Victor Boullet

Be sceptical, do NOT let the Government lead you - rather, let the bleeding RIOT begin.
Problem Government 2017, DIE (Nous Protestons) EUROPE.

--

2014 - PART 1 - DU GEHST - CEREMONIAL SYSTEM 
Place Franz Liszt
Place Franz Liszt 
75010 Paris

Rostropovich for me. 

Provenance - McEwan’s Export can, found at Kurt Schwitters the Merz Barn / shed, Ambleside, England, 2013. Reused for the ongoing question; does provenance have any importance? Paris 2013

Public Polemic Practice 2013-15

 

###Forgot about all this

and some more #TBT(tbt wtf)

THOU ADIDAS MONGER 2011-12 - ItalY. 
all my size - 38cmX46 - painting as we speak. monger pong punter.

214 Fulham Palace Road London / My Kitchen - 1997
download to come. 300dpi - print out. original. 

 

Estate of VB. Archive 1991 - 2014
Carving it Clean Down to the Bone  - 2017

Carving myself Clean, right Down to my own Bone  - I guess I'll do this in the year 2017?

My Kempff - My Kempff

suck swallow
Marker pen Talent man said: Marble Sofa - Benie squad -  2019 
(#tbt) (#tbt) tuseaday

I Became Me, I Didn’t Like That.

“These canvases don’t critique, complain and they don’t lean left nor right. They have unintention- ally healed me.”

“Today’s radical artists are tainted with their own hypocrisy, they are the sole workers of the nepo- tism exploited in the arts. They are the bourgeois snobs with cowardly needs for sectarian control. The radical has become today’s SALON.”

The two quotes above are mine, plucked away from this writing. I have pasted them back in, and on the top, to manifest my self-importance and how damaging that is to me.

For Copenhagen. (the show got cancelled)

Ullet Road in Liverpool and the negativity that I derive from it, is a personal problem. Ullet Road has pushed my narcissistic behaviour, and it’s resulting material, to an all time high. Losing control over it, and the material in Copenhagen, was never part of any plan. I respect my paintings, but I don’t respect what they may ultimately represent.

Whether my paintings will have any historical relevance in the future is, to me, completely irrele- vant. I question much of the art being produced - most art produced today is sur plus to require- ment. I read a book on the 10 Irish hunger strikers that died in 1981. I can make a sculpture in- spired by that book. Why should I do that? If I did do that, the title would be “There are No Prob- lems Other Than Your Own Problem”. Why mention this? Simply because I want to distance my- self from producing such surplus art.

I will insist that this work, the canvases, is not surplus work created for sale or for the white cube and its many hypocritical shows. My two-faced attitude of sending the work to Copenhagen is questionable. Am I desperate for another mail-out to the many people that I don’t know?

I have, over the phone with Copenhagen, uttered a few vague wishes regarding the hanging, you know, how, what and where. It’s all out of my control. Other than that, I want the work back, as I always do. Where I then store the work is what I drastically need to change within my practice. Art being stored for the future is questionable indeed! - I will come back to that at some later stage, this is not the time, but it has to do with surplus and self important behaviour, and it needs to stop.

When a young inexperienced animal chases a bird and it actually catches the prey, the game is over. The bird is dead and will be eaten. But, the game is truly over for the hunter, who now mas- ters the hunt. And that is what we all crave, becoming and being seen as the master.

(Second week into residency of self / d.o.m.e. Berlin)

I feel numb, but I might get out of bed today. I have trapped myself in a luxury cage, a prize win- ner’s crib. 3rd floor. 130sqm, Schøneberg, Berlin. Renting. Price? Non of your business.

19:07, 17 oct. 2015, I had just got off the Ubahn and was standing on the corner Potsdamerstraße / Kurfürstenstraße. I was on the phone with a friend, and out of the corner of my eye I saw a man with a walking stool, with wheels, pushing it and himself into the road, the traffic was intense, I thought, ‘bloody oafish drunk’. I hung up as the man looked over and started talking to me in German. I thought, why me, why do they always have to talk to me? I answered, I don’t speak German, yet. He quickly switched to English, and good English. This was a schooled drunk, is what I thought. He asked, can you help me cross the road. I uttered a superficial, yes I can. I was on my way to an art opening, and the friend I had spoken to on the phone had mentioned a second opening, so I was on my way to two separate art openings. i.e. very busy.

He, the drunk, was a tall man in his late 50s, curly dark hair. He was wearing jeans, a knitted pullover and a dark stained duvet jacket. His face was slightly misshapen and he was in need of a shave. He looked at me with quiet, small, dark eyes, desperate eyes, and said, thank you. The penny dropped, I asked, do you have MS? Yes, YES, I’ve got MS, he answered.

The light turned green, I took his arm and started to walk. To my amazement he was not able to walk, only drag his feet along the ground. His walking chair, on wheels, was in a poor condition. We reached the middle of road and the light turned red. We had to walk back to where we had started. As I tried to turn around, he pushed the walking chair in the other direction by accident. His feet were cemented to the ground. The next thing I knew he was starting to fallover in the middle of Potsdamerstraße. I was losing him, his arm was slipping out of my grip, the cars were coming from all directions. He was heavy and becoming heavier. Holding onto both him and his chair at the same time was a hopeless endeavour. As a matter of fact we were now both falling over. I looked around, panicking; I was in need of urgent help. A man of Indian descent, a man that sells roses on the street to people in love, saw what was going on. He rushed out into the busy road and assisted us.

Finally we found our way back to the corner where it all started. The cars were rushing by. With help from the rose salesman, I got the MS-passenger onto his homemade seat; this was not a wheelchair, but a wobbly walking chair. The light turned green, I started rolling him over Pots- damerstraße. He explained how it should be done. One wheel onto the pavement at a time and come in from an angle. As we approached the other side of the street. He lifted one hand and placed it behind his head, like he was protecting his skull. I had to be gentle to avoid tipping him over and crushing his skull on Potsdamerstraße, that simply could not happen.

We made it safely onto the pavement of Potsdamerstraße. I asked him in what direction he was heading, hoping he just wanted to buy an apple at the turkish market on the corner. I want to go two streets up, he answered. Two streets up Kurfürstenstraße. meant that I had to wheel him and his cobbled walking chair by one of the art openings, at a trendy Berlin gallery. Or, more precisely, I had to wheel him through the actual crowd on the pavement outside. Crap, was the first word that came to mind. I looked down, at the asphalt, looked at my feet, well placed on mother earth. This is it Mr Boullet, wheel him with pride through the beer drinking art crowd. Who cares, just help him.

So I started to pushed him along Kurfürstenstraße. The seat was mounted inside the walking chair, so he was facing me like a toddler as I was pushing him. His feet were resting on a homemade bar and they occasionally fell to the ground and was dragged along Kurfürstenstraße. I walked with both arms outstretched to avoid tripping over his feet, legs or knees. I felt extremely uncomfortable with the situation, especially about the way I looked, leaning over this sick man. Why me?

We approached Gallery Tanya Leighton. There they stood, the artists, on the pavement, free beer. I passed them with my art piece, Untitled (MAN WITH MS / FOUND CHAIR, WHEELS) 2015. Not one single person looked or paid attention to me, him, my jacket, his shoes, my glasses, the chair, the walk, his hair, my belt, his jumper or my Lee jeans.

My passenger and I arrived at the second street corner, Kurfürstenstraße. and Blumenthastraße. Here we are, he said. He grabbed his right leg, just above the knee, and lifted it onto the street, and then did the same with his left leg. I took his arm and helped him out of his wobbly chair, he stood up and thanked me for helping him. I nodded and said It was a pleasure.

I quickly turned around and walked back the way I had come. I entered the gallery, the newer space, which is on the other side of the original gallery. An art film was being screened. I had a quick peak round, saw a familiar face, exchanged some superficial words, and crossed the road into Tanya Leighton’s original space. This all took less then five minutes.

I walked back up Kurfürstenstraße, turned right into Blumenthastraße, crossed the street, thinking about what I was going to eat tonight. I passed one of many building entrances on that street, and

there he was again, the man with MS. This time he was desperately hanging onto the door and his bloody chair. I stopped, and helped him back into his chair. I asked, can I do something for you, his answered, no, not really, I’m just not sure if I have come to the right address? His project was so impossible and idiotic in my eyes. I looked at the names next to the doorbells, and read them out loud. No, it’s not here, maybe the next door down, he said.

I poked my head out and looked down the road, thinking, ok, that is not too far. I wheeled him to the next entrance door. He was facing towards the street, so again I read the names of the resi- dents out loud . I started from the top left and read them row by row ,until, finally, he said JA. Thank god we found the right place. Neuwirth / Albrecht. I rang the doorbell. Waited for the German voice, but no flipping answer? I rang it again, this time with a slight panic, please answer, if not what will I do?

Then the man with MS turned his head towards me and said, I think they might be waiting for me at my place. What, really? I said. Yes, you see, they wanted to come and see me, but I wanted to walk up and see them, I wanted to visit them. Bloody stubborn bugger, is what I thought.
He said, I will wait here till they come. Ok, I said. He thanked me for all the help. I smiled, nodded and left.

I walked down to Eden Eden, Bortolozzi’s second space or rather her project space. I visited Eden Eden when she had her first show there, the space was truly different then, I remember. I strongly disagree with the changes she has made, but there is still a little of the old space left intact. That corner, Blumenthalstraße and Bülowstraße remindes me of Oslo for some reason. And that it used to be a pharmacy, I like that.

At Eden Eden I recognised two men that came with the same Ubahne as I did, from Kotterbusser Tor. The show was noisy and smelly, I liked that part. I bumped into an acquaintance, a nice per- son, we exchanged hellos, small talk, I asked if she wanted to meet up for coffee, since I was in Berlin. The answer, or how I understood the answer, was that we could maybe have a coffee in December. In other words, we could have a coffee in two months. Someone else grabs the artist’s attention, I nodded and went on with my business. Forget the coffee, doesn’t really matter, and I understand. What I saw as a good art piece at that show, was in fact not part of the show. I even took a picture of those bunkbeds.

Half hour before I helped the my MS passenger on the corner Potsdamerstraße / Kurfürstenstraße. I was climbing the stairs at Kottbusser Tor to get the Ubahne to Kurfürstenstraße. I had two men on my right, and I crossed in front of them just as I got to the platform floor. I recognised an English accent, a London accent to be specific, the other fellow was German. I didn’t turn my head, but I slowed down, to see if I could catch a few phrases. I picked up that the German was offering something from his rucksack and that the Londoner was bothered, but at the same time wanted what was offered. I understood that they didn’t know each other that well, and that was why I got curious. I walked on and decided to spy some more from distance.

The Ubahne arrived, we got on. The doors slid shut and I walked two carriages down, towards where the same two were sitting. I decided to stand opposite them and listen in on their conversa- tion. The Londoner looked up at me twice, he reminded me of Chiwetelu Ejiofor. They were dressed rather similarly, both had a cap and a rucksack. I don’t like caps. They had that familiar cool urban uniform. It struck me, of course, they must be heading to the same opening as me, they looked the part. 8 stops to go, what could I do? I noticed that the Londoner used the word like too often when he spoke. I decided to count how many times he actually used the word like

The Londoner got a bottle of Coke Zero out, he drank some, or almost all, and then handed the bottle to the German, who wiped the top and then drank what was left. Not sure I would have done that. They talked about DJ-ing, and that some friend of the Londoner in London had been ripped off. He had DJ’ed for three hours and was paid £75. The German reacted by turning his head and uttering, really, was is das 75 pounss, whass number is das? They laughed, because what I think is that they thought they had a similar moral standard regarding what one would accept or not as payment. However, I would put money on the fact that both of these men would have played that same gig for less than £75.

The train approached Kurfürstenstraße station, The Londoner had used the word like 57 times. And I can’t remember any more from their conversation, multi-tasking is a challenge.

Victor Boullet Berlin 2015 

http://www.victorboullet.com/saturn-flamingo TUESDAY STUFF - yukkmuffin


and disappionment words 2013.
and disappionment words 2013.

 

La Collection Moderne (Oslo)
I am the flesh colour I did not apply. 

My practice uncovers hypocrisy and hidden facts. This is all subjective, of course. I’m not trying to achieve some aesthetically pleasing utopia.
I have no rules regarding material used for my expression. I am on a constant search for information.
Gossip, a wonderful material that I force into my aesthetics, so work like “I am the flesh colour I did not apply” (paintings) becomes activated for social viewing. 
In Oslo, These paintings are stored in a room under earth level. The Norwegian soil was dug out by my family in the early 50’s so they could create a concrete storage room with a garage over.
When young the entrance to this room was very dramatic and at times scary. Non of which matters, not for me, you or the paintings that comes from this place.
The content of these images comes from another place. And exactly that, I am forcing this foreign content into action, I am activating their superficial surfaces, colour and form, by giving them, these painless panels, a provenance of existential value. I am trying to justify their existents by becoming their redundant master. 

At LCM the work is outside of my control and comfort zone. The work survives with excellence, but do I survive, because I will now be defined as a painter? This social definition plain is part of my work, but the pieces are separated from this contextual way of thinking. My work and I are two different entities. This separation of representation is what I have to accept as my future practice.
Therefore I have removed from this text passages like: 

Grey speaks a muted language. Green is a colour that spring from the earth, it is life. Light blue could be heaven, but it’s not, therefore violated.
Light blue hangs as a reminder, therefore present. I am the flesh colour I did not apply. I am a depressed pig. 

The art that is traded among artists is the most interesting art collections of today. The work can only be seen in artist’s homes, hanging, leaning or hidden. The work is often naked, raw and without content. The work represents acceptance, a gesture of appreciation or friendship. The work is rarely rooted in capitalism or art production. 
I want to be represented in homes where I have forced myself in. 

The work has a dual purpose. They will be used as capital for trading. Where they become part of someones life. i.e. I am then represented in a domestic environment like a social oil parasite. 
Victor Boullet. Liverpool. Berlin. Oslo. 4.5.15 

Note. At LCM the series LEE 32W 33L, 2015, 16 unique, signed piece will be given away to you if LCM is localised through your art network in Oslo. 

suck swallow - suck swallow x 13 - tanmanUnder my Black Sun

I Live Sand - Live Under a Black

(#tbt) (#tbt) tuseaday Tirsdag din kødd! 


RICK love me! loves me, I received a text from RICK! 

 

 

The Acceptances in Action. (part 1)
VB 2013 

“A place one falls down” 
Is how the Eskimo describes the cliff that one jumps off to commit suicide.

“We have no rear view mirror” 
Is how James Hetfield justified Metallica’s need for progression.

Am I in need of a pretentious essay that can plough through what was not seen in NO SEX NO FACE NO NOSE? And this pretentious essay, or should I use the English word, to try, no, should I say attempt, yes, attempt is the word, that is the word I choose attempt. Here is the dyslexic attempt, a press-release posing as an essay, hiding behind the word attempt. I will attempt to justify nothing. 

I am carving some self important thoughts into an electronic field so that I can be read, pathetic really. To write is an action. To read is an action. To accept is an action. Being pathetic is a form of behaviour, based on, in may case, an action. 

I, Victor Boullet lived with an art critic for five days. I slept next to the art critic. I heard him snore, an art critic snoring! 

I, Victor Boullet, the artist, constructed an art show with an art critic present. I worked, I painted, I used the colours green and grey. I had flags and rubbish in my suitcase, I made art. Art? But we, ate chicken. Chicken? 

Was it art mannerisms that I performed in NO SEX NO FACE NO NOSE? Did he, the art critic notice my pretentious false art gestures? Did the art critic see me apply the paint? Did he hear me, those sounds of suffering, the human grunts I gave off while painting. Was I pretending to be Glenn Gould moaning while playing, suffering through Bach’s Goldberg’s variations (1981). Did the art critic see straight through my faceless facade of nothing? Do they, the art critics, the art critics see, or hear, the nothingness, the hollow attempts, the shallow approach, the nil? Do they see those lifeless actions, actions from a man desperate for acceptance. Actions of self promotion in order to climb the ladder of success. 

(I repeat words so that it becomes more interesting, an art effect I guess)

Example, I will write, I will write, I will write, I will have to write or, might write, might write, or, should write, should write for the eternal self obsessed legacy. Estate of this and that. 

Some people have looked into my eyes and said; By writing an essay you can make a difference. Several human beings also believe that with some paint strokes added to a canvas you can express yourself, you can even express change they say. To my surprise in our society today it does nothing, nothing, never. Just cash.

Please be disappointed, stay disappointed, obey your disappointment, yes the latter, you, the viewer are the disappointment, you harbour your own sad disappointment that you need to understand and define. You are on idle speed, therefor disappointment, I am so sorry to be the one to inform you. You suffer from Idleism.

I will follow and obey. Obey, If I don’t obey, if not, if not, what can happen? Who really cares? Plant a seed, look, look, enjoy growth, that is action, the rest is all human illusion.

As I was self excessively preoccupied documenting my art and the art critics life in the NO SEX NO FACE NO NOSE (STIAN GABRIELSEN IS AN ART CRITIC) I never came to any conclusion about my future as an artist, other than what I have already expressed through my work. oh yes, my work, I should emphasise that, my work, my art work, I am my work. I my AM I work. 

(a digression, need to look at this. You meet them, the people in the art world, they ask; what are you up to these days? I should answer; what do you want me to be up to? but I don't, I must remember this for next time.)

I have decided to share some snaps, photo snaps or are they photographs, I will come back to this, this, being the definition of my photographs, there I go again, photographs is the word I choose, and not snaps or photos. Among the images below you can choose to see what you want to see, but do you see what I see? Do you hear what hear? Do you do what I do?

Below, in the snaps, photo snaps, photos or photographs you can see the art critic, Stian Gabrielsen at work. But look at how he integrates into the work and the space so easily, without any hesitance, this worries me. I am not at all sure that we should entirely believe what we read or see these days. I have even doubts about our own history, being art or whatever, why should we trust someone who writes? Or who has written something that makes us throw our hands in the air. I am not at all sure, I hesitate over everything.

I was given a white cube, a shabby white cube far, far up in the north of Norway, where hardly anyone lives. Reindeer. Will I ever be upgraded? An artist in a pristine beautiful white cube, do I need to be upgraded? In which case I would have to update my CV and personal web site? Oh, I might need to ad a studio@ email address, that will project seriousness. Should I change my domain to .org or .net? or even .biz 

I do wonder if I should have left the art critic Stian Gabrielsen there, in that shabby white cube, the art critic abandoned for a few weeks in my art, art work, art piece, art installation, art, art, god forsaken art rubbish art talk.

Once branded a loser, you’ll remain a loser, and the ways out that the branders provide you with are actually tools for digging yourself further into an inescapable nightmare, and a “good day” is one in which you are simply left alone for once. Chris Kraus’s Summer of Hate (Semiotext(e), 2012)

Let me present myself, my name is Victor Boullet and I ask myself why? why as in why am I here, why do I need to do this. Pretentiously why. Arrogantly why. Why why. For all the good reasons on this planet, our beautiful mother earth, I ask myself why why? 

(Should write a paragraph containing a view on Van Gogh's wooden clogs (that would be good)

This is a press release hiding behind the terminology, an essay, or in my case an written attempt explaining NO SEX NO FACE NO NOSE, no, I will compare my work to a chicken, I am poultry, a domestic fowl to be exact. Let’s say, my art practice is chickens, or maybe, ducks, no, I will stick to the wonderful domesticated chicken as my allegory.

Pluck a chicken and you will have feathers. Make a meal out of the bird, and you wont be hungry. Boil the bones, make soup or stock, a second feeding. Use the bones for tools or other implements. This is how I look at my own art practice, everything can be reused just like little chickens given qualities for domestic survival. I am a chicken. I could type more rubbish like this, or should I find my way back to the content of this attempt press release essay.

Entertainment, what is entertainment? Just involve everyone that you know and have been in contact with your whole life and then entertain them? Promote yourself and make it all seem bigger than it is, was, will be, is that entertainment? No, entertainment is making other folk not becoming bored by you, or your way of promoting your existence and birth given creative talent. What was Mozart? W A Mozart was in my view a social puppet pushed into the limelight because he was born with a talent. He could have been born with Down’s syndrome, he would have then been pushed into an other art institution and that for people with rare deceases with or without talent. (Have to mention, the directors of all Institutions are the same regardless. watch out!) 

Kurt Cobain managed to make me see, not hear, but see and then understand the word, the word entertainment. It popped out in his lyric like a sore thumb and changed something, something inside me, that something is still changing and is just as new and fresh as it was that day in 1991, and it has nothing to to with Kurt, his death or his band. 

With the lights out, it's less dangerous
Here we are now, entertain us
I feel stupid and contagious
Here we are now, entertain us
A mulatto
An albino
A mosquito
My libido
A denial !! [x9] (x9 is fantastic)

Here we are now, entertain us. Is Kurt demanding to be entertained? This made me question my own sad position in 1991. By reversing the understanding of this sentence i.e. Kurt and not the audience is demanding to be entertained. Reversing that massively ingrained middle class need to be entertained is an undertaking greater than simply understanding it. 

I come from a working class family that has been craving middle class approval since that family, my family, thought that they were something they were not. I was born and bred into this hypocrisy. To be accepted one has to entertain the class above your own.

When accepted by the society or the social rung that you have entertained, what then? You have become a phoney middle class player, and what then, and for what reason? There are no reasons to climb the social ladder that comes with your mother’s milk. When you climb, you sadly reach some one else's insecure plateau, that has been climbed before you. So there you find yourself, with that someone, another and now you have to share their unbelievably dull opinions.

The first phrase in this particular Nirvana chorus with the lights out, it's less dangerous underlines everything that entertainment is and has always stood for. By turning the lights off one makes a phoney ambiance to lure the souls of potential punters / fans / suckers into your own crib where your mind bending nurture begins, and this only to project your shallow message that needs sugar coating for survival. Why not simply turn the light on, and face the so called danger. And be surprised right before impact, that there is no danger, and there is no impact other then your ingrained middle class understanding hitting you over the head.

Kurt also utters: I feel stupid and contagious. The nerves of performing, If you don’t succeed in the act you believe that you are perceived as stupid. Contagious on the other hand is all power.
If you manage to entertain and grab the public’s attention with your talent you gain a contagious power that you can use or rather abuse.

Denial, Denial, Denial, Denial, Denial, Denial, Denial, Denial, Denial. (X9)

(Regarding switching the light back on, the correct and honest impact I had then, has nothing to do with Kurt, but another fellow, James, who has lost it completely. I try to keep my lights on, they are on, I like them on. Or should I say, my light is on, singular rather than plural. Why singular? Because I come alone. That one light punctures your hope I hope.)

(The expression ‘a one liner’, has become an art world adjective. A one liner is pure entertainment (not art, what is art?) An expression that defines only the demanders own undefined ego and selfish act of needing his / her insecure acceptance by others. A one liner art piece survives only for that trendy moment, just like the creator or the demander.) (a trendy moment is one week maybe two weeks, depends on the blogs) 

Living with an art critic was an action, and I have a reason for this particular action. The action was / is acceptance in rejection. Only by an action can one receive the acquired acceptance that our society requires. People need to be lured into their own prejudged default in order to justify your action, an action they have already judged. This is what our modern society eagerly, naively believes we should all be part of. The blind lead the blind and our culture is yet again being formed and shaped for our next generation, but sadly by people that we should not ever trust. NEVER. 

There is no part 2 to this essay, press release, attempt, whatever. Do not get too involved and please wait patiently for the part 2 / II. Not sure I am done, I have more. 

Kurt also sings; I’m worse at what I do best And for this gift I feel blessed. Listen, go see an Eddie Murphy flick instead.

VICTOR B / OCT/ NOV - 2013

ps. A white man An artist A player My libido Yeah (X9)

 

J the spoon GENET - sculpture 2005-10
gift to ARC collection. 

Boullet Paris #TBT (yukk) 

v

– Mission Statement

The Institute of Social Hypocrisy is the Paris based artificial organization that fronts an ongoing collaborative work by the artist Victor Boullet. The Institute of Social Hypocrisy is conducted in the form of a protracted performance piece and its very existence is brought about by inviting participation with others. Each player and event contributes vital information and connections that allow the Institute to progress.

The ISH provides a perception of authority and thus acts as a Trojan horse; it permits the contributors to covertly infiltrate organizations and to gain access to people that they might not normally be able to approach. The accepted paraphernalia that symbolize an official structure also represent The Institute. Door plaques, headed paper, business cards and a flag combine to present an authoritative façade that conceals the true internal activity.

The fundamental theme recurring in Victor Boullet’s work is that of alienation and acceptance. He highlights the aspects of intrinsically hypocritical social behaviour used to ingratiate oneself with others. This sense of exclusion, and the subsequent desire to put up an illusion of conformity, functions as the point of departure for the activities taking place within the The Institute of Social Hypocrisy

The Institute combines these two connected aspects, of simulated bureaucracy and hypocrisy to form a conceptual umbrella under which a programme of related events can take place. It provides a structure for artists to take control of the programming and direction of their work and to be responsible for the events, installations and publications that occur.

Damage 1998. Oslo 
let me know if you want to own this piece. email me - eetfukeetfukeetfukeetfuk@gmail.com​