Robert Morris in costume for performance War, in collaboration with Robert Huot,
at Judson Memorial Church, New York, June 23, 1963

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Suspension – Optical vs. Literal


Morris Lewis
(1912 -1962)


Dalet Kaf (1959)


Floral V (1959)


Points Of Tranquility (1959)


Where (1960)


Alpha Pi (1960)


Robert Morris
(b. 1931)

Screen Shot 2014-03-01 at 8.41.29 PM

Untitled (1968)


Untitled (1969)


Untitled (1969)


Untitled (1970)


Untitled (1973)

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Intersection – Anne Carson

Editor’s Note: The following is an excerpt from Wonderwater (Alice Offshore). The “Hö” mentioned in the second paragraph is Friedrich Hölderlin, and the italicized lines of that paragraph are his, translated into English from German. 


There is a moment you are swimming in the pool, stroking forward strongly and down across the fingers of your right hand as you press it through the water, comes a hair. You feel this hair as a jolt of what should not happen. Just a single hair, so slight a sensation you could think you imagined it except, pushed against your fingers by the pressure of the water as you continue to thrust, it clings an instant, it will not go its way, you may have to shake your fingers sideways in the water spoiling your stroke and then it slides off, this hair that has no business there, someone else’s hair, this little nightmare of a hair whose touch has suddenly startled you out of the sleep of self-containment that swimming induces into the fact of dirt. Other people’s dirt. Other people. Your own dirt, you. Not this pure noncontingent forward motion unmarred by agent or accountability but you, a person, a person known all too well, a person in a swamp of others and others’ dirt, hair, skin, fluids, anger, who knows. You in all this. You utterly violable. Of course everyone is aware swimming pools are full of dirt but there is no reason to think of this now. The thought in fact is canceled by swimming by its sound aspect - both deaf and cavernous - that separates you from normal perception; by its blue aspect, an immaterial blue that reminds you vaguely of laundry ads or other planets; by its water aspect, which cannot help but evoke the whole history of purification and lustral joy not to say ritual rightness; and above all by its heroic, streaming, organized, forward motion. What could dirt have to do wit this motion?

Geometers use a word, anexact - not inexact (that would be reversible) - anexact, an impure version of itself purely represented. Often enough I tried language. When the equilibrium of a self-regulating system is reminded of the slow death in which it is suspended, the motor may falter. Love and Strife snag one another on a moment of coming undone. Have pity on this moment. Often enough I tried language but they didn’t hear you. A thing cut in half, restless, much too young. I saw Hö as someone moving along a line. He moved past the harbour, like a clear stain. He moved sharper and sharper, as if on a whetstone. Met something coming the other way.

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Unsaid is Fred – Take That As You Will

In place of literature, we need friction.


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Preview of Unsaid 7: The Bed Orange of Egon ‐ Russell Persson (Winner of U7′s Ivory‐Billed Woodpecker Award for Fiction in the Face of Adversity)

In my own power I’ve come and of my choosing which is not true. This gaol is a room to me and I embrace it also this is not true. Washed in white the sides of it, the split floorboards gone into the polish of a foot down slid upon it for years and again. What a tank a stove they laid. I will be the one to refill the tinder box and to be the one who stokes a heat duly. My narrow cot, the woolen sheet set and where the white wall meets the wool bedding is like any beach, two grand loves hove up to the other and fendless exist stood up straight and each good.

Wally has been allowed in and I study close her eyes for how to spend my hope. Wally is in the world and can hear what I do not. Her dear senses and her eyes. So I draw from them the meaning or the guess she carries in her body. How she sits toward me or the fall of her shoulders. I ask her to bring to me some pencils and the paper which has already gotten readied and to bring some color as it is each day the work of the day to steady a self against the white walls and the corners of the walls and the black stove.

I have a chair and which it could be set down inside the floor we share. My chair. I commend you as you’ve been set. You hold fast and I model me after you.

Wally has returned with paper and with the color and pencils and her eyes betray how gaunt I am and I am there for her.  I brought myself risen to the day. It was Wally brought also an orange against the hunger and against the quiet.

The Single Orange Was the Only Light

I listen close to the mumble of the town outside my walls. I have no window and on each wall is a thick plaster which deadens even my sounds to me so I listen close to the town mumble and I can tell what time it could be outside. And some bowl is brought to me passed through the door inside the door a bowl of food at best and the hand who brings this bowl to me is also another clock to use against the drawn-out day. But it is the quiet who so in the absence it holds can deeply enfuck the day and my hinge seems close to becoming rent.

Shaken shook loose I gather what was broughten me, the paper and an orange. The dusk inside this room is a perfect hoax. So night is always in its about to, my time is spended to arrange the time but until now. I can not bring myself to the orange and peel off its outside. I put the orange on my wool blanket on my cot against the unended dusk in here.

This is the stillest life and so a cot, the door in its deep jamb, the planken legs of the slab cot, a rag at the bottom of the door so to better get the sound outside, the bedding and the gray wool blanket on top of that, the orange Wally brought set on top of that blanket, the brightest what I have in here gone versus all quiet and all plaster walls come tell me who would not take in this sight and know the better truth of what a piece of light can end up as.

And then I’ve put a curve in the wall corner it could have gone up straight but wouldn’t vaulted make it be more tunneled so I slough days here in such weighing.


I Feel Not Punished But Cleansed

The day after I lead you from here my room to the corridor who leads away. The door inside my door is gone open and from out of this I see to bring you. In night there is an oil lamp and the quiet, because it is now meant and watched up with the hour and the dark is only pushed off by this one lamp.

Give me to study the draw. The brooms and mops and a longhandled duster for the high corners the cobwebs who as if thrown there with no help from any bug just begin to be there and thicken with dust and that is my skin. The washbuckets in night turned over to dry the washbasins turned over to dry. Four rooms down the corridor’s right wall for rooms like mine for a man like myself.

They have not all left me much as I have been removed from them my love my loves I am left to render corridors and brooms without you.

The bodies of the few I see here in this gaol have no burn. I could refuse to see the flame in it but rather how could a body who lives to lock another man into a room have any piece of fire in him but I do go and listen for it.



The Door to the Open

I still-life us to this.

Whatever is unchanged I will bring you with me to the next. And so I bring with me my unwoken self. Last night I left you with the lantern who sheds us in night with an only guide you were there with me I know that.

Unfolded unfolding to you is all what’s left. My paper you brought I’ve wanted to fill in but find an outer line is enough to close in the color of where I live. My rooms I can not leave I’ve been put here for a man who fucks his nearest it is no wonder we have only ourselves to consult at the ends of each strung-out day where the dusk clouds jumble up and we try to make sense of the shapes they’ve assembled.

Dearest man of my caption. I am straight I am unwandered I’ve back to you. No I am with you. To where we were. The door out to the open.


The Door to the Open

One of the latches is a simple hook and in the years of it spinning on the painted door has left a perfect circle etched around. There is a more formal deadbolt with a heavy black faceplate. At the top of the door is an iron grate for the wind to get through when the storm door is open on the far side of where I am. And farther still is a tree out there and some sparrows are there and I behold their movement from one branch to another branch as if this choosing was a deeply set rhythm of an animal a habit builded of a life inside the air with air moving throughout a day and managing between the gusts to land on one this branch who itself moves along with the moving air and the sun leans into them out there each sparrow angled slightly off against the next sparrow so that how we see the feathers laid in rows and layers each sparrow comes to us with a unique view for what I see of them is them small and in a dance among them to arrange themselves on branches each chooses I can now only guess at why each bird does happen to where I can only guess at when the storm door is open I can guess upon the motion of the door to the open which causes the hook to swing around spin into the painted wood and etch its circle there for this door to the outside is as far as I have known so far is always closed.

If I knew more about the path of our moon I could plan it when the moon would itself be outside and visible from here through the iron grate at the top of the door to the outside. If I could mark the passing of the moon as notches in the handles of my tools or as a map of shadows on the floor of my shut room or as an arrangement of boulders set out in some perfect align with a leadstone for marking where the moon is according to the days if there was a window for me if there was  a piece of night who got in through any break in the walls any split in the plenum of what’s been built for a man like myself any seam who could open without some rule applied against it and allow in in night a speck of our moon so that I might apply a gauge to her to map when she will return like birds who come back according to some plan I’m unknown to. Her setted walk. Her blue path and my seas listen.


Two of My Handkerchiefs

Inside the gaol I have no mirror and I have no body to witness onto paper so leave to me this. A chair and what I have they have not yet from me removed. Handkerchiefs I use in daubing and to.

I give myself this true license. I sit on my dull bunk and court is had here a chair in drape of these two. My congress. With the only unneeded thing they left in here with me, my bunk I require if the limits of comfort extend to that and a stove and some blanket and bedding left here I wrap up in but the chair it serves almost no thing and no one but to almost taunt me with the idea that another is here with me or that another could be here with me. Or that I might move the chair to some spot for solace. Or there might be a view I could wage from the chair if it was set somewhere in particular but there is no view there is no vantage from anywhere in here there is only the blurred spokes inside me which I just spit out for thee.

This chair. Set out in front of me. She is what I set my kerchiefs on and stares me down. My bunk is best a seat as I’ve said in no direct ways and so I sit here against the other side of my room and she sits with her body bold and still to ask me what I’ll do about her. You then be there and I’ll assess thee. Your back set back at an angle so to enprouden you, your lap a flat invite set on our shared horizon, the sky of us will you please to please the room around you, I’ve left it blank for you. I’d rush to you I’d rush over but we’ve come to our fucked terms.

I’m a dog sleeping by you. Or you are the sleeping dog. Pads cupped in time with the breathing. Some far-off threat. Eyes hidden by the fur lids in tremble at the stage we set. Our dream home. The home we build in dreaming. What rooms our heads come up with. What rooms.

My island is a cot a bunk the bedding rough unplanned bedding though could I not compare my unplan to what they remain for me?

She, the chair. Accrue the sitting as she does. In two-point drawn, reducing down to the nil. Be still and I hang my green tights on you over your stiff back, over your proudness. And laid soft into your lap are kerchiefs laid soft and quiet your white seat is what I come to undo.

No room no corners of where no edge to hove or catch onto. I’ll set you apart to lay bare the single what. So your proudness could equate in me the need to single out what you stand in for, your legs a strict setting, your back an upright gesture called to speak on what a good rule has limits to. I wait here on my bunk to hear what you could say to this idea of limits and the farness you could take this all.

Sitted here and asking you to move forward into the space between us. Could there be a simpler query? Could there be a more important query? A more complex insist?

Let us gather on my bunk in applaud of our one good chair. Let us thank who was it did the kindness to leave her with us. Let us praise us our lord for the kindest the smallest kind gestures we have for those we cage in to the smallest cells.

Let us clean us.

And let us acknowledge the greater sum of our days. The crossing of the sun and moon. The stars who if we fell into the deepest well we’d see in the middle of our day in their wide arcs.

Organic Movement of Chair and Pitcher

I’ve seen the sea and I know what the clouds do when they come down to the sea.

And I’ve small-towned it in between. The laden land. Who I stretch to come into grips with. Believing what I need and then what I come to.

My sand is an island I’ve already said. Turned on her side so we are here: the sided chair believe me I come to view only as a stranger; what you’ve become; what we’ve lost. My cities of what lost comes back to speak clearly this dear aside. Let me unwander. Present us with the some. Dear jug, who’ve been lefted with a chair in uselessness, my jug lefted, left here to remind us all we’ve emptied our lot and need refill, the brimming up of us into the next.

Why would I not tip upon its side the chair left here for me as the only thing here to contemplate the missingness of some other why would I not upend it and leave it as a message to them as a message to me I don’t require you I am full without you I am entirely without thee I tip thee as such. The jug has another purpose wholly of a job I now have water and before I had none and my day is now on water days noted. But the chair in this room could only serve so many uses or many uses one of which is that it is another who denotes a space inside the space I have another is the fact a bald fact who grows in time in baddish time the fact that I am alone and truly so it is the very point and my alone is then set up against an empty chair so that I may consider it as a vessel and consider it as a limit for my own setting and I may consider who might come to be upon it and when and at what angle and with eyes upon me in what way and legs positioned in what aparts and the tilted ends of our mouths do say as much as an entire room of eyes who would it be here in this room with such a mouth and corner of the mouth so the chair elicits from me the very question for if the chair was not here with me there would be no reason to have to wonder at it.


Organic Movement of Chair and Pitcher

I come to you and balance you there on your edge and let you fall over I let you fall over. Now sit and let me held thee. Drawn with my jug. The memento. One last I please.

Art Cannot Be Modern; Art Is Primordially Eternal

Surrogate? Kerchief or stockings. Neither cast a full glance upon this. Collect the guesses and chuck them in the sea and gather: it’s a garment though no wide reason should fall upon this same blue twist or shirts laid over the chairback.

The stove up on its plinth. Crude base we stance you on. Who lifted you? A man in charge or other? Let’s up to the plinth or that risen floor there.

I’ll set the blue fabric on a chairback for the first sketch. I bring it to me and keep it close enough to scent for the second, there’s not a smell enough I come to this as such its deep I’ll draw it in as much as I can get it is what’ll bring me back to the room of my Wally the land of the breathing the rooms of more exits set out for the living.

Face the chair away from me. That is a choose I can make in this. What I don’t even need can be told as such. What I don’t require for me to sit in peace can be told in how I turn the chair away from me so that each no one who sits I needn’t even address I am enough for me at times I am enough today for me.

And I’ll add a chair to double what I fucking don’t require in this. I’ve room to put you here and facing away as well. Also turned from me I’ll see your back and depict that for that is all I could need today so full and I’m enough.

Hindering the Artist is a Crime, It is Murdering Life in the Bud

I’ve cruxed you fuckers. Peaked out I’ve run a course and on a steep downside I find my today is wholly cut in two and each half fucked off to the side.

They’ve unbrought any food today. It was an answer to my yesterday standing up well. It’s not as if I know how long I’ll be here and so I guess I make a guess and today I get dragged down.

With no mirror I gut myself to pretend who’s up above me. I couldn’t look down upon myself without gods to hold me there. There could be no argument there I go ahead to gather. But yet I’m up above me and I’m needing a meal and a whole piece of sleep with full dreams in it I could use as well and without these I go floated up above I call to those engrounded and ask why I am chosen to rise here I have risen to be above me and I see down my gauntness is a second thought my wrap is the first and it is red. An outer line of my wrap is like an island drawn on some map fucked out of the lost stacks of true maps and most of which lie shambling in fate’s eddies corners hove up in charts linted up to drift there no other way could they all land. An outer line around the red and around the gray woolen blanket who keeps my feet warm and some yellow I could only know inside the when.

I’m up above me. I’ve been lifted here and from the recall I have of me I sketch a crude and thinned cheek and I garner an extra space between the eye and its eyebrow as if I am open to any suggest. And as I might so be. I’ve no hands or legs or any limb. My island is drawn so that I might upon it with only my gaze depict in structured deeds I call upon I depict instead upon this perspectiveless cot drawn and I’m in red and I look back to you for once.

I’m unshaven. My hair has been reduced and I could ask for why they shear a man who sits alone. Is it to set us all in the same undifferent cell?

I sketch me from guesses, how my eyes would look from up here on how they feel, sockets gray and shaded my eyelids weighted down but I look down upon me and I am there covered in my red coat.


On my cot sitting I pour out a puddle from my jug. I pour and add to it and it becomes a looking glass enough so that I see my face at last. I am unsure if I’ve seen me like this, or unwilling to be sure. My cupped eyes and my dark beard and the hair they’ve brought away from me. I might not look at me head on. I’ll corner my eye at me.

I am interested in you. Who have become this man I see in a puddle between my feet. Who rounded you up I’m beyond but who now looks as you do and the path inside this room who led you to this. What days have been who drag you through to now. The look you look back to me with how this is at all a possible look. But look I can not help but submit to this. I cannot look away.

Gray is gray. The woolen blanket has shades of what itself is folded and tucked and ridged under. I’ll mote the darker shades and burn off the silvers nearest me. My wrap before I’m wrapped up in it. Laid there crumpled as if I was within it. Leaving at the top a hollow where I’ll lay my head. Turned sideways but until then my wrap I’ll color in please. The grays I spread out on what I’ve made a pallet of, the black wiped across it to give me the full spectrum of blacks and grays and through to no color but I apply it as if it was as such.

The hollow I’ve left I pronounce my sunken head and my eyes. Turned on a side I corner me to you.

For Art and For My Loved Ones I Will Gladly Endure to the End

The child who balls himself up it is a done child or he is a child given over to capture. I pull the woolen blanket clawed down on me I have a spindle finger claw who drags a blanket tight down on me.

I’ll turn the other hand to itself a claw down upon my cot. My rough sheets I sleep in. The possible endlessness of what this room decides for me. The clawn sheets I must. The clawn down on me woolen blanket I see the creases I’ve made on me pulled down over the balled child.

I’ll again leave a hollow. As if I only had the charcoal and the russet shades I build a body into me. My blanket’s terrain fleshed, it is my hands I build with the reddish russet shade, my cheeks flush and ears but it is my captive mouth I duly color in the most russet the reddest the first stroke of the red I’ve made I lay it down there and my lips come to the color. My wrist my handback. My fingers the first time I see us here with hands is it true I’ve gone until now, though I see my hands and each is drawn in its gaunt spindle the clawed hand I’m left with you.

My Wandering Path Leads Over Abysses

I’ve unfolded a new wrap. Created three new oranges for us. The tapestry an olden theme I come to recall for us as the smell of an aunt’s parlor recalls the events there. If we last here together please don’t believe I’ve done nothing for you.

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Psychotic Break

“Words are no longer symbols but only raw material assaulting you or gushing out of you mouth.”

Simply Add Boiling Water.

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The Enlightening Public Sphere


Man shot in Russia in argument over Kant
by Alexei Anishchuk; editing by Alison Williams
Sept. 16, 2013

MOSCOW (Reuters) – An argument over the theories of 18th century philosopher Immanuel Kant ended in a man being shot in a grocery store in southern Russia.

RIA news agency quoted police in the city of Rostov-on-Don as saying a fight broke out between two men as they argued over Kant, the German author of “Critique of Pure Reason”, without giving details of their debate.

“In the course of the fight, the suspect took out a pistol firing rubber bullets and fired several shots at his opponent,” it said, adding that one man was detained and the victim was taken to hospital. His life was not in danger.

Kant lived in Koenigsberg, which is now the Russian city of Kaliningrad, and is a central figure of modern philosophy. Many Russians love to discuss philosophy and history, often over a drink, but such discussions rarely end in shootings.

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