allegorizes this spectatorial encounter. Staged between the newspaper reading room and the monolithic archive, the eponymous What is it that you are worried about? is etched onto a mirror confronting the viewer. The work divides the two rooms and is thus impossible to avoid, ensuring its question is posed multilaterally. It mirrors the unending image-stream of A piercing Comfort it affords back to the viewer, whose own reflection sits side-by-side Cennetoğlu’s moving image repository. The mirror ensures that the digital stockpile is inescapable, trapped by an act of exhibitionism on the part of the viewer. Like the unsolicited and algorithmic mechanisms by which content reaches us, What is it that you are worried about? Draws attention to the pleasure of watching someone else’s life unfold in the same space as a body doing the consuming. The data cannot be escaped—it hits you on all sides, in front and behind, in sight of your own avatar.

 
 
19_01_11_SC_Banu_0200+202
Installation view, Banu Cennetoğlu, SculptureCenter, New York, 2019. Photo: Kyle Knodell
 
 

Art historian Julian Stallabrass coined the term “data sublime” to describe the subjects of contemporary art which take data as their aesthetic linchpin. Typically manifested as large-scale displays of data, the data sublime has the power to elicit fear of data itself by denying the conceptual tools required to make sense of it.[1] Stallabrass contends that, “The sublime is often used for conservative purposes: to frame or manage a common social fear (of the masses, quite often, but also more recently of data itself) and offer it up for consumption.” In Cennetoğlu’s case, data is presented as a mechanism which indexes the wide swath of feeling-states a singular life is privy to: pain, hostility, comeuppance, indifference, triumph, birth. There is no easy way into the abyss—what you see is what you get. And what you get, from reading room to large-scale installation, is a transmission model for speaking in the void.

In providing the viewer with a spectacle of data—chaotically complex, immense in scope—Cennetoğlu exploits the notion that putting data on display, no matter how pure and guileless, is the same as indexing truth. Because there is far too much material to make sense of, a reader is left to decipher the repository on their terms and without guidance. But all those featured in 1 January 1970 – 21 March 2018—her friends, her daughter, the curators and museum directors involved—are visualized through Cennetoğlu’s oeuvre, flattening the looking into one of bias. One wonders what that means for the subjects involved, whose ability to act as free-form social agents is superseded by their presentation as raw material for viewer interpretation. Like the feeling of scrolling through endless streams of online spectacle, indifference is born out of abundance. At risk here is the preservation of passivity, severing the connection between images and their veracity.

All digital media is indexical, if we bear in mind what level of materiality they are indexing.[2] From the imperfect flow of electrons to the social networks in which they exist, digital media cannot hide or transpose the mechanisms that constitute them. In Cennetoğlu case, indexicality is an unabashed window into subjectivity—her subjectivity. It is access to emotional rhythms eking out of still images; flashes of a banal and intimate private life; the imprint of loss on the surface; an unruly tangle of montage. Distanced from the fantasy of capturing truth, Cennetoğlu’s indexicality itself indexes the collapse of objectivity. It is as though the moving images—diegetic in their presentation—slink into the newfangled territory of the non-diegetic. They are the fabricated debris of images occurring outside of the story-world, a soundtrack the protagonists are oblivious to.

The real draw of the exhibition is the idea that raw data can even be made to be “on view.” The disjunction between, on the one hand, material that suggests Banu is a cultural producer and, on the other, rioting and violence, thematizes the mechanisms of abstraction that “truth” is subject to. Metadata can be made of the chaos of life. Pain is an ingredient of statistical measure. A psychedelic juxtaposition can be more real because it feels more real. An intimate encounter with the artist’s daughter or the blase and self-reflexive conversations with curators responsible for exhibition’s fruition: a mimicry of the harder-to-parse mechanisms of life that do not easily parlay into algorithm, and which cannot easily be measured. It’s a disorienting view into the register of reverse-surveillance, where time capsules offer data without interpretation. But as with surveillance, the vibrating danger of material to be used against you still hangs in the air. Trust becomes a factor inherent in the interface with material.

 
 
19_01_11_SC_Banu_0039
Banu Cennetoğlu, 1 January 1970 – 21 March 2018 · H O W B E I T · Guilty feet have got no rhythm · Keçiboynuzu · AS IS · MurMur · I measure every grief I meet · Taq u Raq · A piercing Comfort it affords · Stitch · Made in Fall · Yes. But. We had a golden heart. · One day soon I’m gonna tell the moon about the crying game, 2018, installation view, SculptureCenter, New York, 2019. Video, images, sound; 22 parts, 46,685 files. 128 hours and 22 minutes. Metadata: 687 pages, 11.7 x 16.5 inches (279 mm x 432 mm). Commissioned and produced by Chisenhale Gallery, London. Courtesy the artist and Rodeo, London/Piraeus. Photo: Kyle Knodell
 
 

In this way, the works on display each have an air of speculative realism, where non-representation becomes their representational mode. The newspaper project literally condenses a day into a bound volume, whereas A piercing Comfort it affords surveys years in the life of Cennetoğlu. Dictated by a politics of production, the particular abstraction on view veers into whimsical territory. Because the material is presented in the realm of art and under the umbrella of an institution, the ‘raw’ data reads closer to a manipulated image than to evidence or document. I wonder where this self-presentation makes room for self-criticality.

It is precisely the collapse of artist, institution, and archive which puts into view not only the futility of ‘total’ information, but the danger of its fruition. Cennetoğlu sets up material inundation purposefully, in order to address the deeper structural concerns regarding the sanctity of information and the proliferation of images. But this also sets up the possibility for a violent and indifferent viewing experience, where reflecting on ‘pure’ metadata comes with the possibility of complacency or, worse yet, equivocation. Hal Foster has argued that even critical ethnographic projects can stray “from collaboration to self-fashioning, from a decentering of the artist as cultural authority to a remaking of the other in neo-primitivist guise.”[3] Though the exhibition has less to do with Cennetoğlu than with the general lack of safeguards against the sanctity of truth, we nonetheless have a responsibility to be aware of a shift into sublime. Otherwise, a trap: the inscrutability leaves a viewer to stitch their own story, whether or not they have the tools to decipher it.

 
 
Author’s Note: Banu Cennetoğlu’s solo exhibition was on view at SculptureCenter, Long Island City, New York, from January 14 to March 25, 2019.
 
 
 
 

[1] Julian Stallabrass, “Negative Dialectics in the Google Era: A Conversation with Trevor Paglen”, October 138, 2011, 3.

[2] Laura Marks, Touch: Sensuous Theory and Multisensory Media, Minneapolis, MN: University of Minnesota Press, 2002, 190.

[3] Hal Foster, The Return of the Real: The Avant-garde at the End of the Century, Boston, MA: The MIT Press, 1996.

 
 

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ELIZAVETA SHNEYDERMAN is a writer and curator based in New York. Her writing has appeared in Artforum, BOMB Magazine, The Brooklyn Rail, and Rhizome, among others. She is the author of Exchange Variation with Adriana Ramić (Wendy’s Subway, 2019). She has curated exhibitions at White Columns Online, Hunter East Harlem Gallery, Fastnet, and Mana Contemporary as part of Rail Curatorial Projects. She is Co-Founder and Editor of Natasha, a magazine of new nonfiction writing.

Alina Gregorian


Films Boasting of Tehran
 

Here we see streets lined with apricots; museums measured for sequined garments. Patches through gilas-filled wallpaper. Everything smells like roses and nay. There we see monuments of yesterday. Carpentry and figurative speech remind us of oud players marching down the boulevard. Take me back to the khiabon, where I once had a peach on a plate. Where I saw you zereshk sheep into the grove. When it was summer. Now winter is casting its glare, asking us to settle down.

 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
Tangerines Dipped in Salt  

Horizon is a kind of gradient I can only naz to understand. There are almonds in the way you address the area of a rectangle. Purple is as sphere as you want it to be. And we can’t be gilas to suggest the opposite of laughter is light. We walk towards ajeel, and we know it. We furnish living rooms and paint book covers to khatar the woods. We funnel wind with our hands while whispering oddities. My favorite way to listen to the news is in a language I don’t understand. There’s an egg in the air. Let’s use adjectives to appear more real. The metaphor is yallah there’s a metaphor. Staring at this website like it will tell me something. Like it will bend towards me without refreshing. Like it will convince me to cut my hair. The sun sets in the mooshin. Handful of almonds. What are almonds.

 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
What We Call Cantaloupe, Is What You Call Orange

This kind of energy belongs to those who walk with felt hats. It is a continuous process, this unraveling mind. Giving shevid to the motion allows you to contemplate the most precious portions. Even the seagulls agree: we desire more than our fingers can type. When you say chaman three different ways. You are contemplating an ajeel evening. Even when the stars dim, we are frantically preparing for the night. And in the morning, we are preparing for the sun.

 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 

Author’s Note: The following poems feature Persian words I learned growing up (the Persian words are transliterated and italicized within the text). Until recently, I thought they were Armenian, my first language. My parents are from Iran, so these words are a part of their vocabulary.

 
 
 

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ALINA GREGORIAN is a poet and artist. She is the author of Flags for Adjectives (Diez) and Navigational Clouds (Monk Books). Her first gallery exhibition, Talk to Me in Parsley and Tambourines: Artists of the Armenian Diaspora, was held at Babycastles in 2018.

Charlotte Bonjour & Clara Lou

sonopho_02_light
 
 
 
Questions for Admission
 
 
In the last six months, have you experienced any of the following phenomena?
Option A: une surface elastique
Option B: the hour of the bacteria
Option C: a blown up dot
Option D: des gens agés, qui jouent à la pétanque dans le square
 
 
In the last six months, which of the following has been causing you the most problems?
Option A: foliage
Option B: architecture
Option C: fragmentation
Option D: melting
 
 
What is your favorite material?
Option A: cardboard
Option B: sky
Option C: plaster
Option D: grid
 
 
In the last six months, have you experienced any of the following phenomena?
Option A: the curve
Option B: beige clair
Option C: the planets
Option D: l’ombre
 
 
In the last six months, which of the following has been causing you the most problems?
Option A: le fer
Option B: gravitation
Option C: E. coli
Option D: turquoise pale
 
 
Which year are we in?
Option A: 1839
Option B: 1928
Option C: 2008 or 2009
Option D: L’an 207,778
 
 
sonopho_detail2_light
 
 
sonopho_light
 
 

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CHARLOTTE BONJOUR oscillates between fascination and mistrust for imaging technologies. Sometimes she swaps pictures for sound and bends circuits. She used her best English to write with Clara.
 
CLARA LOU is an artist who works with sound, text and performance. At the moment, she is auditioning international cities in which to live, welcoming any input. She speaks medium French and big English.

Nora Claire Miller



nora claire miller tagvverk submission-3nora claire miller tagvverk submission-4nora claire miller tagvverk submission-5

 
 
 
 
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nora claire miller tagvverk submission-6
 
 
 
 
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nora claire miller tagvverk submission-7
 
 
 
 

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NORA CLAIRE MILLER is a poet and playwright from New York City. Nora’s poems have appeared in APARTMENT, the Brooklyn Review, DMQ Review, DecomP, and elsewhere. Nora earned an MFA from the Iowa Writers’ Workshop.