[Nettime-bold] Holy merde of God--pls post to Raw Alex

I think the only cure to the problem Eryk talks about here is to start naming names and levying fines. Eryk wrote this 2 months ago and no one said anything; now they're all grooving that "net art is dead."

Saying webart is dead may lead back to the clicks-and-bricks philosophy of art, which is what the academics need and want, rather than a Phoenix-like rebirth of genius. Genius 2000 is not netart, never was, it's my special friend and can't be reduced.

Or, by saying na is dead do we throw open the door to everyone-is-an-artist? Is it a way for the academics to save face under the onslaught of Genius 2000, Eryk Salvaggio, and nn? After all, we are all three totally realized and successful and incorruptible. (Perhaps.)

I think you could say we're the Big Three of whatever. We're A-list but we're very ambitious and rebellious/revolutionary, and we aren't afraid of anything. The existing A-list is mainly an acaseum-written A-list and therefore can't last. Offlist these picked winners mock and deride the very SFMOMA show they're in and say it's all bullshit. G2K, nn, and Eryk all are immune to museums and their displeasure; it only makes us stronger.

What to do, what to do.

My instincts tell me that this "OK art's dead" posture is a way for the institutions to give a little ground but keep the lease, invoking a new Victorian age of Gilbert and Sullivan websites. I say no to the Mikado, no to HMS Pinafore, I say take the whole fucking lease and drive the swine out Areopagitica-style. Stick and move, stick and move, until we get these fuckers in a corner for the hard nosebreaker.

Max Herman

Feb. 20 2001

From: Eryk Salvaggio <fluxis@mediaone.net>
To: Nicholas Hermann <NHerman@hga.com>
Date: 2/19/01 9:17PM
Subject: Re: Fwd: [Genius2000Conference2000] Eryk doesn't like NN too much.I'm infatuated. who's correct?

Max, do me a favor and remind the rhizome community- in your
own words- that net.art was declared dead by Eryk Salvaggio
and that my retirement letter was more to the heart of it
then whatever Amerika could have said.

I'm reproducing it here. You never sent many comments concerning
the matter anyway...

===============

I have lost the nervous wonder of that first attempt to find a
voice.
The heartbreak of nervous joy has been replaced by the heartbreak
of
every extended hand unseen by Those Who Would Be Touched. I have
created
some of the ironically self referential monstrosities I'd long to
destroy.

There is no longer a refresh button on the internet art world. We
cannot
resist any longer the pressures from the institutions. For what
we have
given them, we still can not eat. The exhaust from the machine
thins
enough to see the walls we are surrounded by in this gas chamber,
and we
ask them to burn more so we may be illusioned once again.

We have become a hierarchy. We have become an institution. We
have lost
the chance to express our hopes to those who cannot afford the
cable
modems and leisure time to surf this world wide web of fractured
and
compromised ideologies.

Our fists broke through the walls of scrutiny only to be
amputated and
sold for steak and wine, at the expense of those beneath us,
climbing on
top of each other to see whats at the top of this pile, only to
be
amputated and fed. Who else have we inspired to climb not into
truth but
into this harsh illusion that serves to insulate us from it? Does
anyone
really believe that net.art can still change these structures?

I dreamed of a vast interconnected world of silent coders
creating ten
million variations and translations of a single manifesto: "We
are the
ones who could not be heard, and this is the bullhorn which will
shatter
your eardrums."

And we have Steve Dietz at the Walker declaring that voice dead,
before
it could ever even be seen, before reality could shatter the
hallways of
the Guggenheim or Moma. Truth is not representational: while we
describe
the newest work by Shulgin and Bookchin, there is a world of
brilliant
and radiating decay going ignored. There is a world of
significance
behind the irony we feel essential to critical academic worth in
art. As
our one trick ponies get food, fame and lecture opportunities, we
get
table scraps, false promises, dangling carrots from those who
observe us
and report on our doings but never stop to feed the starving work
horses.

There is a world of refusal hiding beneath the gears of this
machine. A
refusal ensures they come to a halt; a refusal ensures that you
remain
as steadfastly uncorrupted as you can be by the world outside of
yourself. How can we make this world better? How can we do the
best
thing? How can any of us call it "art" when "art" is supposed to
be that
which inspires us to do great things, to give unselfishly of our
love,
to cast our dollar votes for a steady course of progress as
opposed to
flash software, domain hosts, internic fees? Do we really believe
that
our art is a valid allottment for these votes, that this money we
put
towards our art is best spent on our art, and not in the stomachs
or
spirits of the weak, starving and sick? Is antiorp's software
sales
saying anything more important than her previous "beautiful
spectacle"
mode? Is the question of how ________ relates to previous theory
really
more important than the billions of geocities sites of people
screaming
to be seen in this tragic and gorgeous confusion?

Inside of some of us is this aim in art: To improve the space we
live in
while we live in it. For every moment to taste better because of
its
inevitable end. And the network exists; the people who wonder
about
these questions, who demand that they be asked. There are also
those who
wonder silently, for the fear that they are alone in it, from the
corrupting effects of irony, convienience, and the
self-destructing
nature of words. It was my aim to break forward these questions,
but I
too have been corrupted: The one who questions such things out
loud gets
no where. Don't speak of your ideals too loudly or you may be
held to
them later, when they have inevitably been abandoned.

I demand a world where this is not inevitable, where truth is
still
honored, and where the right questions get asked. Not of whether
the
institutions have won, of dubious friendships affecting outcomes
of
careers, or why we are excluded. But questions of: How do I
improve this
place?

The continued existence of new work created for public
consumption only
supports the structure which leaves me hungry, flinging cake
batter
overnights onto pans for the wealthy to complain about;
surrounded by
rats and filth and the smell of grease traps like excrement. The
removal
of my work is a direct and meaningless accusation against the
culture of
corporate museums buying as many commercials for individual
powerartists
as they can afford. I masquerade more and more every day for
thier
benefit. I write texts to create a softer pillow for thier
validity.
Even my protests feed the power image of these imaginary
disneylands of
paint, networks and placards.

I feel that I have convinced myself of a meaning in my work which
does
not exist; I feel that I have convinced myself that my ideas were
too
large to accomplish. I forgot that the sound of the statue
cracking is
nowhere near as perfect as the sound of the crowd cheering as
they try
and topple it. That beauty is in the struggle, not merely the
victory.

I have settled for the safe route of lectures, exhibits,
conferences,
alliances, associations. I feel I can't continue this path
anymore: I
have asked myself the questions I feel important, and I have
found that
this method is not the best manner in which to create even my
futile
attempts. This is not the hollow surface my fist can bring
resonance to.
In these empty gestures there is room enough to breathe for just
one
second. In the empty gestures dedicated to anything else, there
is only
suffocation.

This is my sad refusal to take part any longer in the compromise,
in the
spectacle of new media. This is my sad refusal to pretend any
longer
that I have an answer, or that anyone else does.

-eryk salvaggio
December 6th, 2000