Hollywood, Florida

Some of the best culture begins as irritation. Something — some tension or irreconcilable contradiction in the world — rubs us wrong or trips our b.s. detectors, and the only thing we can do is forcefully and truthfully respond. The b.s. often comes in the form of coded imperatives — telling us what to do, think, or like — and that forceful, truthful response is to tell them to go screw themselves in their own language. Imagine a job interview. It's at a creative agency with exercise balls instead of desk chairs. Like everyone in the office, you’re wearing a loose button-down and some passable shoes. Your résumé is impeccably laid out, and says: experienced but not overqualified. You feel well-rested and confident. As soon as the interviewer enters the room though, everything goes to hell. He scoots your résumé to the side and wants instead to hear something interesting about yourself that makes you you. He’s only giving you enough rope to hang yourself with. Your answer, in any case, is unsatisfactory. Offering another opportunity to say the right lie, he then asks you to identify three areas in which you could use the most improvement. What’s all this about? The interviewer is rubbing his face. What’s he really looking for? On some level, he doesn’t know either. It’s something that can’t be named or measured. You exhale and your mouth starts moving as your eyes scan the room. Brick. Glass. Trademark red. Philodendron. Lexar. Beanbag. Easel. Brainstorm. Keurig cup. Fob.

You think to yourself that maybe it can’t be named because it’s not just one thing; it’s the combined force of all these things. Together they form a perfect falsity that can’t be broken down into sentence-size complaints. Likewise you know that your reaction is truthful, but in a weird sense of the word “truth.” You can’t punch through the glass partition like a psycho. It would be bad form, one — and only half-truthful. Truthful response has got to be smarter, grander, unforgettable, less of a reflex and more of an aesthetic revenge. It’s got to refuse the deeper assumptions of this place. It’s got to negate simultaneously the exercise ball, the break room, the fob, the fun vibe, your résumé, your education, his swivel chair, his unspoken displeasure at your social media presence, the insidious idea of the creative class — it has to negate all this in order to free up space for something more livable. It doesn't even have to be negative, really — bitter, hostile, pessimistic, outright — it can negate, refuse, and criticize purely through an exercise of unauthorized autonomy. Right now the interviewer has all the power and represents the world as it is. It's not his fault; he has a job to do. And while you may not have the power, or the job, or a job, what you do have is leisure time. After a flash of inspiration, you adopt a new plan: go to a different interview, at a new place, every day of the week, and tank it on purpose. You've seen this work in comedy; interviews aren’t all that different. The plan is juvenile but for you spells total freedom: scheduling interviews, acting like a bozo as a hobby or cultural practice (depending on how you look at it), and wresting back autonomy while telling this interview — this crucible of self-betrayal — to go screw itself in its own language. This is what would make you you.

-Brandon Joyce, April 2015

 

Installation View  

Installation View  

Installation View  

Installation View  

Installation View  

Installation View  

Installation View  

Installation View  

Installation View  

Installation View  

Installation View  

Sam Hyde  

Sam Hyde  

Sam Hyde  

Sam Hyde  

Sam Hyde  

Sam Hyde  

Sam Hyde  

Sam Hyde  

Brandon Joyce  

John Olson  

John Olson  

John Olson  

John Olson  

John Olson  

John Olson  

John Olson  

John Olson  

John Olson  

John Olson  

Jill Pangallo  

Jill Pangallo  

Jill Pangallo  

Jill Pangallo  

Jill Pangallo  

Jill Pangallo  

Zach Shipko  

Zach Shipko  

Zach Shipko  

Zach Shipko  

Zach Shipko  

Zach Shipko