RothStauffenberg: Based on a True Story
Edition Patrick Frey
ISBN 978-3-905509-74-8

Wednesday, September 3, 2008 -- A large explosion in a Video parlour blast in the Ethiopian capital kills six.

Wednesday October 01, 2008 -- Fifteen men have died and 10 more people have been injured after a suspected arson attack on an all-night adult video parlour in Osaka, Japan.

The other day I was summoned to the Williamsburg studio of the tall, curly headed Swiss artist Christoph Draegger to help him prevent a disaster—tying down an oversized art work to the roof of his car for transport to the gallery. The perversity of the occasion hit us fast and hard; that in order to prevent a disaster, we must first presuppose it.

Tjorg Douglas Beer
Salonu Istambul/Observation Deck
Produzentengalerie Hamburg

While Tjorg Douglas Beer’s works previously collaged disparate iconography, confuting the viewer with abstracted associations of power versus the everyday, in the Salonu there is a distinct predominance of Islamic characters and militaristic residue. Of course, the artist might contend that as his studio was located in a Muslim region of Hamburg, Shemaghs and Hijabs (head scarves) are fashion and religion alike. And there is an interesting sensitivity in this; that in order for iconography to denude itself, to exist in its most malleable state, it must shift in context to cultural characteristics.

On the telephone, artist Wolfgang Staehle stated that I should get out of the house, that we all should get out of the house. ‘It is a kind of exercise.’ He suggested a small gathering at 149 Ludlow. The ground floor was being prepped for a sound installation by THE THING residency artist Mukul Patel, and a table could be set centre to host 8 to 10 people, sipping on bouillabaisse.

It is a very grand idea, indeed, to have a dinner party and an installation simultaneously. I was there.

I ran into Mikael Vojinovic the other night at a Black Book party.

We met early afternoon at her Williamsburg loft, overlooking the East River. I had promised to show Nin how to transform her recipe for crepes into pancakes. We proceeded by way of exact measure. The results were questionable. The space between Kent Avenue and the river was remarkably quiet, punctuated by the occasional call of a seagull. We ate crepe-cakes and chatted.