civilisation is the process of reducing the infinite
to the finite. - oliver wendell holmes jr.

the 1998 barolo was dionysian.

fiona banner is an artist.
her work explores the problems and possibilities
of written language. her early work took the
form of 'wordscapes' or 'still films' - blow by blow accounts
written in her words of feature films (whose subjects range from
war to porn) or sequences of events.
these pieces took the form of solid single blocks of text,
and size as a cinema screen. banner's work encompasses
sculpture, drawing and installation, although text is still
at the heart of her practice. she recently turned her attention to
the idea of the classic, art-historical nude,
observing a life model and transcribing the pose and form
in a similiar vein to her earlier transcription of films.
often using parts of military aircraft
as the support for these descriptions, banner juxtaposes
the brutal and the sensual, performing an almost complete cycle
of intimacy and alienation.
{text from the frith street gallery website.}

fiona banner is a plagiarist.
her work exploits work by other artists {imposters and charlatans
with a few genuine articles of acquired situational narcissism}
whose work has been marginalised by the dysfunctional
art movements of the 20th century, the entire series of 'friends'
and the global socio-political impact of breast milk.

her work exploits the problems of creating original art
in a world hyperventilatinglysupersaturated with images, films,
wordscapes and possibly ... justifiably perhaps,
on being discovered a fraud.

her pieces take the form of pretentious banal blurb
in the form of tedious single gashes of text, often redundant,
most certainly irrelevant, especially when viewed in the
post-modern vacuum of traditional white cubist cathedrals
which are nothing more than rectums of iniquity.

she recently turned her attention to the idea of the classic,
art historical nude {rape and pillage never goes out of
fashion does it my dear?} observing a life model
and transcribing the pose and form in the same dull
method as her earlier film blurb-a-dub-dub.
often using duff old bits and bobs of scrap metal from
military aircraft {darling, i could have saved you a slab,
a wad, a barrowful ... a chap who knows a chap who
knows a geezer with top-notch rover mg scrap ...}

banner tries in vain to flog the idea that pieces of military
aircraft symbolise brutality ... therefore ... by engraving
her mono-sodomite glutamogenous limp-limpet blurb
on the wounded metal ... it somehow provokes
the bouquet of freshly cut grass without the efficacy
one would associate with curator's constipation nor,
so it seems with the pungent aroma of arabica
a tenth of a second after the alarm traumatises one's
eyelids to roll ... it does however, symbolise
the primordial soup of her womb, heart, and brain.
yet, fundamentally, her ego. post feminist icon or not,
creation from a christian's perspective but without
the pornographic existentialism, therefore
fulfilling nostradamus's primordial precognitive theory.
how voluptuous.

is beck a product of scientology's money machine
or a cynical little geek?

it frightens me.
it pushes me.
it feels like something pushing me from below.
it has to tell you how to live.
it has an instruction guide.
it entices.
it seduces.
it has to encompass the whole world, and everything that is
and will be and take you into space ...
that's why you need a spaceship.

{above lyric excerpts from the song - horrible fanfare/
landslide/exoskeleton} a beguiling hypnotic ten minute medley
from his latest album - the information.
i don't want it to end. i would love the chance to re-mix it ...
stretch it through a blackhole ...
through the core of the sun, spin saturn's rings at 2400 rpm
in my brainwashing dyson.
beck is hanson. i love his cute little beady teddy bear eyes.
hubby junior. the eco-friendly fiendish scientoblogist.
the whole nanonotion that beck is some kind of stooge for
a bent cult intrigues me.
i watched the dvd of music videos from the new album,
perplexed at beck's body language, at his robotic peter pan
visage. the cold sharklike stare.
of course, he could just be headfucking us into thinking that
they've got him by the balls. or even the vas deferens incognito.
all part of the publicity machine that needs to be fed
dirty little tidbits in order to keep the hubbard monster
fed and floppy. my tongue is still wagging ... seductively ...
inside my spaceship.
i've seen beck in a televised interview. i wasn't impressed.
perhaps that bland in utero dollface is hard to maintain?
is it jim carrey?
is the mask stuck. for life?
every scientologist has to sigh the lisa-clause, which states that
the individual opposes all psychiatric treatment and authorises
representatives of the COS to intervene to prevent any further threat
to the individual's mental state.
introspection rundown can be enforced if the case supervisor
believes it's necessary.
isolation isn't the worst case scenario.
trying to escape from the cult can be inescapable.
beck has enough money to build a spaceship.
at least, big enough for him. would he be able to escape?
but, why for heaven's sake would he want to cross
the final bridge to freedom?
what could possible make him even contemplate changing anything
when he has achieved critical acclaim, a worldwide audience
and financial security?
{excerpt lyrics by beck from - movie theme} :

walking down the aisle of the supermarket
looking for the?
to carry my sense away
i'm not scared
'cause there's nobody there
mind is awake
nothing's gonna lead me astray.

i was reading about hubbard's sexual kinks, his drug habits,
his voodoo sci-fi corn, the e-meters, the irs scandals,
the donors, flag, the sacred scriptures, the s.o's, the g.o's,
operation snow white, the superpower building
and all the other crap about how member's can attain
the super powers of infinity ... and beyond.
beck will not tell you everything he has said and done.

do you think he's told 'them' everything?