gouache, 76*56CM, 2008

Without her she gets made, mad, malformation of sex

Without her she gets made, a kind of other, malformation of sex and assumptions there. She needs persona and identity of her own. How does she do that? What does she make of herself, of this, of this lot, of this lottery ticket. Identity? Wow. Do you feel the woman inside? Out of these forms of hers she must build herself, of pieces of a misty character, that makes you feel cold inside. Her reputation precedes her, evaluated irregular person, despicable, untrustworthy, she is what you heard you think you heard. Not composure nor tightly fit. You made her in your mind via your and other people’s speech, exchange of ideas or was it something you saw? Wanted and not. Isn’t that her? Yeah, That’s her. Look at that, look at her, the flaw. Talk works like gas, it is intoxicating and vulgar. Exciting fun exchange. Violence by taking the least effortless way collectively. Interesting in itself. What does it make in the end, I wonder.

She could be continued as something made up this way unless she would not act on her own defense, get that mess into her own hands and think it through like clay and a piece of bone and some wah wah. She needs herself to oppose, resist and defend herself. Herself is nothing is the message. On her own. Nobody else does the work for her. Nobody else is interested in her life, her self, what it really is, the nothing there from where to build something, what she really is like and able to do. Push some buttons? How vague and what nothing are we talking about, nothingness, zero, an empty spot to fill with images? Put some makeup on it. Do a tutorial. You’ll be noticed.

Reality nowadays, She makes her life even though there is discouragement, contempt, laughter, ill talk, threat, there is so little faith in her that it is unbelievable and unbearable. You even have to fight to be called a woman. To accept passively what goes on and on because others accept it, it suits them and it is normal, ill is the norm and violence the hah hah. They say there is nothing one can do. What anybody does? Survive. It is not an option to change anything, obviously. How weak. So what is changing? It is something exceptional to do quality, resist and demand. The energy of hers that changes anything and everything. Energy. The one you didn’t think would and she speaks her mind, how irregular and disturbing. To disturb when nothing makes sense is the right thing to do. What one Person can do?

Evaluations, descriptions, adjectives, measurements and comparisons, faults, flaws, drawbacks, qualities we need to place someone in that spot to feel powerful and someone else small, qualities we have made and what are they worth, how do qualities needed change anything? Any inner strength there? We imagine, make, consume and refine ourselves as well as we can, I suppose. We consume others to make ourselves and to win. It is a competition. To find strength there to do better is the only way to stay sane, but To do better nowadays doesn’t pay off, since you’ll get hurt? Either way you’ll get hurt. Paradoxical. I thought we were making the world a better place.

She is not right. There is a right way to be and so many wrong ways to say. Characteristics that are stated as a fact without further evidence and hearsay is all. What lunacy. Demonizing her to people who listen and want to believe, who ask without her, but no questions asked, get it? Without her she gets made as if she died. Kill or get killed.

Character of mist that makes you feel cold inside. Is this the same world we inhabit: Only with something totally made up which is the valuable, we get made and become something worth while? What is this made up thing, like plastic? Or surgery? I thought we make ourselves. Isn’t that the freedom we have today? We become something to see then, a thing? Yourself, the best you? Happy you, but in constant comparison to others and to the very visible ones. Be more visible, be drag? Be a victim? Impersonate women as a joke and show your ass, made especially for you.

How little respect there is, how little trust, just words. She is what you heard as a fact. Facts there are scarce, rest is invented, imagined, colorful dust, stardust, rest is what you thought you heard. Is that right? To think otherwise is unthinkable and dangerous, scary, unthinkable pleasure though, envious, hateful, joy of dragging her down speaks mountains: She is not right. She is not right. She thinks wrong. How can she think this way, against human rights, against people wanting to be outside how they feel inside. What a fascist. It can’t be wrong to do how you feel. No, never. The will to destroy there the dream of the impossible, is wrong. To kill is to entertain, so no, entertainment is for those who do not care? It is all to better yourself, not just think you do. Just think of yourself dear and push forward, force is with you.

To paint a picture of a malicious woman is to draw a separating line between good and bad and we know the good woman when we see her, right? Pointing her out from above, in a crowd, from a distance, in cyber space, from acclaimed filtered perfection which is the diversity trap, curated, a capsuled and imitated beauty, flawless, the freedom of speech and expression lie, from accepted shameless perfection showing all, but very tight and small waisted, which is in us all and undeniable especially when made up. To better something existing happens how exactly?

To know her is to say what she is: she is loud, she is noisy, she is quiet, she is broken, she is tense, she is useless, she is hysterical, she is mad, she is uncontrollable, she is irrational, she is shameless, she is lost, she is unwanted, she is hated, she is dead. How stupid she is. How ugly and obnoxious, Stupidity being something very human still and machines are smart, group think says, so just believe it. Not understanding why artificial is better, but at least the invented novelty is free of mistakes like hers. Still believe in individuality? As long as it is removed.