Decorator Maligin - from an Album by Ilya Kabakov

Detail.

In the introduction to Kabakov's albums in a book on him the author describes his 'albums' as words that sit in no particular genre, they 'belong in a space between a few types of art . . . from literature (primarily Russian), albums have taken narrative, plot, the existence of a hero, and most importantly, the direct inclusion of another person's text* or that written by the author . . . ' One stated element from 'fine arts' is 'this genre has the ability to withstand made on works of that type: to hold attention on itself, to be an object of contemplation, to possess appropriate compositional features.' He continues after a moment: ' From cinema, the album takes the use of connections between frames . . .' and ' theatre - not a modern theatre where the action takes place in the dark so that the attention of the viewer can be be even more firmly held, but rather an old theatre on a square, where in full light the viewer is unrestrained in his watching of the action and simultaneously in his evaluation of it.'

Kabakov's Albums are presented on music stands, each drawing or scrap takes a separate page, each is the same size. When presented, always only to small groups of people at a time, the viewers are able to handle them, inspecting at their own speed, in the preferred and chosen order.

Quotes and images from Ilya Kabakov, The Man Who Never Threw Anything Away, Amei Wallach, Harry N. Abrams, Inc, 1996.

*This comment reminds me of a couple of books, where the subject's are authors or editors themselves; Satre's Nausea, and Pale Fire by Vladimir Nabokov.

Exert - page 122 from Circular Walks around Rowley Hall by Andrew Lanyon

Before reading the applied narrative in the text the image seems to speak of the maliability of photography, with its presentation of a seemingly true occurance; presentation of fact. It appears seemless, and true, one frame, one shot, although also with an archaic feeling grainy texture which might hide all maner of things. On closer inspection the documentation seems to be of the same object; it is only when we see them in parellel do we reasise the significance of its size of printing.
The two objects are aligned to the right, in direct comparision to each other, another element which tells of the relationship between the two items; one which would exist even if they were different objects, and different from each other; it applies an insinuated contrast in the scale, and space filled by one thing, as opposed to another.
When these items then become instruments used for measurement, it then questions firstly their function; as they are available via photography they can be rendered at any size. In the book, the inches in either ruler are not in 1:1 radio with the real measurement, or true size of either object: it is impossible to tell whether they were made this way or photography; they may really be odd sized rulers.
With text the two image/one image becomes part of a larger narrative; Lanyon's book tells the histories of three charccters who make bizarre experiments, each in they own interests and subjectjective views of life. In ther books they become defined by their own indifidual activities and how they cope with each others.
The first line on page 123, after the above image, begins to read in contrast: 'Vera admits there did actually come a time when she found herself agreeing with Walter that every form of art is dangerous, one of many from her subconscious . . .' Another play on the believeability, and truth of sight of the image presented by the author/artist, it seems to reveal the conquest of this image.
The manipulated scale also reminds me of the Marcel Broodthaers piece earlier.

The Monkey's Paw exercise

I heard of another; one Individual. A writer by all accounts. Unhappy with his work, he dreamt of a moment in which he might find a solution, and with it respite from his torment; the cause of his escapist habit. Had he refrained, by all means he may eventually have found his salvation, yet he was unable to halt this anecdotal tendency.

Immersed, accidentally on purpose, he was removed from the necessity of dealing with his reality; he dwelt instead on anticipation of what it would feel like; that moment of relief when he would find a direction which he could then devote himself to.
At some point, after much spent time, an idea came to him, quite unexpectedly: abruptly. Relief swept in, with focus and eye opening clarity. He no longer secretly willed the descent of his daydreaming habit that diverted him; it was obsolete.

Lucid, he sat, noting it down. Next to continue. He stared at the page, but the next step, the next movement was hidden from him. It had started in his dream; but no longer lost, he seemed unable to follow it. He willed his mind to drift back into diversion, by it was no use seeking it. To his detriment he knew this idea, this one thought, was the one he had been looking for, and within it hope - the only problem was he seemed to be constantly chasing it. The first line lay written, but each after could not catch its glory. He tried returning to the words, recounting them, attempting to continue his train of thought. Like the retracing of steps to retrieve a forgotten intended task. However he was only greeted with the realisation that his hopeful idea has rid him of the facility of escapism.

A new dream tempts him; to return to that previous state so that he might relive that long desired moment of finding a solution, and this time gripping tightly so he may know the next. But, a moment later, he realises the flaw; encapsulated in his reverie he would be unable to record his thoughts. Severed from his skill they may yet be lost again. I heard he stopped, avoiding the risk.


I heard of another; one Individual. A writer by all accounts. Unhappy with his work, he dreamt of a moment in which he might find absolution, and with it respite from his torment; the cause of his escapist habit. Had he retrained, by all means he may eventually have found his salvation, yet he was unable to halt this antidote tendency.

Immersed, accidentally on purpose, he was removed from any necessity of dealing with his reality; he dealt instead on anticipation of what it would feel like; that moment of belief when he would find a decision which he could then dote to.

At some point, after much pent time, an idea came to him, quite unexpectedly: abruptly. Relief swept in, with focus and eye opening clarity. He no longer secretly willed the descent of his daydreaming habit that diverted him; it was obsessive.

Lucid, he sat, noting it down. Next to continue. He stared at the page, but the next step, the next movement was hidden from him. It had started in his dream; but no longer lost, he seemed unable to follow it. He willed his mind to tip back into diversion, by it was no use seeking it. To his detriment he knew this idea, this only thought, was the one he had been looking for, and within it hope - the only problem was he seemed to be constantly chasing it. The first line lay written, but each after could not snatch at its glory. He tried returning to the words, counting them, attempting to continue to rein in his thoughts. Like the retracing of steps to retrieve a forgotten past intended. However he was only greeted with the realisation that his hopeless idea has rid him of the fiction of escapism.

A new dream tricks him; to turn to that previous state so that he might retrieve that long desired moment of finding a solution, and this time gripping sprightly so he may know the rest. But, a moment later, he reached a flaw; trapped in his reverie he would be unable to hoard his thoughts. Severed from his skill they may yet be lost again. I heard he stopped, avoiding the risk.


I heard of another; one Indistinguishable. A writer by all accounts. Unhappy with to work, he dreamt of a moment in which he might find absolution, and with it spite his torment; the cause of his escapist habit. Had he retrained, by all means he would eventually have found his salvation, yet he was unable to arrest this antidoting predisposition.

Immersed, accidentally with purpose, he was removed from any necessity of dealing with his insanity; he knelt instead at anticipation of what it would feel like; that moment of belief when he would find derision which he could then dote to.

At some point, after much pent time, an idea came to him, quite unexpectedly: bluntly. Relief crept in, with focus and eye opening clarity. He no longer sneakily willed the descent of his daydreaming habit that diverted him; it was obstructive.

Lucky, he sat, noting it down. Next to condense. He stared at the page but the next moment was hideous for him. It had started in his dream; but no longer lost, he seemed unable to feel it. He willed his mind to tip back into diversion, by it was no use seeking it. To his detriment he knew this idea, this only thought, was the one he had been looking for, and with it hope - the only possibility to relentlessly chase it. The first line lay written, but each after could not even snatch at its glory. He tried returning to words, counting them, attempting to rein his thoughts. Like the replacing of steps to relieve a forgotten past intended. However he was only greeted with the realisation that his hopeless idea has rid him of the fiction of escapism.

A new dream tricks him; to spurn to that previous state so that he might reseed that long desired moment of finding a solution, and this time gripping despite so he may show how the rest. But, a moment later, he reached a flaw; snapped in his reverie he would be unable to hoard his thoughts. Severed from his skill, now lost again. I heard he stopped, avoiding the risk.



Italics - Words and phrases changed in second and third repeats.

The second block is a manipulated repeat of the first; the third, the second. In some instances I have changed words to those similar in sound, easily misheard. Sometimes they rhyme, sometimes they share similar meaning, sometimes they exaggerate, sometimes they over react. I have attempted to keep it making sense, although at times it may seem less so.