I Love Autogol

“To fail or not to fail” That is not the question! Is it possible, within an artistic context to imagine a sheer “statement”? Personally speaking, I have always found the term: “artist’s statement” to be quite the oxymoron. Is it actually possible for an artist to “state” something? An artist utilizes doubt, accepting failure as the beginning of an investigation, paradoxically the artist embraces failure as a major aspect of development. Art in and of itself is a process derived from chance, misstep, and change. It is imperative that any process of consideration relating to art be conducted, created, considered, or for that matter represented in a non-linear fashion to the point where one i.e. the artist considers such methods as a code. Without the ever present danger of a surprise or some form of deviation art risks becoming one dimensional, didactic, even documentary. Imagine, for example, a situation in which one alters the form of a narrative going from statement to a story:

“I find myself one evening in a bar with two friends of mine who so happen to be artists. The place is quite odd. Darkness hangs low over the entire room with the weight of a black velvet cloak. It’s all black, from the tiles by the tips of my toes to the walls which surround us. It would seem, as if the only colour as far as the eye can see is provided by an array of strange lamps bursting through the ceiling blooming ever so slightly resembling a flock of amphora. As they flash ever so slightly, my companion mentions that they very well could be seats, and we laugh. A discussion arises between us, the topic: our current location. A tinge of irony coats our words as they seeth from our lips. A blond girl has attached herself to the side of the bar, body perpetually in motion. Her subtle twist standing in stark contrast with the two gentlemen opposite her. Both uniform, hair short; one portly sporting an ill fitting silk shirt, the other of a thinner variety with a black leather jacket. They occasionally exchange what seem to be polite remarks with the fair haired dancer, as my cohorts can't help but quip about the trio and how well they appear to belong to this place. A man opens a bottle of champagne, eyes fixed on our table, an occurrence which unexplainably serves to escalate the curiosity we share about this quizzical little place we have crawled into.
“It’s a matter of reflection.” mentions a friend.
Well sure, after all we’re surrounded by mirrors. The mirrors work in tandem with the lights to create a dazzling nearly psychedelic effect. My comrades: learned men; well versed in the arts and sciences, and while I suppose I could work out certain objective reasons as to why they find this bar appealing, and so as I sip and swig from my whiskey I attempt to evaluate it. But I digress, I can’t help but laugh at the bartender and his awkward physicality as he performs his craft.
“It’s a matter of balance!”: my associate blares out across the table, “Too much ginger beer and the cocktail is garbage.”
And he’s right; it’s all about balance, and reflection, even in this odd little hole the various elements coincide with one and other in their own way. I can’t escape how weird this place is, how kitsch, how mysterious, it almost has a comedic quality of sorts it's very dark here, and I need to use the toilette. I stand up, I walk through the bar with a confident

Text by Vincenzo Della Corte

Credits of the Artists and French Pavilion, Zagreb