It seems absurd to foresee a museum containing a digital archive for Interactive & Digital Art. And even if it were so, a museum would not be paying for the pieces they decide to store on their acid-free servers when the very nature of the digital medium is duplication.
The digital medium is the mass-medium.
With just the click of a button, an artist can be seen by millions... in an instant... hanging their art on electricity inside millions of plastic frames.
Making art with a digital medium is this.
Helping you recognize this as art is design.
Making no income from this, while being compelled to keep making this, is bad design.
This is why I'm one of those artists that starve.
24.5.10
20.5.10
Stuck On The Plane
:: Originally written 29.6.2009 7:17 PM
Stuck on the plane, typing a way out of boredom.
Hey neighbor. What do you want me to write about? How about an alternative to waiting to get off the plane? How about a chance to wait on what words might appear next on this screen?
Being bored is pretty much the state of most of our lives. It’s the being confined part that crawls under our skin while we are waiting for a plane to land and unload us all into tubes and ports—where we will wait some more for our baggage to be unloaded next, so that we can take it home with us.
People on the plane. Listen to this. The lady that is walking down the isle, "stretching her legs," is looking for leftover Frito’s. She loves them, and is waiting to glean them from the seat pockets. She puts them in her large Frito bag of a purse. She is anxious for a taco salad.
People on the plane. Listen to this. The television that grabs your captive attention is feeding you the dreams that you will have tonight. Beware of the three dogs and the fat boy with the fro. They will only keep moving their lips and telling you nothing.
Only two more hours of the five to go. Only two more. Just keep the fingers moving in the case that they will speed up time as they tap out the minutes.
People on the plane. Listen to this. We were all fed chicken wraps for dinner, and we ate it. Don’t we all feel better?
People on the plane. I am typing this to you. We are all party people. Old and young. Shaking our asses with the turbulence. Bobbing our heads to the rocking of the wings. High above the ground… above the clouds… trapped in a party plane. Crawling through the isles waiting for our turn to go pee. Some will shit and flush it away inside, stored below our feet.
Stuck on the plane, typing a way out of boredom.
Hey neighbor. What do you want me to write about? How about an alternative to waiting to get off the plane? How about a chance to wait on what words might appear next on this screen?
Being bored is pretty much the state of most of our lives. It’s the being confined part that crawls under our skin while we are waiting for a plane to land and unload us all into tubes and ports—where we will wait some more for our baggage to be unloaded next, so that we can take it home with us.
People on the plane. Listen to this. The lady that is walking down the isle, "stretching her legs," is looking for leftover Frito’s. She loves them, and is waiting to glean them from the seat pockets. She puts them in her large Frito bag of a purse. She is anxious for a taco salad.
People on the plane. Listen to this. The television that grabs your captive attention is feeding you the dreams that you will have tonight. Beware of the three dogs and the fat boy with the fro. They will only keep moving their lips and telling you nothing.
Only two more hours of the five to go. Only two more. Just keep the fingers moving in the case that they will speed up time as they tap out the minutes.
People on the plane. Listen to this. We were all fed chicken wraps for dinner, and we ate it. Don’t we all feel better?
People on the plane. I am typing this to you. We are all party people. Old and young. Shaking our asses with the turbulence. Bobbing our heads to the rocking of the wings. High above the ground… above the clouds… trapped in a party plane. Crawling through the isles waiting for our turn to go pee. Some will shit and flush it away inside, stored below our feet.
Born That Way
He was born without the ability to get wet. When you spray him the water bounces away from him just before it touches his skin. When it rains the water looks like it is falling around him. And when he goes swimming he glides around on the surface as if he were on top of a giant water mattress that was made of a skin so thin you could not see it once it was filled with water. Surprisingly, without being able to take a bath, he never gets dirty. His sweat leaves his body without ever touching his skin. Yet he can drink normally, because “once the water’s past the skin, it can go in.”
