Thursday, 10 November 2011
Blog 14: Liberation Artists
Chaos has been forgotten, laid to rest. Order and normality rule from the shadows. The systems of control have sought to standardise their inferiors. These standards make us easier to manipulate. We are the prey of corporate predators who would part us from our scavenged wealth at any available opportunity. Too many follow the shepherds laws to their own downfall. The rank odour of corruption haunts the best of governments. The elite write the laws in their favour. We must suffer the crimes against humanity they claim are legal. I chose not to be a fly caught in the web of lies they inhabit. I have chosen my own course in this life. My comrades and I stand against the rule of currency. Our submission will not be bought.
The devil’s in the dollar. Money is the cancer of society. Greed is the worst of it’s symptoms. My family disowned me for liberating a few thousand pounds of their funds to spend on cerebral stimuli. If mind expansion is not a worthy investment what is? Who cares if I can’t remember the entire experience? The photo’s prove I had a good time. My parents should want nothing more. Screw money, why buy when you can take? I am, in the eyes of others, a thief. I prefer to think of myself as a liberation artist.
For every revolution there is an origin. Somewhere it all began. Ours is no different. We reside in the abandoned abode of a former supporter. Unlike his pulse the gracious disposition of Mr Turner never faltered. While not a member he was undoubtedly a pillar of our movement. His home he gave to us, much as his grasping relatives deny it. His portrait bears pride of place atop the mantle of the fire that warms us. He understood us, he had suffered the poisonous envy of his greedy family. To us he gave more than we would ever have asked. For his kin however the wealth he left them is not enough. They would leave us cold for the mementoes of a life they took no interest in. To them his cameras are only worth the price they would reach at sale. He taught us his craft and told us his stories. This home of ours was the reward we earned by seeing him through the last days of his good life. He knew rebellion, his photos document that. They tell of a wit not prostituted to the world. His other work is tacked to walls in endless galleries, gawped at by countless sheep who judge it on the calm it might bring to the tea room. This he hated, a necessary evil he thought. He prostituted his art to sustain his life and passion. He must be forgiven. He was alone, not like I. I have my comrades.
For our crimes we cannot be the glowing hero’s that grace the cinema screens. We are the underground, V’s musketeers. Our rebellion will not be so swift as that of Wat Tylar, John Ball and Jack Straw, nor so quickly crushed. We are the Zealots of the new age, who needs communism? Equality is no issue among friends. In the flickering light of endless dying candles we rule the squalor. The walls of our laboratory bear testament to our experiments, the improvements we have made to Mr Turner’s formulas. From the comfort of the dusty couch we can travel through the mental multiverse. Don’t think us the limp mind addled wasters so often portrayed in National Health Service posters. The daily struggles of the rebellion keep us in shape, enough to outrun all representatives of the constabulary at least. Of all the rooms in the house I think I love the memoriam most. That was the name Mr Turner gave it. In it he had collected all photographic records of his enlightened moments. The walls are plastered with images of good times past, his and ours. It was in foul mood he named the room but in the end we gave him pride in it. That room must never be conquered by normality. It is the shrine to not just our greatest beneficiary but our cause itself. The riot will never end as long as we have that room to remind us of our purpose. All other rooms may fall victim to the destruction that follows chaos, but the memoriam will forever be sacrosanct.
This house speaks more of our talents and torments than any I’ve seen before. The walls are an ever changing canvas. More beauty and soul can be found on any wall of our abode than in all the worlds galleries. Ezio’s murals extend from one end of the house to another and depict various degrees of debauchery in beauteous detail. Whim writes great poetry across not just the walls but doors and tables too. Haze, Whim’s woman, is something of a light technician who can while away the hours watching pulses of shifting electromagnetic radiation. Void, who adds little to the canvas because she is perpetually comatose, was Ezio’s girlfriend until recently when she awoke to a depiction of female nudity from Ezio’s hand in which she could not see her resemblance. Karma, with whom I have shared a fluctuating relationship for some time now, is like me a photographer. These are the constants of the rebellion, others come and go, lured back to capitalism as it preys upon their weakness with greed.
We prey on the outside world in disguise, wearing Venetian masks over balaclavas. The robes of the faithful are crimson hooded tops in which the hood is stitched over the balaclava. Anonymity is a necessity in our line of work. Each top bears the glyph of it’s owner. We have our own runes to mark collection spots and the ease from which their bounty might be freed. If we were religious then I think David Belle would be a Demigod of the faith. His teachings in parkour are a vital strand of our daily lives. When I’m running across the rooftops of the city’s buildings even I don’t need cerebral stimuli. Adrenaline can be the greatest rush for the urban escape artist. We also enjoy the martial arts. At this very moment Whim lies unconscious on a couch as the result of a blow delivered by Ezio during a jousting session this morning. More glorious than that was the occasion when we fought and, after I had paused to take a draw from Haze’s herbal cigar, he removed the spliff and in the same movement sent me on a holiday from the conscious world. Apparently he’d exhaled by the time I hit the floor, I’d wager that it’s just boastful exaggeration but I’ll leave it there, there’s no shame in losing a fight to Ezio. To date only Whim has beaten him and I believe Ezio had made the effort to define blind drunk on both occasions. I like to think of myself as the mind behind the revolution which makes Ezio the muscle and Whim quite possibly the muse. For inspiration of any sort the highs and lows of his emotion are always invaluable if, at times, distressing.
When Whim hit’s a low point it’s in the best interest of the whole troupe to get him back on top form as soon as possible. In the depths of depression he’s a danger to himself and when enraged a danger to all in his path. I think we all bare the scars of Whim’s frenzies. They must be worn as reminders to keep him calm.
In better moods Whim can create great beauty. One example is the meal of a hundred candles he created in honour of three hundred and sixty five days he’d been with Haze. Another example is the three storey high sonnet he wrote for her birthday on a building across the street. For that display Whim earned his place in the papers alongside a depiction of deplorable likeness which insults the beauteous form of our masks. The mask bore greater likeness in its’ portrayal on the areas’ first wanted poster in many decades. The aesthetic qualities of the poster are quite pleasing which is why a copy now adorns the wall of the memoriam.
For all I have seen I could not see the bars of the cage that enclosed me as I was captured by the grasping fingers of our lands insufferable constabulary. Unconsciousness left me unable to run although thankfully I was not in uniform at the time of my arrest. I was charged with vandalism and sentenced to three months imprisonment for my crimes against indifference. The crime in question was to declare my devotion to Karma by carving her name into the wooden panels that cover the exterior of the second floor of the public house she passes near daily to buy her films. I fell and lapsed into unconsciousness whilst trying to gain perspective and ascertain its stage of completion. Karma assured me it looks duly glorious during her first visit as well as calling me a proper daftie.
Murals are appearing on the walls I see from my window and each morning as I rise more colour graces the world outside. These stirring inspirations maintain my sanity within these confines and offset the cruel company. I will withstand beration until the gates of this cage open and I am among my fellows again. The chivalric scoundrels will be re-united and the rebellion of the liberation artists will continue onward. These are the words of Altair circa July 2006.