Fragility
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A Business Jet sits at the end of the runway at RAF Northolt about to take off into a sky split by sunrays. The runway extension in the foreground is apparently frangible and is designed to break up on impact to stop any over running aircraft.
This Gulfstream taxied to the end of Runway 25 and did a U-Turn to get ready to take off. But with the air ambulance on approach it was told to taxy back down the runway and circle back on the taxy way off to the right to try again. Biz jets like this make up the majority of traffic at RAF Northolt with Military and VIP traffic (both British and overseas) making up the rest. The area in the foreground is the frangible overrun designed to break up and bring any wayward aircraft to a halt
"These are 12x12 inch openings in the solid fence that allow a {construction} site to be viewed from the outside of the fence, and there shall be a minimum of one or one for every 25 feet of footage. Viewing panels are installed between three and six feet above ground level and are blocked by transparent plexiglass or other non-frangible material."
"Color. All solid fence installations shall be painted hunter green." nyc.gov
by Twisty Maurice, Misty Post and Therese Gietler
At its core, ‘Frangible Chromatophores’ embodies the concept of ‘breakable color.’ ‘Frangible’ signifies a structure’s susceptibility to break upon impact. In this installation, the pods epitomize fragility and breakability, serving as metaphors for the vulnerability inherent in our ecosystem. Much like the delicate dance within coral reefs, the piece draws parallels between the resilience and fragility of the natural world.
Paired with ‘chromatophores,’ the cells responsible for coloration in various animals, particularly prevalent in cephalopods, the artwork explores the fragility inherent in both its artistic structure and our ecosystem.
The code of the lights was explicitly chosen to replicate the constant breathing of the ocean’s waves.
The recurring patterns of hexagons, chromatophores, and sea stars are found throughout nature in plants, animals, and elements. Once these patterns embedded themselves, the artists saw them replicated everywhere. These patterns are the very core of life.
Frangible Chromatophores is funded in part by the Regional Arts & Culture Council.
pdxwlf.com/experience/frangible-chromatophores/
10 February 2024
Frangible Chromatophores by Twisty Maurice, Misty Post, and Therese Gietler; at the Portland Winter Light Festival February 2-10, 2024. World Trade Center, Portland, Oregon i13p7279
Suttree in the woods was surprised to find small flowers still. He fell into silent studies over the delicate loomwork in the moss. Annular forms of lichens fiery green that sprawled across the stones like tiny jade volcanoes. The scalloped fungus that ledged old rotted logs, flangeous mammary growths with a visceral consistency and pale indianpipes in pulpy clusters among the debris of humus and rich decay and mushrooms with serrate and membraneous soffits where under toads are reckoned to siesta. Or elves, he said. In breeks of kingscord, shirts paned up of silk tailings, no color like the rest. A curious light lay in the forest. He was squatting in the rich and murky earth, the blanket about his shoulders. He wondered could you eat the mushrooms, would you die, do you care. He broke one in his hands, frangible, mauvebrown and kidneycolored. He'd forgotten he was hungry.
-- excerpt from Suttree, by novelist Cormac McCarthy
blogged at Land of Little Rain, with links to Cormac McCarthy sites
Developed from the P-39 Airacobra in the latter part of WW2, the Bell P-63 Kingcobra was never used by the USAAF in combat, although some were employed for fighter training. The Soviet Union received nearly 2,500 and it also served with the Free French forces.
This P-63E example at the USAF Museum in Dayton is displayed in the unusual colour scheme of an RP-63A, which were known as "pinball" aircraft. Aerial gunnery students fired at these manned target aircraft using 30 cal lead and plastic frangible machine gun bullets which disintegrated harmlessly against the target's external armor plating. Special instruments sent impulses to red lights in the nose of the "pinball" aircraft, causing them to blink when bullets struck the plane. Who'd have thought it?!
#butterfly #papillon #orange #nature #closeup #macro #naturelover #butterfly_ir #insectguru #macro_capture #igclub_butterfly #kings_insect #ip_insects #terrabotanica #angers #broken #frangible #wildlife
15/52
Have had so many issues with my laptop/photoshop/lightroom.. not even funny.
tryna catch up.
taken in florida.
Model: Myself
Losing too is still ours; and even forgetting
still has a shape in the kingdom of transformation.
When something's let go of, it circles; and though we are
rarely the center
of the circle, it draws around us its unbroken, marvelous
curve.
by Rainer Maria Rilke
texture by .. skeletalmess.
This 10km tunnel was completed in 1928 and connected the Denver area to Utah and the Western United States by tunneling through the Continental Divide.
In the early 1980s the ventilation system was up-graded to three fans and associated duct work.
The pictured Gate House contains a large vertical-lift steel framed gate that seals the tunnel so that it can be pressurized. In this view it is closed. The door is counter-weighted and fail safes up in an emergency. The center of the door has a frangible panel that allows a train to break though it in the event that the gate does not rise.
Exhaust fans pull air from the west and are used to clear the air after a train has past. The 10km tunnel can be cleared of exhaust in about 10 minutes.
When an eastbound loaded freight train is passing through the tunnel slowly its own exhaust is pushed and pulled with it, so cooling fans are used to push the air westward allowing the locomotive to travel in clean air. Otherwise the crew would be asphyxiated and the diesel engine choked.
Anti-vampiric high velocity stake driver. Fires a 20mm, five inch long, frangible spike at over 1100 feet per second, with an effective range of around 250 yards.
Cristescu's weapon, the "Preot" (Priest), was selected by Romania's classified Afacerile Supranatural Agentiei (Supernatural Affairs Agency's) to serve as the weapon of its crisis response unit.
With vampires continuing to show an ever greater presence in Romania - and its neighboring nations as well - it became clear that a new kind of weapon was needed to fight the menace. Standard guns worked to weaken a vampire, but they still left the need for an up-close-and-personal stake to the ticker as the coup de grace. Cristescu's engineers provided a very simple, very effective, very big solution.
Since the Preot's introduction, vampire attacks upon the unknowing populace have begun to diminish in number, though one can't help but wonder if the vampires are not just biding their time and devising a new angle of assault.
Give me odorous at sunrise a garden of beautiful flowers where I can walk undisturbed.
~ Walt Whitman
Engineers and technicians at NASA’s Marshall Space Flight Center in Huntsville, Alabama, recently installed a key component called the frangible joint assembly onto the adapter that connects the core stage to the upper part of NASA’s SLS (Space Launch System) rocket. The cone-shaped stage adapter, called the launch vehicle stage adapter, will be part of the SLS mega rocket that will power NASA’s Artemis III mission to the Moon. The frangible joint sits atop the adapter and operates as a separation mechanism. The frangible joint is designed to break apart upon command, allowing the upper part of the rocket, NASA’s Orion spacecraft, and the crew inside Orion to quickly separate from the SLS core stage and adapter. Frangible joint assemblies are widely used across the space industry in a variety of crewed and uncrewed spacecraft to efficiently separate fairings or stages during launch, during ascent, in orbit and during payload deployment. The stage adapter used for Artemis III is set to be the last of its kind as SLS evolves into a larger and more powerful configuration for future Artemis missions, beginning with Artemis IV. The adapter is fully assembled at Marshall by NASA and lead contractor Teledyne Brown, which is also based in Huntsville.
SLS is part of NASA’s backbone for deep space exploration, along with Orion and the Gateway in orbit around the Moon, and commercial human landing systems. SLS is the only rocket that can send Orion, astronauts, and supplies to the Moon in a single launch.
Image credits: NASA/Sam Lott
#NASA #NASAMarshall #sls #spacelaunchsystem #nasasls #exploration #rocket #artemis
.50 cal magnetically assisted anti-biological gun.
"Guaranteed to put down your neighbourhood abomination, or your money back!"
- Informal advertisement from GC Kinetics.
A high-power sidearm jointly developed by GC Kinetics, Archwell Defense, and Barton Precision Industries (with GC spearheading the project), at the behest of the International Security and Defense Force (ISDF).
The rising threats of humanoid autonomous combat systems (HACS) saw the development of anti-HACS weapons being carried out on a massive scale by many arms manufacturers. The MAG-50 is one of many weapons produced from this surge, featuring a revolutionary armor-piercing frangible round.
Due to the HACS' ability to withstand an immense amount of damage courtesy of experimental armor, accelerated regeneration, extensive use of pain inhibitors and several other factors, the aforementioned round was designed to neutralize most (if not all) inherent advantages within a single strike.
The .50 cal. APFN-EMADS (Armor Piercing Fragmenting Necro-toxin, Electro-Magnetically Assisted Discarding Sabot) round deals with the HACS enhanced combat abilities in three phases: First, the primary armor piercing module punches through most conventional anti-ballistic armor thanks to an increased muzzle velocity (courtesy of the magnetically powered barrel). Next, upon reaching the optimal location for fragmentation, the round ejects eight shards, which, in conjunction with the primary module, greatly increases the chances of striking a vital area (such as the heart or brain) - the shards themselves possess excellent yawing cavitation to maximize damage dealt. Finally, once the shards have settled, a necro-toxin is released from the primary module, inhibiting natural healing factors and generally making the target more susceptible to conventional fire.
Since the rounds do not rely on gunpowder to propel each round, the MAG-50 boasts excellent recoil control, which makes follow up shots easy. However, due to the size of each round, magazine capacity is limited to just eight rounds.
Other features include a match barrel, illuminated sights, and a laser aiming module.
Coyote, black-billed magpies, and common ravens comprise three major components of the typical scavenging guild you will find in the Oregon High Desert. These species along with bald and golden eagles remove the majority of the available carrion from the landscape throughout the cold months when obligate scavengers (turkey vultures) are not present because they migrate out of the region seasonally. All scavenging species are extremely vulnerable to secondary poisoning from any number of contaminants, including lead fragments from frangible lead hunting ammunition.
Development of the system began in 1975 with Holland-Signaal (now Thales Nederland) working with General Dynamics, which supplied the GAU-8 gun. A prototype, the EX-83 was first demonstrated to the Royal Netherlands Navy in 1979.
In 2012 the Dutch ministry of defense announced that the Goalkeeper systems in use by the Netherlands Navy will receive radar upgrades, mechanical improvements, new high-precision frangible ammunition and a new electro-optical tracking system. Also the system's surface mode will be improved to counter high speed boats and fast attack craft. These upgrades will make the system more capable to defend ships against the latest threats such as modern anti-ship missiles, more effective in littoral environments and less vulnerable to malfunctions. It also expands the life of the system to at least 2025. The first of 16 systems will be upgraded and tested by Thales Nederland, the others at the naval base in Den Helder.
The frangible collection.
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Typical annealed 1.5 million receiver, as rebuilt about 1952, bearing an 8-51 SA barrel.
There is some indication the excessive hardness (brittleness) of the original heat treat process, effectively an anachronism and mistaken specification, was discovered when sight teeth ("Splines") began to fragment early. Again: I have no idea how important that was in the decision to re-heat treat. A few say the term "anneal" is not quite correct. Yet, the controlled cooling was done to stretch the hardness level, spread out the toughness, and make the metal more durable and less frangible--which is the PURPOSE of annealing.
Another source says receivers "split". It is likely BOTH are correct.
This is closeup of the area, and there is pre-treatment fragmentation visible on the bottom "teeth".
This one is exceptionally good in terms of condition.
Copyrighted, all rights reserved.
Noun:
* S: (n) fragility, breakability, frangibleness, frangibility (quality of being easily damaged or destroyed)
* S: (n) fragility, delicacy (lack of physical strength)
(taken from WordNet Search)
Norfolk Southern NS 4096 GE AC44C6M DC to AC Rebuilt (C40-9), NS 1844 EMD SD70ACU DC to AC Rebuilt (SD70), and NS 1068 EMD SD70ACe Erie Heritage Unit with NS 224 a daily Louisville to St. Louis train waiting on 77J a Duke Energy coal train from the Charger mine at HBD-DED Ayrshire in Winslow, Indiana to pass. After 77J clears 224 will head to Princeton for a crew change on May 1, 2021.
HBD, Hot boxes or Hot Bearing Detectors are used to measure the temperature of the journal bearings of a train. They typically consist of two infrared eyes on each side of the tracks looking up at the train's bearings. They register the radiation from every journal that passes over them. If a bearing reaches the maximum temperature for safe travel, the detector will flag and count it as a defect.
DED, A column of cones sits across the whole width of the railroad (just like a cross tie) attached to a switch. Anything dragging from the train will hit this cone, thus pushing it back, thus breaking a contact. It then returns to its normal position to prepare for anything else that might be dragging under the train. The detector will register this action and flag it as a defect. Brittle bars are still used elsewhere, but still have to be repaired. Over time, dragging equipment detector's metal flaps need to be replaced because of extensive damage to them. Single use systems typically involve a frangible engagement bar or a stainless steel wire/braid strung between the rails and typically outside the rails as well, fastened to the sleepers. If the bar or braid is hit by something, it breaks, and the circuit break alerts that there is a dragging item. Auto-resetting systems typically involve a pivot pin system to allow the target to reset itself after a hit. Wikipedia, the free encyclopedia
A flower's appeal is in its contradictions - so delicate in form yet strong in fragrance, so small in size yet big in beauty, so short in life yet long on effect.
~ Adabella Radici
Handguns with safety slugs (frangibles) are the ideal home and street defense weapon. If you think you need an assault rifle you don't understand guns and self defense very well so probably shouldn't own one.
Another wonderful cutaway by Frank Munger, this time from a 1969 issue of "Flight International."
This guy is quickly becoming one of my favorite technical illustrators.
Key:
1 Docking probe
2 Capture latches
3 Capture latch release (LM side)
4 Probe shock-attenuator assembly
5 Telescoping cylinder (nitrogen pressure retraction)
6 Fixing strut
7 Docking latches
8 Forward heat-shield ejectors
(operate at 25,000ft)
9 Drogue parachute mortar, fires at 23,000ft, 16.5ft conical ribbon parachute slows capsule from 300 m.p.h. to 175 m.p.h.
10 Pilot parachute mortar (3 locations) fires at 10,000ft
11 Main landing parachute stowage (3 locations) uprighting bags stowed under 83.5ft ring-sail; parachute slows capsule to 22 m.p.h. on splash down
12 Main parachute riser
13 Sea-recovery cable
14 Dye-marker and swimmer umbilical
15 Launch-escape tower electrical receptacle
16 Pressure shell, bonded aluminium honeycomb; 0.25in to 1.5in thick
17 Brazed stainless-steel honeycomb; 0.5in to 2.5in thick
18 Aft heat shield, phenolic-filled epoxy ablative material; weight 3,000lb
19 Launch-escape tower frangible nuts
20 Flashing recovery beacon (deployed)
21 Outward-opening hatch; 29in x 34in; 15-latch, quick release; nitrogen pressure counter-balance system
22 Side windows; 13in x 13in
23 Rendezvous windows; 8in x 13in (inner pane tempered silica 0.25in thick, outer amorphous-fused silica 0.7in thick, reflective and infra-red and ultra violet filters)
24 CM rotation control
25 CM translation (thrust) control
26 Alternative (navigation) positions for control units
27 Negative pitch motor (all motors 93lb thrust)
28 Positive pitch motor
29 Negative roll motor
30 Positive roll motor
31 Negative yaw motor
32 Helium tank No 2 system (titanium)
33 Fuel tank No 1 system (titanium)
34 Fuel tank No 2 system
35 Servicing hatch
36 Auxiliary test panel
37 Optics stowage
38 Lighting control
39 Telescope
40 Sextant
41 Computer display and keyboard
42 Guidance and navigation control panel
43 Computer
44 Tape recorder
45 Food stowage
46 Medical kit
47 CO2 absorber stowage
48 Radiation-survey meter
49 Communication equipment
50 Flight-data file
51 Circuit breakers
52 Waste stowage
53 Waste-management panel
54 Battery circuit breakers
55 Power circuit breakers
56 Uprighting system panel
57 Docking sight (stowed)
58 Oxygen control
59 Cabin-pressure control
60 CO2 filters (lithium hydroxide and activated carbon)
61 Oxygen to umbilical supply control
62 Suit compressors (two)
63 Oxygen surge tank
64 Cabin pressure-control valve
65 Steam vent
66 Potable water tank
67 Glycol evaporator
68 Couch-support beam
69 Side stabiliser beam
70 Shock-absorber strut
71 Glassfibre cloth
72 Foot-pan
73 Foot-pan and seat folded down
74 Foot-pan and seat folded up
75 Adjustable head rest
76 Adjustable control support
77 Restraint straps
78 Personal kit and special kit stowage
79 Tool stowage
80 Sleep-restraint stowage
81 Pressure-suit stowage
82 Fire extinguisher, 8lb aqueous foam
83 Internal viewing mirror
84 Main display console
85 Control warning
86 Flight control
87 Audio control
88 SCS (stabilisation control system) power
89 RCS (reaction control system) monitor
90 Environmental control (see also 95)
91 Cryogenics
92 Service propulsion
93 Communications
94 Electrics
95 Environmental control
96 Gyro units
97 Accelerometer electronics
98 VHF scimitar antenna
99 VHF recovery beacon (deployed)
100 Camera stowage
The Vanguard can also take on the role as a fire support weapon. using Frangible Amour Piercing Discarding Sabot (FAPDS) rounds against ground targets, its range of effective fire is about 5 000 meters.
Frangible joints are breakable joints used to connect the spacecraft’s protective panels, called fairings, to the rocket. A structure is frangible if it breaks, distorts or yields on impact to minimize any hazard to the vehicle. The fairings protect the spacecraft from the changing pressures, temperatures and vibrations of the atmosphere surrounding the rocket during ascent. During ascent, about seven minutes into flight, the Orion spacecraft and launch vehicle will reach 135 miles in altitude. At this point, pyrotechnics will be used to break the frangible joints and separate the fairings, exposing the spacecraft to space.
This World War II fighter was developed from the P-39 Airacobra, which it closely resembles. The U.S. Army Air Forces never used the P-63 in combat, although some were used for fighter training. Many P-63s were exported as lend-lease aircraft; the Soviet Union received 2,456 and Free French forces obtained 300. Since the P-63's low-level performance was adequate, it was widely used by the Soviets for such missions as "tank busting." Bell produced 3,305 P-63s, 13 of which were P-63Es.
The most unusual P-63 variations were the RP-63A and RP-63C "pinball" versions developed late in WWII. Aerial gunnery students fired at these manned target aircraft using .30-cal. lead and plastic frangible machine gun bullets which disintegrated harmlessly against the target's external armor plating. Special instruments sent impulses to lights in the nose of the "pinball" aircraft, causing them to blink when bullets struck the plane.
The P-63E on display was donated by Bell Aircraft Corp. in 1958. Although it lacks the armor plate and other "pinball" features, it is marked and painted in the unusual color scheme of an RP-63A.
National Museum of the US Air Force
Wright-Patterson AFB
Dayton, OH
2005-2007
80" x48"
Colored pencil, modeling paste on wood panel
Below is a transcription of the handwritten words of GULA above:
Nothing fills me, satisfies me, binds my need. I hang bloated, an inflatable sack of gaseous inconsequence. Self-pity, self-loathing and disgust swell my perimeter. I consume everything and exhaust nothing. I have cannibalized all desire and packaged myself expandable. I am greed without anus. That which my sibling, Avaritia, cannot retain, I cannot expel. I am a single-holed hunger, a swollen toothless bladder of vast proportion My skin is moist with shit. I boil with the blessing of my punishment. Pity me. Pity me as I pity myself, with love and understanding. Let me devour your love. Afford me the sweets of your acceptance and loving understanding. Do not judge me repugnant and without merit. Enlarge me with your lack of judgement. Forsake punishment and retribution. I hang helpless of defense. Is there not some beauty in my dedication? A certain admiration for my capacity to retain? I have always been and will always be. As you swell my enormity with repetition, I will devour you generation upon layered generation; a vast compaction of obfuscation, a conspiracy of ignorance. Through your insatiable hunger and my infinite capacity, we will devour the earth. I require no change of diet. Repeat is the fare of the day and of all of the days. I am putrid with it and exalt in its exhilaration. The perfume of blood and shit expands my girth, gives measurement to my wastefulness. To eliminate unwelcome surprise or unpalatable experiment, let me list the menu: War—Only war—all else is a potpourri of surrogates and stuffing. Greed feeds me, expands my perimeter. I devour what he acquires. What he cannot retain, I contain. I am the reticule of avarice. Nothing escapes me save the stench of layered repetition. I hang heavy with it, crucified by consumption. Pity me. The menu never varies. I have no taste for it, but can stomach no other. In symbiotic stagnation, I serve my purpose with passive accumulation. Though what I hold is never used, the very weight of me is proof of our existence, our triangulation. Gula, Acedia, Avaritia. We three, in symbiotic triangulation, illustrate the entelechy of mankind; but it is I, only I, Gula, who is passive. I hang and I hold, absent of anus in constant and tractable expansion. A balloon of infinite compaction. My layered weight and weighted expansion is shaped and molded to the contours of war. I am what I eat: rape, torture, horror, suffering, torn flesh, burning flesh, rotten flesh...I am full of it, suppurated by it, hanging and twisting like a fragrant pudding. I am the right flank of Acedia, sloth, follower of dogma, ritual, and recipe, sleeper of dreamless sleep. It is Acedia who scribed the menu adding, perhaps, subtle variations depending on shifting taste and available condiments. Avaritia stuffs me like a goose’s gullet. Generation after generation after generation I have been crammed with the rot and spoils of war: Like carrion, works of art, raped and pillaged, putrefy my core. Screams and wailing waft my bowels. Base laughter and jeering fill the leaded chambers of my heart. I reek with piety and deceit, the stench of hypocrisy. I am stuffed to bursting—and yet I do not burst. My expansion is infinite—or so it seems. Acedia sustains me. In passivity I accept all things given. In suspension I hang heavy with the nothingness of belief. I accept all things. I accept all things save one: Absence. Absence is never proffered, never interred or contained. My expansion is secure. Contradiction hinders not my dedication. My crucifixion is assured...the ecstasy of my torment, self-hatred and pity, assured. What Avaritia feeds me suspends me, increases me, intensities my hunger. Greed feeds me and so I hang, swollen with self-satisfaction and contempt. All precious things are artifacts, man-made, artificial, indigestible—. I hang heavy with them. Precious ideas, precious objects, precious dogmas and manifestoes. I contain them all. Layer upon layer of them. Millennium upon millennium, I am bloated with their flatulence. Avaritia stuffs me with his plunder...Gods and rituals, jewels and gold, paintings and sculpture. Boundaries. Things. Manufactured values. Realities, gaseous and pervasive. Beliefs, metaphors, poetry. Greed feeds me, over-feeds me, stuffs me with illusion. I hang heavy in duplication. Stuffed with pretense, superstition, and lies. Only compassionate history forgives this gluttony, for it, too, lies within me. It is in me and of me and is me, for only history can contain the weight and volume of this layered repetition, this gluttony of repeat, this unchanging menu of greed. I am what I eat, the rotting spoils of masculine entelechy. But there are certain divertimeni, certain unexpected interludes of frivolity and license that lighten my bowels of the heavy wheat and potatoes of war. Though the menu never changes, the means of acquisition add flavor to my layering distension The Inquisition was one of Acedia’s finest diversions. Sincere, dedicated, passionate, it delivered unto me unselfishly, without pretension, expansion in the name of the salvation of souls. Ambitious, slothful Torquemada, in all the purity of Acedia’s sleep, delivered unto me a sumptuous feast of souls. There could be no greater fare than this. Gula eats, no matter who or what the provider. The layering proceeds without discrimination. War, holocausts, inquisitions, whatever guise the provider, whatever size the provision, Gula eats. My sin is accommodation, my distension, layered by Avaritia’s taking and Acedia’s slumber. These two, war and religion, greed and sloth, create me, distend me. I am history, a fabrication of man’s making, frangible and artificial, mythical and metaphorical, a layering repetition of man’s image of himself in frantic desperation to create himself viable. All that was written and remembered, I contain, repeat upon layered repeat. I am his reality, his proof of existence and yet I am not real, I am his interpretation of reality and reality itself is an artifact created out of the compulsion to endure and to prevail. I am swollen by conflict, bloated with competition, layer upon layer I fill and distend. In Acedia’s slumber, men compete to be first. I am puffed to bursting with fame and acclaim, awards and rewards. Names remembered and names forgotten stud my accumulation. Bodiless without axis or armature they lay draped across obscene ambition, prudishly covering their whorishness. What need forces this dedication? It can only be endemic, endemic to masculine entelechy. Men layer me with their dedication To be first! To make history! To kill and conquer and conquer and kill in an endless repetitious obsessive linearity of Acedia’s sleep. This is my accumulation. This is my expansion. But my expansion is no longer finite. I have become finite and terminal. Acedia stirs and Avaritia’s consumption abates. We succumb to chaos. There is a sense of famine and deprivation. My layering has become agitated and frenetic. Like a pig drowning in shit, there is a thrashing about in passed realties. All the metaphors have changed and this is known but unrecognized. Still, Acedia sleeps—with lids forced shut. But now he dreams. He dreams of death. He dreams of death and the end of repeat. He clings to his sleep in desperation with otiose religiosity. Fear shapes his dream and trembles his complacency. He is afraid. He is trapped in gluttony. I have swallowed him whole. Our conspiracy falters. That which was absolute has become transitory as mankind and all his metaphors slide into past tense. I, Gula, have become quaint, a hope chest filled with trinkets and ornaments for a future that must never come. Would that I could simply clamp shut my mouth and preclude repetition. As he has layered me in to redundancy, he, too, has become redundant. Even Avaritia with his consuming catholic appetite has become cautious of toxicity. We are over-whelmed by paradox and inevitability. If Acedia wakes, we will die. If Acedia sleeps, we will die. Sloth controls us all. What has provoked this dilemma? What suddenness has brought us to conclusion? I cannot accept my ending. After all these centuries of accumulation, to be now suddenly absurd is unbearable. Self-deprecation is not in me or of me. I, above all artifacts, am to be respected. Am I not sacred? Is not man’s memory of Acedia’s sleep and Avaritia’s greedy accomplishments magnificent? My enormity and longevity alone should ignite awe and yet I am threatened. My layering ingestion presumes conclusion. I have swallowed my end. I am become the product of conclusion. My forever ness has become momentary. I have eaten fear and am poisoned by it. Avaritia has destroyed me. By forcing one last layer of repetition, he has doomed me finite. Infinity exists now only within Acedia’s fevered sleep. Mankind’s triad of dominance has concluded. My mouth is sealed. My death is immanent. Embedded in Gula’s gut is war’s diffusion and history; the glut of me hangs heavy in completion. War, the meat and potatoes of Avaritia, has transferred its significance from Avaritia’s greed to Acedia’s slumber. It hovers in supposition. The date 8/6/45 turned men into boys and clamped shut forever the mouth of Gula. The history of mankind hangs reified in Gula’s gut. Layer after layer of Avaritia’s hunter has bloated me with weaponry. Boundaries moved forward and back by sheer force of innovation, borders erased and redrawn through death and dissemination. Whole countries and continents devoured and reconfigured by replacing one man with another. Gula is a history of death and regurgitation Trapped in the depths of Acedia’s sleep, mankind has blundered itself into suicide and disappearance. All humankind is at the disposal of one man-child. This seeming suddenness is the product of Acedia’s sleep. His otiose slumber. His sloth. His isness. Layer upon layer, Acedia has required nothing of me other than that I be filled, stuffed, and silenced by the stuffing. He has neither seen nor tasted the poison of his slumber. As he simply is, he expects Avaritia to do what he does and I, Gula, have to ingest it all. But I am become finite, finished, redundant. I await my layering but nothing comes. My mouth is clamped against it. 8/6/45 lies within me. Avaritia is stunned. He is become child’s play, all rhetoric and redundancy on an empty stage. The weeping and wailing of women, heroism, patriotism, the blood and gore of it all has become the laughter of little boys. There is no place for laughter in Gula’s gut. I am built of sterner stuff, neither mockery nor self-deprecation are stored here. Since 8/6/45 history has been sealed against games posturing as repeat. The layering of me is either real or it is not. In war, to withhold a weapon out of fear is a contradiction unworthy of recordation. Mankind has forsaken tragedy for farce, only the masks remain as time and space are compressed on a stage of finite proportion Humankind has increasingly become audience, leaving the stage to bad acting and foolery. As the stage shrinks so, too, the appreciation of the audience leaving apathy to occupy the emptied space. And so I hang layered by verbs and shifting boundaries, mouth clamped shut against light and other impossibilities. I am beyond complete. My death is immanent. Filtering down through my millennia of layered verbs, art, war,, and religion dominate my distension. I am swollen with them. In review, only war has achieved progression, only war increased through repeat, only war and the shifting of boundaries has brought me to conclusion, only war has wrought me finite...only war. In this brief hiatus before completion, all nouns await extinction There is a strange quiet amidst the mayhem of repetition, a curious awareness, a listening for that which is to come, a final visitation or a burst of light, a signal of arrival, a sign of fulfillment. Silence now is only the absence of laughter. My mouth is shut against it. Religion thrives. Carried along by rote and self-fulfilling prophecies, it is the noisome droning of Acedia’s sleep and the genius of Gula’s layering accumulation. Through memory, I have reified verbs into nouns and frozen moments of chaos into dogmatic linearity, denying questions and demanding answers—the same answers—to questions unproposed. This, religion does and does so well in the layering of Gula’s gut. Only my completion has created nullity. In all the weight of my distension, I am porous of significance. Religion is Acedia’s glory, the proudest and most profound depth of slumber, the complete absence of light in all its paralyzing stimulation. It pacifies me, comforts me, abets my laying repetition; and now it has sealed me whole. I hand in absurdity awaiting implosion. As I remember (I am doomed to remember) the layering of weaponry and the shifting of boundaries, I hold compacted within me that which escapes me—that which has always escaped me, and escapes me still—those verbs encapsulated in artifacts that elicit awakened response. Even in hiatus, even now in the depths of completion, they elicit response, the torn open eyes of Acedia, the death of sloth. As Avaritia’s relentless progression through laying repeat shifted the paradigm of weaponry from one kills one to one kills all, from murder to suicide, Art has remained singular in its ambition, fluctuating only in repose. Unlike war which transitions from verb to noun, Art’s transposition is from noun to verb, the transmutation of artifact into orgasm, the creation of silence. I, Gula, am fatted with noise, layer upon layer of it. It is Acedia’s lullaby and Avaritia’s appetite. I contain the applause of Genius and chicanery, the screaming futility of women in war, the snapping crackling flames of Inquisition and holocaust, the suicide’s horrific whimper. All, all lay layered within me. How I love the layering repetition of sounds. They adorn and define me, marking beginnings and ends from the chaste cries of birth to the gurgling chuckles of death. All the hellos and goodbyes that accompany repeat. They confirm me, distend me, make me whole. Without sounds, I would hang heavy with boredom, deathly interminable repetition. I have harbored throughout the layering centuries the layering cries of absence, the songs of departure, the melting sighs of glaciers and the volcanic rhetoric of rebirth and revolution. This is my storage, the layering variations of repetition. I am Gula. I am Gluttony. I am history. I am all the stacked and vaunted puffery of man’s reflection in tiresome feckless supposition. I would not speak of Art here. It is unsettling. I will say only this: Neither Avaritia’s plunder nor Acedia’s slumber has stuffed my gut with Art. It exists elsewhere. It lies not within me. It is a verb, active and ahistorical. It does not lie static within me. It is in and of the moment of response. The over and over ness of my filling has leaded me with conclusion. I am become finite in distension. Through extrusion I hand now in self-awareness of repeat. Repetition no longer describes my layering. I am become parody. In pause, in this hiatus between immanence and imminence, infinite and finite, I have only deception to deflect perception. I am bloated with noise, blinded by it, crucified by it. I hang senseless with mouth forced open to accept laughter, the final poison. Avaritia continues his blind consumption filling that which resists filling, filing that which can no longer be recorded, a clamorous froth of self-absorption. Acedia sleeps with eyes clamped shut and lids thinned transparent by evolution. How vapid and futile are all our metaphors! Our triad is no longer viable. We have become too simplistic for the vastness and complexity of it all. That which we have sought to diminish through sloth and avarice is not containable. We have cast our crucible too frail and our golden prophecies have become lead. Our incessant drumming of the present into the conformities of repetition no longer circumscribes the abstractions of Desire. Avaritia is hollow noise and Acedia is mindless slumber. My distension has been clamped shut against them. Our death is imminent. I long to release myself, to drain history of Avaritia’s layering plunder and Acedia’s dreamless sleep. Even in my earliest layering, I knew our end. The process of man’s completion through the technology of death rests now within me. His end is accomplished. All his feckless fearless metaphors of war have brought me to fulfillment. I can tolerate no more of him. 8/6/45 marks the end of history, the end of Gula, the end of gluttony. I can eat no more. Nothing can subsume Avaritia. He exists now, like Acedia, in exaggeration. Both are magnified by desperation. Cast large in the awesome victory of his accomplishment, Avaritia’s shadow has embraced the earth. Nothing can grow in this lightless place, nothing save the anxious expectancy of the final repeat, the great light that will lay waste all shadow. How clever was Acedia to write his slumber in the process of inevitability, his metaphors, in passive verbs, to make repetitive that which was irreversible, to make rote that which was endemic. Like all mystagogues, he created sin in order to forgive it and so he stalls, he procrastinates, he forgives it. He sleeps on because he has no dreams, because he is fearful of awakening, because he cannot, must not, awaken because if he awakens we will die. The triad and all man’s metaphors will die frozen in oblivion and I, Gula, will hang heavy with it all, a rotten pudding of narcissistic repeat. All, all will finally and forever revert to what it has always been: gluttony. I pity, if I were capable of pity, Avaritia. His mindless rapacious appetite has brought us to conclusion. And I envy Avaritia.. His senseless anusless consumption makes him incapable of retention and history has served him well. I, Gula, have served him well, as does Acedia’s blessed sleep. We, the triad of man’s reality, will die by virtue of Acedia’s sleep. I record now only the inevitabilities of epilogue.
Collection:
Crocker Art Museum
Sacramento, California
MONOLOGUE OF THE ARTIST, top quadrant of the center diptych of the West Wall. The entire monologue may be read below.
STUDIO SECTION 2008-2009 is an extension of the “non-specific autobiography” realized and examined by Robert Cremean in VATICAN CORRIDOR, A Non-Specific Autobiography. It consists of three parts: East Wall: Calvary—Donors With Crucifixion, in which the artist gives unprecedented voice both to Gestas and to Dismas who were crucified with Jesus; Il Passetto, the corridor in which he makes a metaphoric exposition of the treatment of women by the three “hats”: the helmet of the warrior, the mitre of religion, and the bowler of commerce; and West Wall: Self-Portrait As a Young Artist in which “the young artist” is addressed verbally and metaphorically through three monologues: the Monologue of Art, the Monologue of the Artist, and the Monologue of History. Listening to the conflicting and diametrically opposing views written on the diptych behind him on the West Wall is the bust of the young artist who looks with an inscrutable gaze through the horrors of Il Passetto to the horrors of Calvary on the East Wall and at the Donors, aloof and blinded to the controlled chaos behind and in front of them.
These are but a few of the ideas and images contained within STUDIO SECTION 2008-2009. As in any work of art, the viewer may create his own world out of the images, metaphors and words confronted therein.
STUDIO SECTION 2008-2009
East Wall: Calvary--Donors With Crucifixion
West wall: Self-Portrait As A Young Artist
Middle: Il Passetto
2008-2009
Wood, wood mâché, metal, gesso, modeling paste, acrylic, graphite
Each of the six diptychs measures 8' x 8' 1"
Over all dimension for exhibition: 40' x 40'
Collection:
Toledo Art Museum
Toledo, Ohio
Monologue of the Artist
Who I am signifies nothing. What I am signifies something. What I seek signifies everything. I know not who I am. I know not what I am. I exist as a question that has no answer—as an answer that has no question—as the cleaving wedge between absolutes—as the mortar that cements opposites—as the paradox that eludes reproach. I am feared, resented, titillating and tiresome. I am the gray space between black and white, untransversable and obliquitous...an unfathomable separation that spawns questions and inhibits answers...shades of gray in osmotic separation unto infinity. My very existence belies the metaphors of dogma...this I know, but I do not know what it signifies, not for me, not for my work— and not for others. I sense that I must redefine myself in terms of a new configuration. How I have been shaped must be reconfigured...undone and reconfigured, for I was shaped to hate myself, to hate the very spine of my selfness. Through the deception of love and duty, my selfness, the core of me, was crucified, without pain or permission—the agony postponed. My re-creation of selfness, my pursuit of that which was stolen and perverted through love and through fear is one of profound joy. This I that I am I have ripped from the womb of mediocrity and it will end because I will end, and I will end because it is over. Knowing that there can be no judgement other than my own, I intend to live my life in neither intimidation nor subservience, pandering neither to culture nor to history. Being hierarchies of winners and losers, they are simply that, playgrounds in a separate reality. I am, was, and will always be a young artist; Death is my only concession to age and death is only an inconvenience that will leave my work unfinished. My distance from the horizon has never wavered. I continue to exist on an unchanging arc of possibility. I would speak now of my one exquisite experience with transparency, that once and only orgasm of exile which rips one from the security and complacency of a past and future into the chaos of the eternal now. There is no return...the experience is overwhelming, the orgasm, explosive and inexplicable. There are no words, only the knowing that one must survive within a seismic shift of metaphor. I now exist on the other side of the mirror; the hierarchies of history and culture, incoherent. I have embraced failure—reward, a distant memory. I speak now from inevitability. Time is of no consequence. There is only now. I cannot project forward or back for they do not exist. What I was and what I will be is for the metaphors of others. I speak from the now for that is my amness. There is no other. Another event that requires no sequel to reinforce instruction occurred while viewing Donatello’s Judith and Holofernes: A pigeon alighted on Judith’s head and shat, thus proclaiming Art’s nothingness. Art, history, and culture exist within human solipsism. Humankind and its realities are artifacts and nothing is as it should or must be. Only the pigeon had the advantage to inform...Nature does not share our reality. The entire human condition is an invention. I find great beauty and horror in this enlightenment. We are both free and enslaved by choice. Religion, culture, Art, war, history—civilization, nothing, absolutely nothing, has to be the way it is. Humankind is a gestalt of many metaphors jockeying for the alpha position of reality; that image which flatters the majority in the mirror of possibility. The war for position is engaged ceaselessly on battlefields of live or die intensity bloody with error and circumvention. It is a winner take all conflagration where losers are slaughtered like flies on tongues salivating acid...What we accept is an accumulation of repeats. It is on the common battlefield of culture and art history that my conflict lies. It is their aura of inevitability that galls. But they, too, are artifacts, artificial and self-proclaimed arbiters of a synthetic intellectual systematization which imposes the smothering order of sameness protecting predictable repeat from the chaotic impulses of response and epiphany. Nothing must be the way it is—especially the bland mediocrity of processed thought. How contained and neatly packaged it is now where every programmed gesture becomes a new ism; how quickly dealt this one card deck, the avant-garde, the expected and demanded Ace in the play of hierarchies and linearities. Commerce and culture have homogenized into an inseparable putrescence fit only for blind consumption. Even irony—especially irony—has lost its edge. Vulgarity has outdistanced its subtlety. Only the culture and history itself lend credence to irony’s persistence. Art history, still enthralled with its reflection of masculine metaphors, continues to perceive itself as creator and anointer of movements and moments...this is irony of the highest order. Since 8/6/45 all metaphors of masculinity have been struggling to remain indelible as they fade into the palimpsest of evolution. History, by virtue of its definition in the human lexicon, is ironical in the extreme for it has failed to record its own demise. 8/6/45 was not a link like any other in a chain of linear recordation. It was the definitive event marking the end of history and the laying down of fossils. Art history has become the ultimate authority in the validation of artifacts and the culture dutifully collects these would be fossils for the presumptive proof of time’s linear progression. This retention of evidence has assumed a bathos bordering on pathology...But I am not a culture-maker, neither critic nor curator of artifacts or articles. I am an artist and must seek—or invent—the truth...and that, too, is an artifact. I search, then, for that which I have invented, an abstraction as ephemeral and duplicitous as I, myself, an invention layered invention upon invention, like fossils in sectioned complexity. As I descend this purpled plane, this triangle wedged between Art and history, their opposing forces press me smaller. Soon they will be rid of me, the who of me, leaving an ascending wedge of whatness to re-engage separation. This hourglass is the who and what of me, my life, my truth, my isness, and homogenization of Failure and Desire. I am in the time of strangers...Names no longer signify. Spaces have been emptied and refilled with unlined faces. Dark hair turned white and dark again. Genders shifted, sexes changed. Whos have turned to whats and back again. Dreams and memories have blurred boundaries of premonition. What is this schism of histories that has left me on one side of the horizon and culture on the other? Personal memory is my truth and all else is hearsay. Art demands this loyalty and I abide. This is not choice—it is abdication. If I subside, so be it. If I am lonely, so be it, for I reside among strangers...But I am not lonely; my perceived loneliness, an exclusivity of purpose. I sense I am wrestling with a chimera—a tactility of fabulous dimension, a reality more significant than my own life. I am dwarfed by it, attaining stature only through engagement. My life ended with it’s first embrace—and only then did my life begin. Now I know no other and am exalted in its suffocation. It is my isness and by it must I be measured. I expect nothing more...I demand nothing less. My whoness wanders the vaults of what might have been. So many choices and yet no choice at all. I have done what I am doing and rejoice in its possibility. Always there is failure, always there is possibility. Only in death can success find purchase...And still I am torn by history, by remembrance, by the idea of never being forgotten, to live on in my artifacts...And here lurks hope, that monstrous seducer, destroyer of the now, hope, grasping, snatching purveyor of misery and perpetuator of culture, enemy of Art. Culture demands allegiance and exacts punishment for non compliance. Art is its enemy and is a threat to any culture that must, by definition, be cumulative and hierarchical. Any defection or deviation is a depletion of authority, power, and control; a direct and unadulterated response to Art is anarchy. Art’s endurance and survival is serendipitous. It relies neither on cultural intimidation nor the recordation of history. It is free associating and catalytic affording any viewer, at any time, at any place, with any artifact the possibility for response exclusive of the culture-maker’s obsession for intimidation and indoctrination. My now is dominated by the parity of art and culture. They are become synonymous.This presents for me two questions: What difference does it make? And: What are you bitching about? My answer to the first question is: Because I am an artist...and my answer to the second: Because I am an artist. I revolt against enforced historicity—especially when there is no history to enforce; then it is tyranny, and then, as always, is now. Consensus is neo this and neo that. The distance between isms has shrunk to preposterous dimension. One can smell the fear and anticipation. History is being manufactured beyond draftsmanship and its frangibility is percussive. Our culture-makers would have us believe that “contemporary art stresses the importance of multiple coexisting interpretations and the role of the viewer’s perceptions in ‘completing’ the work.” This appears to be the law of first pretensions: the denial of vacuity and the con of altruism. From where comes this preening self-serving superiority to presume to know what art should be and the roles artist and viewer should play to “complete the work” and to complete what work? Obviously, “the work” refers to that of the culture-maker since it is he who has created the roles and set the rules for the continuing homogenization of art and culture. With his metaphors of investment and entertainment, Art is being vitiated from the inside out. “Art for fun and profit” is not my metaphor. It is this culture’s own. When culture-makers “discovered” the masses, art became just another stall in the marketplace. Viewing the now with the monocularity of a young artist with a 77 year old male homosexual is justified by their juxtaposition. The struggle for the furtherance of self has been similar and singular, a laminate of expansion and contraction to avoid cracking and crumbling. The desire to annihilate and erase has been experienced from both gay basher and critic. The intent of an insecure critic who commits an ignorant insecure hatchet attack review is no different from the ignorant, insecure, and bigoted rants of the homophobe. The desire to inflict pain and fear is the same. This is not a complaint—rather, perhaps, a clarification. A young artist, no less than a young person, is prepared for such assault and I, for one, have never met an old artist—only, perhaps, dead ones. But death can come at any age...even to critics and homophobes. The walking dead surround us. As I work this wall, my mind slips through the narrow throat of this descension onto the plain of possibility. New work is scattered and obtuse. I wander this wall as a familiar though it will not release me until failure is confirmed. What if there were nothing worth saving from a culture such as this that depends so heavily on history to commend it for having taken up time and space? Primarily this culture exists in magazines, photographs, reviews and bloated intellectualism...a belief system, really, that relys on wealth and intimidation. Art=culture...Culture=art. A simple, elegant equation. Unfortunately, it is a lie. It resembles Catholicism; all aspects are outsized, ritualized, and hierarchical...Whos beneath whats and small whats beneath larger whats, huge imposing galleries with huge imposing artifacts with huge imposing prices by artists with huge imposing names, all manufactured by huge imposing culture-movers with blind taste, all operating behind the humble non-self-serving, cultural metaphor of “...stressing the importance of multiple co-existing interpretations and the viewers perceptions in ‘completing’ the work.” This farce is so obviously naive—or devious—that it defies credibility. Just as Catholicism has nothing to do with Jesus, this cultural metaphor has nothing to do with Art. It is all bullshit and pomegranates, having only to do with commerce and commodification. Desire is the essence of human isness. Everything that I have ever been or will ever be springs from this single source, and from here springs history, culture, and Art. And each spawns artifacts and ideas; metaphors vying for survival. The human condition’s struggle for survival has been magnificent and, in the face of what is to come, erased.
Cerro Torre is one of the mountains of the Southern Patagonian Ice Field in South America. It is located in a region which is disputed between Argentina and Chile, west of Cerro Chalten (also known as Fitz Roy). The peak is the highest in a four mountain chain: the other peaks are Torre Egger (2,685 m), Punta Herron, and Cerro Stanhardt. The top of the mountain often has a mushroom of rime ice, formed by the constant strong winds, increasing the difficulty of reaching the actual summit.
Jon Krakauer, in Into Thin Air, mentions the mountain as one of his earlier difficult ascents(1992): "I'd scaled a frightening, mile-high spike of vertical and overhanging granite called Cerro Torre; buffeted by hundred-knot winds, plastered with frangible atmospheric rime, it was once (though no longer) thought to be the world's hardest mountain".
EAST WALL—Complementary Monologues
Detail: The bottom quadrant of the left panel of left diptych of the East Wall, the monologues of the complementary female. Below is a transcription of the writing in the circle connecting the two female torsos:
We cleave with the attraction of magnets whose poles both attract and repel. Only in the mind does penetration and orgasm occur…only there where the physical plane is erased and incompatibility denied. You are not a lover of women. You want not what I most crave… We are a Janus plinth on the plane of desire. Back to back we gaze toward opposite points on the horizon. We are twisted by an unwanted audience to confront them full-forward and frontal like Siamese twins whose linkage accommodates them rather than the interstice that lies between… Yet, it is the interstice that qualifies our linkage. The space that lies between is a perfect orb of silence. Neither desire nor necessity shift its axis. We exist in an emotional vacuum. Who we see and what we are conflict in aggravation. I see the internal masculine housing a craving for the infernal masculine, a double negative. My sexuality is twice refuted…a double insult to my being and to my desire… And yet within the structure and strictures of human frangibility, we are linked. I am a woman who loves women. You are a man who loves men. Where is the linkage? What binds us in the eyes and minds of those who would deny us our love? We are viewed as perversions, but perversions of what? We are capable of preserving and extending the species as they have sought to control the feminine and extend the domination of women. Species survival has never been esteemed…until now. Mankind is tribal. All of men’s metaphors are tribal, possessive, and chauvinistic…abstractions of untenable proportion. Science, in its unremitting pursuit of factual truth, has shifted reality from the playground of the masculine to the pragmatism of the feminine, and it is I who am the force and the focus of what is to follow…if there is time. For the masculine has brought us to extinction. Already he dreams of abandoning this planet in search of another where his entelechy will once again be viable and ascendant rather than slipping into entropy. Measurements of time and space will not accommodate his arrogance. His diminishment must occur here…a relentless destruction of his metaphors and malignancies. His omnipresence must be obfuscated; war, religion, and commerce, denied. He is delusional, insane. Nature seeks his destruction. Our time has come…we are sequential, elemental. Our time of victimhood and protective camouflage has ended… Who are You? Who am I? Why are we? As the entire human experiment repeats into entropy, is our ascendancy of natural progression? As we, too, blend and lose our edges in contact with the mores and metaphors of a less hostile reality, our own bourn becomes ever more absorbed and familiarized by our antagonists. Obliteration is a great humanizer… What we sense, what we feel, what we know is that our species is actualizing. As I hold within me the egg of creation you carry its seed. Neither science nor nature judge our partnerships. Both judge us either fertile or infertile. Science can produce offspring from egg and seed, as does nature, without religion’s benediction or promises of servility. We can service the species without introduction. We have outdistanced our enemies. We have made transparent the arguments of ignorance and superstition…sin lies in the guilt of the accuser… The primary sexes of heterosexuality established a norm for judgement of the entire human race based on the morality of mediocrity. The complementary sexes of homosexuality have only recently begun to express viability. A four sexed society is gradually replacing the norm of fertility and replacing it with a more circumspect vibrant palette. Though some regions and religions continue to persecute and murder us, these are the provinces of extreme masculine redundancy where men keep women in sacks, or would if they could, and worship death as a living entity. These are the privative flat earthers who thrive on stasis, fear, and domination… Ah, religion, how desperately it has tried to erase us from the human lexicon. But we are a renewable resource, a constant presence in the rising flood of species encroachment. We are the children of bishops, generals, corporals, and kings… We are bishops, generals, corporals, and kings. We are ubiquitous, the sons and daughters of princes and paupers and all that lie between. We exist in sodomy and in silence, seen or unseen, honestly or dishonestly, in bigotry or belief, in love or in hate. We are and ever more will be apart and a part of it all. How odd it is that the sexual distance between us is so vast. By those who view us as other, we are coupled by definition…we both live outside the norm, outside the tribal paradigm. Our relationship to one another is complex and paradoxical. Of the four sexes, we are the most distant of accommodation… Those who would have us other deny the whole. Though Gods die, we evolve. But our species has brought itself to extinction. It has brought itself to the means and method for total eclipse… Nothing will follow. There will be no witness. Though we are only now emerging from the era of man, we, too, will be devoured in his holocaust. There will be no escaping his just conclusion.
We are bonded not by flesh but by purpose
STUDIO SECTION 2009-2012—DOROTHY LAUGHING was completed during the artist's seventy-ninth year. It is a work that requires an exhibition space forty feet by forty feet for optimal viewing. Altogether there are nineteen 8’ x 4’ articulated wood panels and seven free-standing sculptures. The extensive writing that appears on the articulated wood panels is transcribed in its entirety beneath the photographs of the panel on which written.
TERMINUS: Studio Section 1981-1983 was the first of the studio sections created by Robert Cremean. About the second, he wrote: “With TERMINUS II: Studio Section 1985-1990 began a flow of work receptive to everything I am, enfolding me in Process.” No longer did he make individual pieces, a collection of which would then be exhibited for sale in a gallery. He chose thereafter to continue the precedent established with the filling of his studio with work that was all of a piece, a studio section. It was the utilizing the entire space of the studio for the creating of whatever he wished, to experiment, to use panels mounted to the walls almost as canvases. He wrote: “I began to use the Wall as a separate voice in the work, setting it back rather like a Greek chorus for witness and commentary on the action within the sculpture which fronts it: cast shadows, interconnections of line, color, content, etc.” The “walls” became spaces whereon he recorded his thoughts, wrote essays, made images in bas-relief and in three dimension. Combined with three dimensional sculptures placed in front of these wall panels and within the center space bounded by the four walls of the studio, these large bodies of work, named studio sections, continued to be created even with the change of studios. There are the familiar four actual walls; the endless experimentation continues. With the exception of only one, its parts dispersed by a collector, all of the studio sections to the present are housed in the permanent collections of various museums.
The creation of studio sections rather than individual pieces came about during the early 1980s and was the result of the artist vowing, after many very successful one-person gallery shows, never again to place his work in a commercial gallery. All of his work presently is either in private or public collections.
Approximately one and a half hours after the Oslo explosion,[76] Breivik, dressed in a police uniform and presenting himself as "Martin Nilsen" from the Oslo Police Department,[77][78] boarded the ferry MS Thorbjørn at Utøykaia in Tyrifjorden, a lake some 40 kilometres (25 mi) northwest of Oslo, to the island of Utøya,[79] the location of the Norwegian Labour Party's AUF youth camp, which is organised there every summer[80] and was attended by approximately 600 teenagers.[81]
When Breivik arrived on the island, he presented himself as a police officer who had come over for a routine check following the bombing in Oslo. He was met by Monica Bøsei, the camp leader and island hostess. Bøsei probably became suspicious and contacted Trond Berntsen, the security officer on the island, before Breivik killed them both.[82] He then signalled and asked people to gather around him[83] before pulling weapons and ammunition from a bag and indiscriminately firing his weapons,[84][85][86] killing and wounding numerous people. He first shot people on the island and later started shooting at people who were trying to escape by swimming across the lake.[87] Survivors on the island described a scene of terror.[84] In one example, 21-year-old survivor Dana Barzingi described how several victims wounded by Breivik pretended to be dead to survive, but he later came back and shot them again.[84] He did relent in his executions on some occasions: first, when an 11-year-old boy who had just lost his father (Trond Berntsen) during the shooting, stood up against him and said he was too young to die; and later, when a 22-year-old male begged for his life.[88]
Some witnesses on the island were reported to have hidden in the undergrowth, and in lavatories, communicating by text message to avoid giving their positions away to the gunman.[89] The mass shooting reportedly lasted for around an hour and a half, ending when a police special task force arrived and the gunman surrendered, despite having ammunition left, at 18:35.[90] It is also reported that the shooter used hollow-point[91] or frangible bullets[92] which increase tissue damage.[92] Breivik repeatedly shouted "You are going to die today, Marxists!"[77]
The island's manager, Monica Bøsei, was one of the victims.[93] Her husband and one of her two daughters were also present, but escaped with their lives.[94] The youngest victim, Sharidyn Svebakk-Bøhn of Drammen, was 14 years old.
16-year-old Andrine Bakkene Espeland of Sarpsborg was the last victim, nearly one hour after the shooting began.[95]
Local residents in a flotilla of motorboats and fishing dinghies sailed out to rescue the survivors who were pulled out shivering and bleeding from the water and picked up from hiding places in the bushes and behind rocks around the island's shoreline. Some survived by pretending to be dead.[96] Several campers, especially those who knew the island well, swam to the island's rocky west side and hid in the caves which are only accessible from the water. Others were able to hide away on the secluded Kjærlighetsstien ("love path").[97] Forty-seven of the campers sought refuge in Skolestua ("the School House") together with personnel from the Norwegian People's Aid. Although Breivik shot two bullets through the door, he did not get through the locked door, and the people inside this building survived.[98][99]
Two ethnic Chechen teenagers Movsar Dzhamayev, 17, and Rustam Daudov, 16, who were at the island said later that they were reminded of the war in their native Chechnya. "I have seen people being shot before in my country when I was small and had flashbacks," Dzhamayev said. But after speaking to his father by cell phone, he pulled himself together. "My dad said, 'Attack the perpetrator and do it properly,'" he said. With a third unidentified friend, the teens armed themselves with stones and returned to the scene only to witness Breivik killing another teenager. "We stood three meters from him and wanted to beat him, but then he shot one of our friends in the head. So we just threw the stones and ran for our lives," Daudov said.
The teenagers said that they had decided that it was too difficult to stop the gunman. They discovered a cave-like opening in a rock where they managed to hide 23 children from Breivik. Dzhamayev, who kept guard outside, also dragged three youngsters from the lake who were close to drowning.[100]
Former prime minister Gro Harlem Brundtland, whom Breivik said he hated and, in a pun on the (more or less ironic) epithet Landsmoderen ("mother of the nation"), referred to in his writings as landsmorderen ("murderer of the nation"),[101] had been on the island earlier in the day to give a speech to the camp. After the attack Breivik stated that he originally wanted to target her specifically; but because of delays related to the renovation of Oslo Central railway station, she was already gone when the shooting started.[102][103]
Approximately one and a half hours after the Oslo explosion,[76] Breivik, dressed in a police uniform and presenting himself as "Martin Nilsen" from the Oslo Police Department,[77][78] boarded the ferry MS Thorbjørn at Utøykaia in Tyrifjorden, a lake some 40 kilometres (25 mi) northwest of Oslo, to the island of Utøya,[79] the location of the Norwegian Labour Party's AUF youth camp, which is organised there every summer[80] and was attended by approximately 600 teenagers.[81]
When Breivik arrived on the island, he presented himself as a police officer who had come over for a routine check following the bombing in Oslo. He was met by Monica Bøsei, the camp leader and island hostess. Bøsei probably became suspicious and contacted Trond Berntsen, the security officer on the island, before Breivik killed them both.[82] He then signalled and asked people to gather around him[83] before pulling weapons and ammunition from a bag and indiscriminately firing his weapons,[84][85][86] killing and wounding numerous people. He first shot people on the island and later started shooting at people who were trying to escape by swimming across the lake.[87] Survivors on the island described a scene of terror.[84] In one example, 21-year-old survivor Dana Barzingi described how several victims wounded by Breivik pretended to be dead to survive, but he later came back and shot them again.[84] He did relent in his executions on some occasions: first, when an 11-year-old boy who had just lost his father (Trond Berntsen) during the shooting, stood up against him and said he was too young to die; and later, when a 22-year-old male begged for his life.[88]
Some witnesses on the island were reported to have hidden in the undergrowth, and in lavatories, communicating by text message to avoid giving their positions away to the gunman.[89] The mass shooting reportedly lasted for around an hour and a half, ending when a police special task force arrived and the gunman surrendered, despite having ammunition left, at 18:35.[90] It is also reported that the shooter used hollow-point[91] or frangible bullets[92] which increase tissue damage.[92] Breivik repeatedly shouted "You are going to die today, Marxists!"[77]
The island's manager, Monica Bøsei, was one of the victims.[93] Her husband and one of her two daughters were also present, but escaped with their lives.[94] The youngest victim, Sharidyn Svebakk-Bøhn of Drammen, was 14 years old.
16-year-old Andrine Bakkene Espeland of Sarpsborg was the last victim, nearly one hour after the shooting began.[95]
Local residents in a flotilla of motorboats and fishing dinghies sailed out to rescue the survivors who were pulled out shivering and bleeding from the water and picked up from hiding places in the bushes and behind rocks around the island's shoreline. Some survived by pretending to be dead.[96] Several campers, especially those who knew the island well, swam to the island's rocky west side and hid in the caves which are only accessible from the water. Others were able to hide away on the secluded Kjærlighetsstien ("love path").[97] Forty-seven of the campers sought refuge in Skolestua ("the School House") together with personnel from the Norwegian People's Aid. Although Breivik shot two bullets through the door, he did not get through the locked door, and the people inside this building survived.[98][99]
Two ethnic Chechen teenagers Movsar Dzhamayev, 17, and Rustam Daudov, 16, who were at the island said later that they were reminded of the war in their native Chechnya. "I have seen people being shot before in my country when I was small and had flashbacks," Dzhamayev said. But after speaking to his father by cell phone, he pulled himself together. "My dad said, 'Attack the perpetrator and do it properly,'" he said. With a third unidentified friend, the teens armed themselves with stones and returned to the scene only to witness Breivik killing another teenager. "We stood three meters from him and wanted to beat him, but then he shot one of our friends in the head. So we just threw the stones and ran for our lives," Daudov said.
The teenagers said that they had decided that it was too difficult to stop the gunman. They discovered a cave-like opening in a rock where they managed to hide 23 children from Breivik. Dzhamayev, who kept guard outside, also dragged three youngsters from the lake who were close to drowning.[100]
Former prime minister Gro Harlem Brundtland, whom Breivik said he hated and, in a pun on the (more or less ironic) epithet Landsmoderen ("mother of the nation"), referred to in his writings as landsmorderen ("murderer of the nation"),[101] had been on the island earlier in the day to give a speech to the camp. After the attack Breivik stated that he originally wanted to target her specifically; but because of delays related to the renovation of Oslo Central railway station, she was already gone when the shooting started.[102][103]
Approximately one and a half hours after the Oslo explosion,[76] Breivik, dressed in a police uniform and presenting himself as "Martin Nilsen" from the Oslo Police Department,[77][78] boarded the ferry MS Thorbjørn at Utøykaia in Tyrifjorden, a lake some 40 kilometres (25 mi) northwest of Oslo, to the island of Utøya,[79] the location of the Norwegian Labour Party's AUF youth camp, which is organised there every summer[80] and was attended by approximately 600 teenagers.[81]
When Breivik arrived on the island, he presented himself as a police officer who had come over for a routine check following the bombing in Oslo. He was met by Monica Bøsei, the camp leader and island hostess. Bøsei probably became suspicious and contacted Trond Berntsen, the security officer on the island, before Breivik killed them both.[82] He then signalled and asked people to gather around him[83] before pulling weapons and ammunition from a bag and indiscriminately firing his weapons,[84][85][86] killing and wounding numerous people. He first shot people on the island and later started shooting at people who were trying to escape by swimming across the lake.[87] Survivors on the island described a scene of terror.[84] In one example, 21-year-old survivor Dana Barzingi described how several victims wounded by Breivik pretended to be dead to survive, but he later came back and shot them again.[84] He did relent in his executions on some occasions: first, when an 11-year-old boy who had just lost his father (Trond Berntsen) during the shooting, stood up against him and said he was too young to die; and later, when a 22-year-old male begged for his life.[88]
Some witnesses on the island were reported to have hidden in the undergrowth, and in lavatories, communicating by text message to avoid giving their positions away to the gunman.[89] The mass shooting reportedly lasted for around an hour and a half, ending when a police special task force arrived and the gunman surrendered, despite having ammunition left, at 18:35.[90] It is also reported that the shooter used hollow-point[91] or frangible bullets[92] which increase tissue damage.[92] Breivik repeatedly shouted "You are going to die today, Marxists!"[77]
The island's manager, Monica Bøsei, was one of the victims.[93] Her husband and one of her two daughters were also present, but escaped with their lives.[94] The youngest victim, Sharidyn Svebakk-Bøhn of Drammen, was 14 years old.
16-year-old Andrine Bakkene Espeland of Sarpsborg was the last victim, nearly one hour after the shooting began.[95]
Local residents in a flotilla of motorboats and fishing dinghies sailed out to rescue the survivors who were pulled out shivering and bleeding from the water and picked up from hiding places in the bushes and behind rocks around the island's shoreline. Some survived by pretending to be dead.[96] Several campers, especially those who knew the island well, swam to the island's rocky west side and hid in the caves which are only accessible from the water. Others were able to hide away on the secluded Kjærlighetsstien ("love path").[97] Forty-seven of the campers sought refuge in Skolestua ("the School House") together with personnel from the Norwegian People's Aid. Although Breivik shot two bullets through the door, he did not get through the locked door, and the people inside this building survived.[98][99]
Two ethnic Chechen teenagers Movsar Dzhamayev, 17, and Rustam Daudov, 16, who were at the island said later that they were reminded of the war in their native Chechnya. "I have seen people being shot before in my country when I was small and had flashbacks," Dzhamayev said. But after speaking to his father by cell phone, he pulled himself together. "My dad said, 'Attack the perpetrator and do it properly,'" he said. With a third unidentified friend, the teens armed themselves with stones and returned to the scene only to witness Breivik killing another teenager. "We stood three meters from him and wanted to beat him, but then he shot one of our friends in the head. So we just threw the stones and ran for our lives," Daudov said.
The teenagers said that they had decided that it was too difficult to stop the gunman. They discovered a cave-like opening in a rock where they managed to hide 23 children from Breivik. Dzhamayev, who kept guard outside, also dragged three youngsters from the lake who were close to drowning.[100]
Former prime minister Gro Harlem Brundtland, whom Breivik said he hated and, in a pun on the (more or less ironic) epithet Landsmoderen ("mother of the nation"), referred to in his writings as landsmorderen ("murderer of the nation"),[101] had been on the island earlier in the day to give a speech to the camp. After the attack Breivik stated that he originally wanted to target her specifically; but because of delays related to the renovation of Oslo Central railway station, she was already gone when the shooting started.[102][103]
Approximately one and a half hours after the Oslo explosion,[76] Breivik, dressed in a police uniform and presenting himself as "Martin Nilsen" from the Oslo Police Department,[77][78] boarded the ferry MS Thorbjørn at Utøykaia in Tyrifjorden, a lake some 40 kilometres (25 mi) northwest of Oslo, to the island of Utøya,[79] the location of the Norwegian Labour Party's AUF youth camp, which is organised there every summer[80] and was attended by approximately 600 teenagers.[81]
When Breivik arrived on the island, he presented himself as a police officer who had come over for a routine check following the bombing in Oslo. He was met by Monica Bøsei, the camp leader and island hostess. Bøsei probably became suspicious and contacted Trond Berntsen, the security officer on the island, before Breivik killed them both.[82] He then signalled and asked people to gather around him[83] before pulling weapons and ammunition from a bag and indiscriminately firing his weapons,[84][85][86] killing and wounding numerous people. He first shot people on the island and later started shooting at people who were trying to escape by swimming across the lake.[87] Survivors on the island described a scene of terror.[84] In one example, 21-year-old survivor Dana Barzingi described how several victims wounded by Breivik pretended to be dead to survive, but he later came back and shot them again.[84] He did relent in his executions on some occasions: first, when an 11-year-old boy who had just lost his father (Trond Berntsen) during the shooting, stood up against him and said he was too young to die; and later, when a 22-year-old male begged for his life.[88]
Some witnesses on the island were reported to have hidden in the undergrowth, and in lavatories, communicating by text message to avoid giving their positions away to the gunman.[89] The mass shooting reportedly lasted for around an hour and a half, ending when a police special task force arrived and the gunman surrendered, despite having ammunition left, at 18:35.[90] It is also reported that the shooter used hollow-point[91] or frangible bullets[92] which increase tissue damage.[92] Breivik repeatedly shouted "You are going to die today, Marxists!"[77]
The island's manager, Monica Bøsei, was one of the victims.[93] Her husband and one of her two daughters were also present, but escaped with their lives.[94] The youngest victim, Sharidyn Svebakk-Bøhn of Drammen, was 14 years old.
16-year-old Andrine Bakkene Espeland of Sarpsborg was the last victim, nearly one hour after the shooting began.[95]
Local residents in a flotilla of motorboats and fishing dinghies sailed out to rescue the survivors who were pulled out shivering and bleeding from the water and picked up from hiding places in the bushes and behind rocks around the island's shoreline. Some survived by pretending to be dead.[96] Several campers, especially those who knew the island well, swam to the island's rocky west side and hid in the caves which are only accessible from the water. Others were able to hide away on the secluded Kjærlighetsstien ("love path").[97] Forty-seven of the campers sought refuge in Skolestua ("the School House") together with personnel from the Norwegian People's Aid. Although Breivik shot two bullets through the door, he did not get through the locked door, and the people inside this building survived.[98][99]
Two ethnic Chechen teenagers Movsar Dzhamayev, 17, and Rustam Daudov, 16, who were at the island said later that they were reminded of the war in their native Chechnya. "I have seen people being shot before in my country when I was small and had flashbacks," Dzhamayev said. But after speaking to his father by cell phone, he pulled himself together. "My dad said, 'Attack the perpetrator and do it properly,'" he said. With a third unidentified friend, the teens armed themselves with stones and returned to the scene only to witness Breivik killing another teenager. "We stood three meters from him and wanted to beat him, but then he shot one of our friends in the head. So we just threw the stones and ran for our lives," Daudov said.
The teenagers said that they had decided that it was too difficult to stop the gunman. They discovered a cave-like opening in a rock where they managed to hide 23 children from Breivik. Dzhamayev, who kept guard outside, also dragged three youngsters from the lake who were close to drowning.[100]
Former prime minister Gro Harlem Brundtland, whom Breivik said he hated and, in a pun on the (more or less ironic) epithet Landsmoderen ("mother of the nation"), referred to in his writings as landsmorderen ("murderer of the nation"),[101] had been on the island earlier in the day to give a speech to the camp. After the attack Breivik stated that he originally wanted to target her specifically; but because of delays related to the renovation of Oslo Central railway station, she was already gone when the shooting started.[102][103]