An order innate to the book of verse exists inherently or everywhere, eliminating chance; it's also necessary, to eliminate the author: now, any subject is fated to imply, among the fragments brought together, a strange certainty about its appropriate place in the volume. It is susceptible to this because any cry possesses an echo -- motifs of the same type balance each other, stabilizing each other at a distance, and neither the sublime incoherence of a romantic page, nor that artificial unity that adds up to a block-book, can provide it. Everything is suspended, an arrangement of fragments with alternations and confrontations, adding up to a total rhythm, which would be the poem stilled, in the blanks; only translated, in a way, by each pendant.
// Mallarmé, "Crisis of Verse"
I'll be at the CHAT Festival at UNC-Chapel Hill this week. Some interesting talks are planned, and my thesis is displayed amongst the "digital art." If NC folk will be there, come say hi. I'm the one with the blonde dreads.
I'm finding that strange work, my thesis -- which now looks intensely ugly to me, though I still have unnatural love for it -- is increasingly pinned down as art, rather than criticism. Like the "art world" -- whatever that may be; its discourses, at least -- are more open, more used to, perhaps even expect to encounter form as rhetoric. Something inside me cringes at this. I'm not against tagging myself as an artists; I'd just rather not be penned in on either side of that fence.
Anyway, come out if you're around.