Here, I will talk about object making, that is, the making of an art object that ascends, as if ex nihilo, into a social space outside the body. Contrary to the illusion this performance of becoming creates, this object is still, definitively, engendered from substances the body encysts. After all, the art object is an artifice spawned from that bloody, septic residuum of the body’s own regurgitations. The body calls itself I, (despite the name that binds it to its capital
equivalence, which, when uttered, conjures the ghastly speculative image of itself) and by association,the object calls itself I (and the other names that belong to its entrapment, respectively). The object wants to stand on a soapbox and declare itself an agent of investigation like some sort of art-fag deity. The object tries really hard not to participate in the secret encroachment of the flattening of all things, sprung from the grinding, that funny singsong sound which is actually a sound made by an army of tiny invisible motors, turning in ceaseless revolutions, tucked into every fold and every corner of the earth’s candy-shell crust, which cracks and perspires and crystallizes in infinite regenerative and degenerative cycles. What has become of me as I write this? How can I talk about what The Articulation does to the body, when the art object is ascending, ex nihilo, becoming the body itself and the body wonders: am I the art object? Have I not become yet? How can I stand on my soapbox when I am not finished and when does the finishing end? Sometimes it hurts and the body must again become a junkie driving down the 405, or a cocktail waitress, or the drunk who buys her a shot and doesn’t bother to hide his erection cuz fuck it, tonight doesn’t even exist anyway.