magazine
the thoughts issue issue 4
When I first set out in 2011 to publish this magazine, the intention was to devise a space for works that probably would never see the light of day outside of my studio. After the completion of Issue 3 (the Words Issue) I decided that it would be much more fun to include others into this curated affair – to ask artists to share work that probably wouldn't find its way out of their own studios. Issue 4 is the Thoughts issue, as intentionally a wide ranging and vague a concept as possible. My impulse to base Issue 4 on thoughts was again material that would most likely never see the light of day – specifically the half-baked notes hastily and emphatically scribbled in old sketchbooks. Back in art school I never considered myself a writer, claiming rather arrogantly that my work spoke for itself and that I expressed myself best through drawings. What compelled me about these writings was the paradox of claiming to not be a writer, yet finding examples of me trying to explain my thinking in words. I don’t claim that these are masterful thoughts – they are more like exuberantly youthful expressions of absolutes that I thought defined my work at the time. These periodic eruptions of written thoughts, however, helped shaped the way I think now. They were purposeful even if they were incoherent, serving as some kind of way station to a destination that was never defined. The way I think about thinking now is that our thoughts are our tools. Over the years I've recognized that there is a certain craft to thinking. From coaxing embryonic notions to the surface to the mastication and rumination of ideas is all a matter of careful practice and nuance. A well crafted thought serves as an excellent starting point for projects even if the thought falls completely apart upon execution – at least there was something tantalizing to begin with. And what a fine way to develop this craft – by staring at the walls, doodling in a sketchbook, walking down the street, taking a shower, or goofing off with friends while drinking beers – its exercise without physical exersion, all done in your mind. I think.
Nick Cassway, editor
contents nick cassway such fanfare
james rosenthal proclamation
timothy buckwalter there is a light that never goes out
william bilwa costa sub_space
maria mﾃ僕ler
Amelia Among the Ruins or What came before and what is underneath: The churchyard and the city
cover image: Timothy Buckwalter back cover photograph by Maria Mﾃｶller
nick cassway such fanfare
you will dream every night but you may not remember them until that one night when you want to remember it. you will, because it was not ready before
The idea of portable information is one that entertains me. The fact that a cassette tape that holds a certain amount of information and will always have that information until it is erased. Information is stored in these units that can be transported. I have a zillion albums all which have music or words on them and will always have that information on it. Whenever it is played, the information is revealed. Information, information storage That’s the purpose of the sketchbook, an idea book. A painting/construction that has a cassette tape in it that reveals the secret of the painting. Even if the painting was part of an exhibition where access to it was impossible because of security reasons, or if the show was over a period of weeks, months, years later, the information would still be there to be heard. Information – like a stain.
Art as a party. Design or create an area and then be festive in it. Different festivals for d i f f e re n t o c c a s i o n s . Invitations read “bring a bottle of wine�
Like a dream, things appearing within an environment take on a new meaning other than themselves. If a painting exists in a new environment, like inside a cabinet, or on a rotiserrie or on the floor, on the ceiling or perhaps reproduced it takes on new meanings.
Bold, solid. One thing to state what a lot of smaller non-cohesive things can do. Space — neutral size within a space. [Don’t want this, want to destroy space, disrupt space.]
Using subconscious as a tool doodling with a purpose allowing subconscious to come through in a manner that is helpful. Set mindset, state mental intentions
if I cannot mock my own artwork then it serves no purpose my decision years ago to work in a deliberate style was based on accepting the fact that having a cryptic agenda would not work although I am intrigued by the subconscious and mysterious doings.
What is the purpose of comparisons? An examination, an in depth examination of what something is, painting is. What is a triangle, what is a line, by opposing a line with a solid for example I can discover what that line does and what that solid does and by having them together they do something. The something they do defines their individual elements and defines their comparisons. This comparison is an element also, this element says the difference between this and that are the following things‌Our other comparison says that between the elements and its comparison the differences are these following things‌The following things expressed in the former and latter comparisons can now be compared.
there is always interference. no matter how pure you plan to think or live there is always other thoughts or actions, whether yours or others that interfere with your thinking. try to incorporate the interference into what you are attempting to do or think and try to make it all make sense.
Start with the same thing every time and see where that leads you. Start with one thing and then end it. Start the next one from where you ended the last one.
James rosenthal proclamation
once upon a time I
thought I saw a woman
in a red waist coat
with a gold pocket watch
that had a picture inside
of Mick Jagger crying at
an early age some time
in his youth before he
became the famous rock and
roll icon he is today
timothy buckwalter there is a light that never goes out
william bilwa costa sub space
maria moller Amelia Among the Ruins or What came before and what is underneath: The churchyard and the city
I
didn’t reach this decision lightly. I didn’t reach this decision at all, but rather felt it emerge fully-formed from the deepest recesses of my soul as I stood by Mother’s graveside. The grey doves cooed and the wind whispered gently in the dogwood
trees and all the dappled sunlight dripped down on the churchyard. And I knew in one swooping moment: No more! The time had come. It was completely apparent. Whatever Margaret would say – or not even say, just look scornfully upon me and confusedly upon me and pityingly upon me and then go Harumph! Whatever all that: the time had definitely indeed most certainly come. So now that I knew that the time had come, I was faced with the question: What was it that the time had come for? Leaving, obviously. But leaving for what? Leaving for where? If I was a man, there still would be the questions, but there would have also been answers. Simple, obvious answers. But then again, if I was a man, I would have already been gone. I would have joined the Navy or the railways long ago.
So as it stood, there were few options that weren’t dispiriting in their narrowness. I could seek a position as a companion, perhaps for an old widow who wanted to travel, and then bend myself to her eccentricities and propriety. I could seek a position as a governess. But after years of insisting I would never be a governess, that seemed hypocritical in the extreme: “No, Mother, I would rather rot here forever listening to you natter on than be a governess” and then, “Oh, now you’re dead, I’ll be a governess.” And anyway, I don’t like children. I like: Books. Buildings. Mechanisms. Bricks. Drawing straight lines in a ledger. What came before and what is underneath. The damaged hull. The greased core. The doves coo on. The flowers drift groundward. The church gate blows open in the breeze. Its iron clanks.
W
hen I first arrived at Professor Henry’s archives, I had no idea what they might contain. The anteroom was imposing: smelling strongly of old paper and faintly of wax, lined with leatherbound books with no
discernible titles, as if only people so learned as to know them by their order on the shelves should deign to take them off of one. A man at an old-fashioned high clerk’s table, sitting on a stool, peered at me over his spectacles. I’ve come for the position, I said. Professor Henry wrote me, I said. I have the letter here and as I reached into my reticule to show it to him, he stopped me and said, No need. We’ve been waiting for you. Please, step that way and have a seat. And he gestured down the corridor to a chair at the far end. I went and I did as I had been told. I resisted my nervous habit of pressing my wrists together and wiggling my fingers as if playing a mirror-image piano concerto. I tried to look professional. And qualified. And not exhausted from the journey.
I had indeed, as I had said, arrived here because of Professor Henry’s letter. It was the most curious thing. Six days after I stood by Mother’s grave, feeling this – this conviction rise up inside my heart – six days afterwards Margaret and I were invited to tea at the Farnsworthy’s and while we were there, there arrived Mrs. Farnsworthy’s uncle, a most genial man by the name of Blythe. His business interests had brought him near the village, and he thought he should pay a visit to his niece. I had the distinct impression that Eleanor Farnsworthy was not entirely pleased to see her uncle, for what I perceived as genial, she perceived as irregular, and Eleanor Farnsworthy was nothing if not regular. After general pleasantries, Mr. Blythe steered the conversation towards his business, with the eagerness of a man who is deeply absorbed in what he does, and despite his niece’s mildly perturbed looks, he held forth over the scones and Darjeeling. A most unique business, he informed us. Unique, and uniquely suited to his varied and eccentric interests. Which included: Chemistry. Glass. Silver. Wood. Transparency. Fleetingness. The illusion of moment. The creation of record. He let his words hang there in the chintz-filled air. But what is it that you do? I finally asked. My dear girl, he replied, I make cameras.
***
Mr. Blythe presents his camera: a wondrous work of intricacy and grace.
I
had never thought about how cameras were actually made by someone. But they are, of course. And by many someones, of course, as is everything. One set of hands cuts the tree, another blows the glass, another smelts the iron. Others cut them to fit, ship
them to wherever, and then they are cut to fit again. And assembled into a camera. But not quite, you see, not quite into this camera, because this is Mr. Blythe’s own creation. Mr. Blythe does not makes just any old camera, a camera you’d find in a portrait studio recording weddings and babies. Mr. Blythe makes archeological survey cameras. For the Archeological Survey. Capital “A”, capital “S”, the one you were taught about at school. That Archeological Survey. And he makes them strong and he makes them sturdy. He makes them flexible, precise, light to carry, well-balanced, water-proof, sand-proof, snow-proof. He makes them to specifications. He makes them with care and respect. He makes them. With his own two hands. He’s a craftsman. He’s a scientist. An alchemist.You wouldn’t think it to look at him. He looks too jolly. Too much like the uncle I wish I had, who would have gathered me on his knee as a child and fed me humbugs and pinched my cheeks and ruffled my hair. Mr. Blythe was jolly and – genial. As I said before, genial. Sort of like Santa Claus without the beard, come to think of it. And not as fat. But with a reddish button nose and a halo of white hair and a comfortable belly. And with an air of contentment about him that was deceptive. For he saw that my eyes lit up as he told us his tale. I didn’t even really know that they had, but he knew. I peppered him with questions, and I thought I was asking all those questions because otherwise we would have subsided into Eleanor and Margaret’s strained silence, and that would have been just rude to such a genial guest, but he knew that I asked
all those questions because I hungered for the answers: for the aperture and the shutter and the silver gelatin. For where the cameras went, all the places that they looked at – those lucky cameras, traveling from one end to the other, looking looking looking, always looking. And remembering. If I could be an object, I would be a camera.
I
received a letter twelve days after the tea. I’m sure you have guessed somewhat by now: it was from Mr. Blythe and it informed me of an opportunity. One of his clients had a position open for an assistant. Mr. Blythe’s letter assured me that I had all the
qualities that were needed: I was intelligent, unattached, confident, and knew nothing about what needed to be done, which meant that I could trained to exact specifications. And I was a woman, which apparently was a good thing for once, because Professor Henry – because of course the client was Professor Henry – preferred to work with women because, and I quote Mr. Blythe, “their delicate sensibilities make them more attuned to the nuances of the ruins.” Of course, it later dawned on me that it wasn’t my “delicate sensibilities” that made me particularly desirable: it was my lack of options. A lady assistant meant that I would never leave, I would never stage a coup, I would never steal – for where would I go with stolen research, when no other archive would have me? My knowledge of the world being so limited, I would have no comparisons to draw, no doubts to raise. I was like a little blind mole, crawling out of my hole by the cottage. Professor Henry could focus my blinking little eyes exactly where he desired. But I knew none of this yet. I only knew I suddenly had an option. As Mr. Blythe instructed, I sent a letter to Professor Henry, and introduced myself.
I am fluent in French and German, with passable Latin, and though I have no mathematical education to speak of, I am very handy with numbers and keep all the accounts for the household expenses. I do not believe you need to know of my skill in needlework (I do not have much) or in watercolors (I have no affinity for pastels mixed with water), but I can tell you that I have a steady hand and have always preferred patterns and cutting to embroidery and crochet. Another month went by. And then I received a response. And so here I am.
***
We reached the city after three days out.We had forgotten what the place was. Surprising streets of bare stone and plunged brick. Grey turn of the corner. Round the other side, the looking back.
The hollowness of what’s still there.
***
I’m not sure why I have embarked upon this journey, but I am fully aware of the risks involved. But the alternative: to stay back in the cottage. Needlepoint with Margaret.The parson. The Sunday stroll. After the years of listening to Mother, I am now convinced that she was wrong all along. I may have cut myself loose and gone adrift from my moorings, but the emptiness of my origins leaves me no choice.To stay would be slow suicide, like rolling a pill of arsenic round and round between my fingers.
And so I have bound myself to this endeavor and wherever this track may lead. Margaret may fret, but with Mother buried a twelvemonth, it is now or never!
***
At North Broad, the favored building.Tall holes dot the structure, eyes looking out at the eyes looking in. Juts from the street and the station: mercantile, textile, all the while there’s a tall boy striding down the street, books in hand, nose in book, no need to ever really remember this place: it’s just a place. An always place.
***
There’s that longing back for authenticity, in structure and in self.
***
I feel strangely at home in this city, though I know I’ve never set foot in a place like it before It is soothing somehow: the grey and the brick red, and quiet punctuated by roars, and the bright yellow and red and then you can crane your neck and look up at the greyness above, so many people and yet an absence of people – what is that?
***
Depth of field, depth of field, depth of field. In being asked to take accurate and dispassionate records of this land, I find myself limited in terms of my own hand in my work. It is boring, really, to cast my gaze solely on getting the whole of the building into the frame. But that’s what they want: it proves it is there. But what of that cornice work: you never see that anymore. And what of that ivy, twisting its way up through the crevice between the transom and the doorframe? And what of that – person? Up above? Where the wall is gone? What the heavens?
I had not thought I’d encounter someone here at the ruin. Professor Henry said expressly: they are ruins.Very simple. No fuss, no muss, take the photo, make it simple, just focus and press the button and make sure you keep a record of which photo is which ruin. Mark out the square footage. Ascertain the longitude, the latitude, and any unstable factors. Write it in the log book. And then bring it all back to the archives.
So, yes, a person.There’s a person in the ruins, up where the wall was. Oh. Did they see me? No? No, they didn’t see me. Oh, yes. Oh, yes. Oh yes, they did. I give a little wave. Oh, hello. Hello there. Umm. I do have some biscuits, I wonder if I should offer them a biscuit.Them? He. Yes, I think he. Oh, dear, where are those biscuits? Or should I just back away slowly?
Oh for heavens sake, he’s all the way up on the fifth floor of the ruin. I should just back away quickly and I’ll be halfway back to town by the time he gets down from there. But what is he doing? Hello? Hello?
contributors Nick Cassway edits and designs This Is Not A Test Magazine. He loves to doodle and think, and now he actually enjoys writing. nickcassway.com James Rosenthal is a Writer, Educator and Artist. His work is mostly text based playing on theory, poetry and rock and roll lyrics. He has written art criticism since 1999 and is currently working on a novel, Work Shy, a spoof about the Art World. He is also in the process of producing a new online Arts Journal called Contemporary Intellectual. contemporaryintellectual.com Timothy Buckwalter admired Nick Cassway's work back in art school. He still does. timothybuckwalter.typepad.com/art/ William Bilwa Costa is a sound and visual artist, musician, composer and performer. He currently works internationally; generating research, lab, and performance projects, actively cultivating opportunities for artists to work together on new interdisciplinary explorations. Collaboration with other musicians, dancers, and artists and use of improvisation are central to his practice. Bilwa works in both the performing and visual arts contexts. He is interested in sensory perception and subjectivity, and his work documents those acts of decipherment. perpetualmvmtsnd.org/bilwa Emily Sweeney is a movement artist, originally from Vermont (US), but currently working internationally. She has collaborated with sound artist William “Bilwa” Costa as Perpetual Movement Sound since 2006. They have shown work throughout Europe and North America. She is also an active dance and yoga teacher, having received her Yoga teacher certification through the Sivananda Yoga Vedanta Academy in Vrindavan, India. perpetualmvmtsnd.org/emily Christian Schröder is a musician, sound, and visual artist born in Austria and currently lives and works in Vienna. His work spans across sound, video, installation, drawing and performance and musically as a soloist and member of Kollectiv Raushen. cschroeder.tumblr.com www.kollektivrauschen.org Maria Möller draws on a background in theatre, photography, and creative nonfiction to make art rooted in site, community, collaboration, and documentary. Her interdisciplinary work includes a collaboration with artists and Arab American youth that created site-based art about immigration (The Kensington Riots Project); a video and audio installation with sculptor Jebney Lewis, presented both on the street and in the gallery (Where you are, where I am, where we’d like to be, The Space Savers Project); a Phillycentric spin on NPR (This Philadelphia Life, NEXUS/foundation for today’s art); an oral history project spanning three years, four neighborhoods, and over 30 interviews (My North Philly, The City of Philadelphia Mural Arts Program); and multiple original solo performances. She is scared of writing fiction, but not of exploring ruins. mariamoller.tumblr.com