Inside artzine #19

INSIDE

artzine #19

This is the „light version“ of INSIDE artzine #19.

Get your printed copy at http://www.artscum.org/shop (A4 format, 60 pages, offset, english)

08 Christina Tzani

INSIDEartzine #19

Seungyea Park (Republic of Korea) „Enforced insight“ - Cover Michael Zoch (Germany) „Rue Croix De Seguey“ - 02 Absumaniac (Poland) „CzakrA“ - 03 Chris Mars (USA) „Hanford 15“ - 04 Pierre Fudaryli (Mexico) „Chromaphilla 9“ - 06 Christina Tzani (Greece) „No titel“ - 08 jenzzz (Germoney) „Strange light“ - 10 jenzzz (Germoney) „What you want“ - 11 Alexandr Kumpan (Russia) „In the subway“ - 12 Alexandr Kumpan (Russia) „Homobruchus“ - 14 Alexandr Kumpan (Russia) „Birth“ - 15 Trevor Brown (Japan) „Nippon-o-maniac“ - 16 Aaron Paul Rogers (USA) „Nude fine art“ - 24 Vicky Pedia (Web) „Artscum“ - 26 Pete Hamillton (UK) „The three disgraces“ - 27 Richard G. Davis (South Africa) „Complexity in a jaded world“ - 28 Piercarlo Carella (Italy) „The pusher“ - 29 Johannes Witek (Austria) „Blather“ - 29 jenzzz (Germoney) „Qual-le“ - Poster Jonas Gawinski (Germany) „Electra“ - 32 Piercarlo Carella (Italy) „Silicon valley“ - 32 Nagash793 (Hungary) „Stitched god“ - 33 Jeff Christensen (USA) „Slaves and parasites“ - 34 Kamerian (Japan) „Fuglyland“ - 36 Michael Marrak (Germany) „A shady tale“ - 36 Scott Wilson (USA) - 36 Philip Kremer (USA) - 44 Contact! - 46 Milad Mahtabi (Iran) - 47 Reviews - 48 Piotr Jablonski (Poland) „Dumbfacegang“ - 52 „Trying to have some fun with all the hate“ - 54 Jochen Schilling (Germany) „Das Ende“ - 56 Paul Cristina (USA) „Living in fear among mortals“ - 58 Michael Zoch (Germany) „1000 years later“ - 59 Absumaniac (Poland) „Agonia“ - Back © all rights by the artists, unauthorized use will be punished!

All english translations © ni gudix www.gudixtransliterarix.jimdo.com

niPpon-O-mAniac Trevor Brown

16

All that frightened me terribly.

I

t was a fucked-up kind of fear I felt. As if fuelled by some deeper, abysmal panic.

Not by failure, no; I was accustomed to failure. In my job. ____________

Neither by misery. Misery had been creeping behind me. In my blurred shadow. For ever.

It was this trembling all over the body that frightened me. A predominant feeling of compulsive restlessness made my flesh shiver as if held at gun point, freshly loaded. Made my bones rustle like dry paper in the pull of an inner crematory. The menace of loss of control chased my heartbeat from disorder to disorder.

I had to leave it all behind me. All that I believed in. That wasn’t much, though, but now I miss it.

After the satanic Samba disaster in Brazil (see interview with Marcel Vasco, INSIDE artzine #17), various expensive charges hailed down upon the ART-RECTUM, i.a. one of arson, and one of satanism in public, whereupon the chief editor put me into the mental asylum. This rehab - paid by expenses - (see INSIDE artzine #18) ended with an unsuccessful injunction suit of Richard Kirk against the publication of his interview. But at least I had delivered.

Well, sod it. This was all over now. Heavy drinking while getting up. Smoking of blowed-up fags from the gutter. Gulping of dead meat. Rubbing whisky into the scratched arms.

Injecting of crack beneath the eyelids. Praying before going to toilet... all over.

All that remained was fear. Of my chief editor as well. “Fly to Japan!

Stay sober! Otherwise you can kick the bucket!” He screamed this into the receiver with perfect articulation and a steadily rising insanity. He was right, though. I was in his debt.

So I tried to survive the days.

More or less regularly. Sleep.

Get up without vomiting.

Nourishment without colours.

Thoughts without suicide.

I staggered from one post of renunciation to the next one. The omission of things became an important point of a never-ending, grey emptiness. At the end of every passing minute, every passing hour, my own passing life, I found myself on a grotesquely small island in an outrageous sea of greed. With a beach of shards of glass around it where I bathed my tired feet and looked back on the hard times that lay behind me with a mixture of useless disinterest and arrogant pride. Only here I was safe. Only for a very brief time. Then the trembling again sagged on my eyelids and made me lower my look. Crave. The. Last.

The bloke I had to interview this time was called Trevor Brown. He was an Englishman, lived in Japan, and never gave interviews at all. And nobody

knew how he actually looked like. All I had were some poor prints of his paintings all of which showed dark little girls with black eyes in unfavourable situations.

Good.

I’ve had worse starting positions in my job, but in my momentary state I was hardly able to go on the toilet without pissing on my own fingers. Let alone to find in a monstrous moloch of a city on the other side of the globe a painting Englishman who preferred beaten Japanese girls. There were millions.

At least I thought so. Millions of girls, right?

Fuck, I was confused.

For the very first time in my life I was afraid of a job.

The entry into this digging nightmare Tokyo was conceivably bad. Usually I mollified the alternative-free menace of the great height in planes with buckets of expense-financed liquor. With annoying chatups of the stewardesses, obsessive insults of my seatmates, or alarm smoking on the toilet. But this time, I sat on my seat like the legendary giant pile of shit called misery, fastened (!), sweating like a naked leather cowboy in an illegal liquor-store in Mecca. The sober getting-along with my humiliated humanity

flush me through the aisles, halls, voids, skull houses, and parking levels out onto the twelve-lane street. I gulped the first chunk of sticky hot smog down through my dried-out throat and got on my knees.

The 10 PM quake made my kneecaps jump out.

All known and unknown clichés towered down upon me like the millions of heads of some hyper Godzilla out of Fukushima’s deepest, melt-down combustors. Loads of skyscrapers, spiralled to lunatic heights; street canyons, bent into seething abysses and filled with umpteen thousands of narrow pairs of eyes; black-and-white grins behind expressionless face masks. The muggy night sky flooded with millions of orange characters of wicked unintelligibility.

In panic, I bought three cartons of cigarettes, lighted up two of them, and stubbed it all out again in the palm of a full-size plastic Pikachu. Abdication. Do something without linking it to an act that is dictated by addiction. So I just slouched on.

Without any idea.

As usual. But this time with- out the hope that all would end up well.

I staggered through the streets.

Through bondage

was even worse than the cooling thought of a metal-surrounded fall into an ineffable, thud-filled depth. Every look, every conversation, every smell without the steaming veil of a graceful intoxication unsettled me deeply and chased me further on in the merciless swamp of the final loneliness.

drive-ins and panty temples. Past karaoke brothels and school girl vendors.

Bratwurst-and-chips popsicles. Hamburgers with 500% more onions. Crazy.

I bolted through the burning, shat paper walls of Rappongi, Shibuya, Kabukicho... Bolted like Little Boy through the frozen mind of Harry Trueman so that he might never ever again be able to sleep.

My footsteps became heavier and heavier. All the crossways of Shibuya seemed to stick fast to my legs and to crawl up on them. As if wanting to reach my throat.

I had to get out of this sandblast of impressions. Out of this vortex of broken will, cooled-down paranoia, and gracious surrender.

I stumbled into the next available entrance, past semi-nude Japanese dudes with belts round their necks, past pale Manga girlies hanging from the ceiling, and past vendors with donor testicles. Reality was distorting.

Of course, my merciful fall from the unfinished plane height ended in a deadlock.

I could hear the gurgling sound, as my tired heart resignedly made rotate the anaerobic blood in my body. The glassy combs on

A

s I finally plunged with the plane into the Aqua Line Tunnel in the middle of the Tokyo bay and got spat out two seconds later on runway 243C of the Haneda Airport, I knew: this was the place where I definitely would have to act out my new, grotesque lifestyle in all its paranoid glory.

In past days, I didn’t mind disorientation. It was part of my strategy. But this time there was nothing left I could cling to: luggage, bottles, swagger. All the courage, collected in so many survived crashes - lost. My shimmering cocoon, made of dried vomit, stupid ignorance, and naive self-contempt - collapsed.

Timidly, I let the perpetual flow of folks

both sides of the walls of the low, dimly-lit corridor made me briefly think of a launderette. But when I saw faces behind the opaque, glassy bull’s eyes in the walls, the picture toppled over into a dark vision of a ludicrous beehive with human maggots in sticky chambers. A capsule hotel. Quite perfect to dip my panic-stricken think tank into the noble sea of silence.

curl up, bury in the J ust dark soil of solitude,

keep quiet, and be free of all want.

End the eternal battle between “must” and “can” in a cruel massacre of disappearing feelings, and then, with mutely tear-stained memories, look into the eyes of the winner. Of emptiness.

In this very moment, when I desperately tried to adjust my rattling, jerky breath to my new thoughts, something tore at me. Small hands, a high singing voice, determining, extraterrestrial, almost angry. In the twilight, I could see a little girl stand beside me, wearing a strange, dark-red uniform.

While tearing at my sweat-soaken shirt, she stared at me demandingly though a painted, red cross above her left eye. As usual, I hoped to do the right thing and drew some notes of money of unknown value out of my pocket. In doing so, apart from chewed-off fingernails, partly chewed chewing-gums, and completely chewed nicotine patches, the printouts of Trevor Brown’s pictures directly fell in front of her tiny feet.

Meanwhile, my receptivity had reached a point far under zero on the scale of measurable emotions, but nevertheless I could realize the change in the little girl’s eyes. The dull, indifferent anger toppled over into a fleshy apocalypse of lit studio lamps, then into the rotten tenderness of lonely hotel rooms.

Her pale face swung to and fro like a stuck music box, always between the printouts and this depraved, daft gaijin.

At the same time, she repeated again and again some Japanese words that seemed to gather in conspiratorial unintelligibility around the words “Trevor” and “Brown.” Even in my job, you sometimes need a little bit o’ luck, I admit.

Not that I had searched it, but... fuck it.

Briefly, there was the impulse in me to grab and shake her by the shoulders, but I was so heavenly tired.

Too tired to yell, bribe, threaten; too tired for promises, lies, lovers’ oaths.

So I just spelled it, slowly and with the paralysing lunacy of a complete idiot,

“T-R-E-V-O-R“

She sighed heartrendingly and slumped down. Then she nodded almost pitifully, took my hand, and drew me even deeper into the maze of aisles, rooms, and stairways going downwards.

Her tiny hand was ice-cold. It almost completely disappeared in mine.

We ended up in a dimly lit basement

28 Richard G. Davis

Blather

Johannes Witek He left the station via the big dark forecourt where at this time of day there were only a few empty taxis with yellow blinking headlights, and checked in at the hotel where he threw his belongings onto the bed and himself to the window: “At least sort of a corner where I am situated,” he said to himself, “but nobody knows where I am and nobody wants anything from me, so I have a chance.”

“Now what? Prostitution?

A jack-knife at five in the morning?”

“Funny: all the world blathers all the time but the things that matter, the really important things, aren’t told you by anybody.”

“That’s why they are the really important things: because you have to tell them yourself,” a voice said while the rain, silent and black, pelted against the window. ©transliteration: Ní Gudix, 31.1.17

Pierecarlo Carella 29 jenzzz Poster >

34 Jeff Christensen

t y d a A sh Into fire you can send us.

From the fire we return.

NINE INCH NAILS, My Violent Heart

36 Kamerian

Michael Marrak

Welcome, kids. Follow my callings.

Don’t be afraid of the smoke. It conceals reality and dispels all the annoying little bloodsuckers.

You’ll find me behind. Be quiet, and be careful when you climb. The rocks are loose, and their edges are sharp. Take your cubs on your backs, be cautious, and control your thoughts.

Come closer, I want to see your faces. Come close to the fire, my callings are precious. I have to tell you something about those having been killed - and warn you. Approach but never think of God or salvation because these are the thoughts that they might have first - and that lead them to you...

They must never find me down here among you.

Never!

You know the creatures only crave for the titles the first shadow has bestowed upon them.

They are denied true essence. Not one of their eyes ever must see this place, you understand?

Swear by the last sparks of the light that you never think of God as long as you’ll be gathering round my fire. Those who cannot control their thoughts shall turn back and seek their peace of mind at some other place. Buzz off, you obstinate salvation dreamers!

But the rest of you, come closer. Mind the gaps, the fall into the depth is painful - and sometimes endless. Listen to what I have to tell you.

It was evening already when, two days ago, I had returned home from the thought bank. Yes, slowly but steadily my head becomes smaller, and my body disappears. This is what happens to all those who do their drudgery for the shadows. Their heads have but the sizes of ulcers, hardly bigger than two fists. Terrible is the price for a conference with the rulers.

Hark!

Did you hear that? Are you sure that there are no hypocritical shady characters having mixed with you on your way here? I know the voices of those who hide in sheep’s clothing and are

tale all ears and eyes for the rulers. Doff your rags and let me see your bodies! Don’t hesitate to expose yourselves - but avoid touching as long as you don’t know whether you are pure. I’ll know if there is something under your naked skin that doesn’t belong here. I’ll know if your flesh is infected. No soul eater and no salvation dreamer can hide from me in the fiery glow.

Mind those among you who cast two shadows! They are not what they want to make you to believe. In the first available moment, they’ll stab you in the back, put you in chains of thorns, and stick you in their ectoplasm tubs full of amorphous non-creatures who haven’t found a form yet.

Please apologize; it is not polite to remember these horrors in your presence. My memories drive me into doing so, these fucking memories and these burning scars...

Well, take a seat. I can see you are free of guilt, and you are truly yourselves. This is anything but natural in these days. I want to continue telling, continue existing, as long as they avoid this place...

So, two days ago I returned from the thought bank and entered the ruin of my house. It is a nostalgic habit of

Scott Wilson 37

Nihil (Feat. In Slaughter Natives) - Ventre

Hardcover, 17x25cm/7x10“, Book 115 pages, CD 39:18 min ···· 40,00 Euro Purchase: www.cycliclaw.com Contact: www.nihil.fr Nihil’s work has been accompanying me for several years now through the hidden valleys of a remote art taste. The French photographer and picture manipulator has always been a welcome guest in our mental asylum for a reason (for example in INSIDE artzine #17) - his works conceal something that only comes to light under the most extensive physical effort in a genre, characterized by darkness and despair: elegance! Sublime poses burst upon grotesque wrenches here, graceful silence upon seething menaces. And the pictures always seem to lack something. The iris in the eye. The expression of the face. The hairs on the heads. White surfaces where secondary habits expect primary sexual characteristics. This lack of

physical identity puts his figures into the fleshless light of saints and martyrs. Because they suffer. This is the last remaining expression which cannot be taken away from them.

Heavily depressing and wonderful at the same time.

The dark, brooding soundscapes of the industrial band IN SLAUGHTER NATIVES of the enclosed audio CD are integrated perfectly between the full-screen refined pages. A perfectly successful cooperation of two masters of dark art. And finally, to draw a line between the two unholy covers of this publication, Nihil provides us with reflective, dark stories for our restless sleep, all of which confidently float between dark dignity and menacing doom. An amazing artistic synthesis!!

Antoine Bernhart - „Im dunklen Wald“

Softcover, 20,5 x 21,5 cm, 72 pages ···· 18,00 Euro Purchase: www.resurgo-berlin.com Contact: www.antoine-b.com Holy fucking Jaysus. Here you can see shagging, licking, murdering, fisting, torturing... briefly said: the partings of the presented hair-dos here are so brutally harsh that the taste of the unexperienced viewer may indeed turn out to be a bitter one. Shall indeed.

And I take real fright when I realize that the substantial power of this French rioter is blessed with a similar mechanic, almost extrahuman, ingeniousness like the one of Chris Mars (who is undoubtedly the unopposed champion of troubled group pictures in the warm light of Gothic brushwork). And my fright even intensifies as I further look at Antoine’s chipped mental world. Stories from the frozen lakes of his childhood, where he tells about

water corpses who are immured in ice up to their nose, or the statement that some of the pictures he only drew to be able to fuck the model, make him a fascinating monster in an artist’s clothing. After various phases he had passed through, like Japanese bondage, record cover artist (The Cramps et al.), and emotional autism while viewing corpses, this is the ultimate and only logical climax of his reprehensible works: The Dark Forest! 72 pages. No path. Follow him into. And stay in!

This pyroclastic tempest of tastes was published by “re.surgo” in Berlin, by the way - a pretty safe source for funky (screen) prints, zines, and irreversible artistic disturbance. Check in and be damned!

Eight Arms of Inspiration: The Octopus Art Project

Skinner - Forbidden activities for neglected children

Hardcover, 8.5“ x 11“, 336 pages ···· 59.95 U$D Purchase: www.oosbooks.com Publisher: Jinxi Caddel

Paperback, 8.5 x 11 inches, 36 pages ···· 8,90 U$D Purchase: www.lastgasp.com Contact: www.theartofskinner.com

Ah, this is another great theme sling from Out Of Step Books.

Whereas in the last review court, it were the ol’ bony headquarters that rolled through my day’s sleep, it’s now the cold tentacles of lunacy that attach themselves to my body of art. I do not have the slightest knowledge why I am so fatally addicted to the unholy tentacle fetishism but, as this book obviously proves: I’m not the only one! The satanic he-goat of the sea seems to have clamped his eight darting arms on numerous other willing brains, too. Apart from many, often completely crazy, large-sized tattoos, this book also contains drawings and pictures (from LSD-oozing paintings to children’s drafts), sculptures

In this DIY book, highly detailed brain-choppers with almost Mike-Diana-esque idiocy shake hands. Completely crazy mazes chase freaky heads you have to colour and complete yourself. The whole book is presented in a low-key black-and-white modus which only waits for your sharp, chewed pencils to be dipped in sick fever colours. It calms, chills down, makes the two-up-two-down house estate more bearable. Inner peace, followed by a contemplative lift of success. Better than killing people, and cheaper than any therapist.

Remains the question: what is meant by the “neglected child?” Is it the forgotten child inside everyone of us, stuffed with cheesy, brain-softening shit since earliest childhood? Or is

(from tiny bathtub plugs to space-filling nightmare installations), and - what else - light bulbs.

Just like in the above mentioned skull book “Excavate: Unearthing Artistic Skeletal Remains” (cf. INSIDE artzine #18), the editor Jinxi again has lifted an almost endless flood of the most diverse octopus arts out of the rotten plastic sea, where the names of the umpteen hundred artists are less important than the literally ludicrous variations of a genre which since Lovecraft is regarded rather remote. Get the tentacles of this high glossy thriller hung up in your brains!

Get stimulated and manipulated for hours! And of course: Follow the Call of Cthulhu!

it the suppressed child inside us, forced to meaningless, gaga work since earliest youth? Or is it the resurrected child inside us, which scares away its acquired restraint in graceful senile dementia?

Who gives a fuck? Start to colour in!

Now! These mandalas for dafties are able to save human lives. Your own one and the one of your neighbour.

The kind fan may also be advised to make an appointment with Dr. Skinner on his website. There you can find some of the motives, filled with a coloration which has been thought up by the boss therapist himself and which has not been invented in this universe so far. But you’ve been having the necessary amount of LSD in your paint buckets for ages, haven’t you?

INSIDEartzine #19 Trevor Brown (Japan) Alexandr Kumpan (Russia) Seungyea Park (South Korea) Chris Mars (USA) Absumaniac (Poland) Michael Marrak (Germany) Christina Tzani (Greece) Kamerian (Japan) jenzzz (Germoney) +++ Art · Poems · Propaganda www.inside-artzine.de · www.artscum.org