1.

You need good and effective PR, a promo text; rear, under, and con text, FB, Instagram and all that jazz. If you want to be visible, even though nobody is looking anymore, to talk nothing about actually seeing. A photograph is a shot in the eye, is a word a shot in the mouth. I'm not delving deep into anything, and no, I'm not on the cusp of any new idea, nor form, nor new viewpoint or vision, not even a new perspective. Don't even talk to me about potential new terror/theoretical postulates. No. And yeah, “smartass churned out drivel”, “quasi-philosophical masturbation”, and most of the locally-sourced “theoretical manure” are really starting to piss me off. I likewise have no patience for spiritual bipeds. And while we're at it, why don't they just walk around on all fours? Yeah, all of this work is pointless, futile. And so is mine, sure. It's putting lipstick on a pig, one big ol' bag of makeup. It's like squeezing blood from a stone. Art in this country has become a hostage to words, theory, text, tenders, criteria... Art pays obeisance to these masters (and the curator). We all have to have an opinion about it, get off on it, her, him. Even as artists, we've become slaves to the system. Artoids. An intelligent text on bad art? No, thanks. The impressive deviance of the present and a human trip for those who write about it. No. Art? I ran into it this time purely by chance. Above all, we exchanged no words.

2.

The exhibition, which has yet to happen, will feature work that's already happened. The really latest artworks are really simple, extremely simple, easy to understand, uncomplex. So, they're neither complex, nor multi-layered, not even smart, they might even be dumb, but they're certainly primitive in a way. For some of the visitors – few and far between – they will be ugly. Maybe the works are bad, or maybe they're just stupid, as I think they are. Absurd artwork, stupid artwork. Primitive, but also backwards, so not frontal, not facial, but backwards, backstabbing, perhaps you could say them come from the derriere. Whatever has a mouth at the front, has an exit at the back, so has it been written. Back there, from omega to omega. Since my space is getting smaller and smaller and since everyone involved in Slovene art in general and further afield has less and less funding, and consequently less energy, I have reduced my production to a meter of space and a cent of production. To bits and pieces, excerpts, and scraps. I now mostly work on the street and from the street. The only material available here is scrap paper and cardboard, as well as rainwater. That's enough to start. The only thing I need then is two hands and palms with 10 fingers and no tools. No tools and no technology. I realise that I'm currently writing about my art on a computer and I'm thinking: “Fucked up the connection between the text and the artwork.” Or no-work.

3.

Then there's a story, though I don't like personal stories. A story is always personal and as such – his or hers – always individual and particular, i.e. exclusive. Every story is also a loss, since it has an ending; I think a story has no “to be continued”. All this shit started on a dark and stormy night, I think it was Sunday, 12 November 2017. I once again felt like I needed to change the place and substance, that's to say the location and content of my life and work. But where to go? I was somewhat at the end of my path. And outside the country's most beautiful city. I feel like a čefur when I'm there anyway. On the edge, next to some back road, so not on the main city street, I chanced on wind-strewn boxes and paper. Even though a sheet of paper is infinitely light, the word paper always seemed a hard, weighed-down word. Everything was soft and slippery from the rain. And covered in dust, dirt, and thrown-away garbage. So me and all of this, coming together, that was pure coincidence. A.B. would call it an “event”. I think of it as the time and space of coincidence. A scattered composition. I was on a first-name basis with these victims of circumstance, with the given material, we jelled; I started an “exchange”, “a constant exchange between hand and substance”, that's what H.F. wrote about a hundred years ago. And there were others after that, followed by still others talking specifically about this: subject and object, in this case he and substance. He, as in XY, not DSD. I crouched, but didn't go down on my knees, the exchange only happened between the hand and material, handling a slimy, soft substance. I faced the material mano a mano (mano is also the Latin word for “hand”), which first becomes substance and then content: the front and back side: paper, cardboard. Skull-pture? You could crack your skull trying to make a living from sculpture in this town. It's neutered, if there was anything hard to begin with. I expected the paper to be pliable, my hand to be dexterous and gentle, despite the softness and wetness, the elusiveness, of the whole situation. My response was centred solely on the existing material in front of me, which I basically received as a gift and in exchange. Rain, i.e. water, are the only help on hand. I crumpled, kneaded – or sphered – the paper, which stuck to itself, or by itself, or even in itself, making little “balls” and slightly lager spheres. But I soon ran out of paper. So I took some more of the cardboard boxes, kneading and combining them with other boxes. Two into one, one from three, even four into one. I kneaded one into the second, the third, the fourth. Being wet, they came together almost by themselves, through themselves into another. A new one? I don't know. But just like time, it sometimes seems one and the same, the same with nothing new. I didn't need tools for any of this, not even glue, no technology, no chemistry or biotechnology. Just physics. So, a box is made up of boxes. Boxes are made up of boxes. And all of the boxes are open at the top and empty inside. Finally, the box turned into a sphere, kneaded into several spheres. The spheres are completely filled, dense, and naturally without light. The whole world and his dog is talking about networking, mingling, flowing, moving... Despite all the balls and boxes, which I released from my hands and left to dry in the air, that's to say hand-led, I'm still here and haven't gone anywhere yet. Neither have I arrived. And the water is still flowing, not just the internet, tap, tap, tapping on windows, and there's a river below, longwater, very long water, there's no end in sight. A river is infinite water, just like speech is an infinite language. The Karawanks and the Kolpa River are two ends, two borders. And it still seems like, today is Friday, 25 May 2018, around six months since I didn't take any steps forward or over, neither did I fill the void. I don't know, maybe it'll fill up just a bit with this exhibition on 6 June 2018.