I will dance and sweat. And we are young and hot and know it. And we sweat. I need to move.
That's what I normally do at art events or parties. Out of sheer helplessness. They make me nervous.
And I'm not as flexible as one might assume, considering that I swim like you in this slick but
surprisingly sticky neoliberal swamp. So, I dance. It still seems wrong to me to work at parties. And
I apologize. I am quite a boring performance artist. I am mainly fucking with redundancy. Actually,
I am not a performance artist. I do pictures. Mostly photographs. I'm quite impatient. And I write
texts which are often only notes to myself. I still try to understand how my work functions. I write
but I am not very good at talking, especially not at exhibition openings or parties. Which is, as we
know, a real disadvantage these days and tonight. I mostly feel funny and produce
misunderstandings, or talk too loud about my private life, or what I don't like. I get cheesy, even.
And nobody is interested by that. So I dance. This is no mistake, but access, maybe, I am not sure. I
dance. Less to celebrate rather to be, and maybe feel myself a little more. To think. I am nervous.
Maybe that's good though. Did we have breakfast? My performances are rather redundant. Usually I
only do performances during openings of my shows. But I am not sure whether performance is even
the right term for my redundant fumblings. I sometimes prepare food which you see already in the
pictures on view. Or food which resembles or translates what you see in the pictures. Shrimp
chips resemble honey-pig's ears quite a bit, for example. And I am happy when I manage to
repeatedly mumble a few prepared lines at the same time. Even if nobody gets them. Today I dance.
Which is kind of redundant too. Eat me. The cooking of things already in the pictures on view,
produces some time warp, and plays with a literal instability or, if you will, timely elasticity, image
permeability. But it still makes for a redundant performance, of course. I choose food maybe also
because I'd like to get softer, gentler. Not as effervescent, more zen, more productively aggressive,
and more vulnerable. Put the body on the table. Appetite always has something to do with
destruction. As food does desire. Is it hot? Do you sweat? I need a second gallery. My pictures
sweat all the time. Delicate drops of sweat which again you will not be able to remove. Smooth-On
Crystal Clear 202 Water Clear Urethane Casting Resin made specifically for applications that
require clarity. Or they cry. And you? Sometimes they also puke. All is leaky and leaks through.
Okokokok, fuck. Eat me. I am fascinated by the shapes of Morris Louis Veils. At the moment I'm
working on pictures of puréed lentils inspired by his 1950s series. Something between shit and
concrete in the shapes of Morris Louis Veils. (Apparently Louis was a loner, they say he had few
friends and rarely discussed his art with anyone, not even with his wife.) This process, sounds and
all, of cooking and puréeing, spreading and smearing and photographing these carefully overcooked
lumpy lentils evoking shit and concrete is very satisfying. And I'm about to try the same with sticky
sweet white icing. Now I dance. How ridiculous. To be there, here and withdraw in one single
move. I will not drown. Not in this swamp. I never wanted an assistant. I like to laugh about my
own jokes. How regressive is concrete and shit? How regressive do I need it to be? What makes up
a picture? Morris Louis Veils are great also because of their colours: Instead, the surface exudes
glorious greens, blues, and violets, whose coolness is heightened by the contrasting tongues of
yellow and orange that protrude across the top edge. Protruding tongues of yellow and orange,
drenched in blood and cut out. I currently tend to remove the colours. Some like to watch me dance.
Next time I'm born in 1981. 2015 was heavy. Although I fell in love. A year never tired me like this
one. December was hard. And it was too warm, at least in Berlin. All the year’s news seemed to
have accumulated and lumped into a dead and desperate, and quite wearing weight on my little
shoulders. A weight that could not be danced away, I tried. (You watched me dance.) Or maybe I
just get old. And everything’s ensnarled and lumps and thus is relentlessly hopeless, hopeless
rather than romantic. Fuck Young-Girls. Or weak? Now I feel numbed. Touched not by news or
any of this. And I cannot cry offhand. Does this make any difference? Everybody seems to get
wasted all the time. Am I lazy? I don't know what's more wrong. Do I understand? Did I listen? Am
I here? What is the common ground? We want a pony plan. Puréed lentils, concrete and shit or
sweet and sticky icing veils. I sweat. I am pale. Someone is playing with my hair. I have less time. I
don't want the problems to pile up like fucking pancakes. In the end you'll eat me. No. Eat me.
Lisa Holzer, June 2016