SOUND EXTREMISM @STRANDED FM RADIO

ART EXTREMISM will now have a radio space at Stranded FM in Utrecht.
The show will be called “Sound Extremism” will be the experimental music section of this platform.
The first episode will be on Friday 28th of June from 6-7 PM CET, available both on Stranded FM’s website and on Guenter Råler’s Facebook page.

You can send music and suggestions. Any genre is accepted
> guenterraler@mail.com >artextremism@mail.com

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Annunci

Cyborg reading a human poem.


Seems almost fair to spend my days listening to Frank Ocean
no one is around but still I’m keeping quiet.
How can you be so tough on yourself
while being so kind to others
giving all you have
and not getting the things you deserve.
Yes,
glory and divine
rare fathers of a phoenix
this is my rebirth on a Sunday morning
I’ll let you know when I’m ready
I’ll let you know.
I’ll be on the floor waiting for something to happen
in my apartment in Paris where I last saw you
brushing your teeth
wearing your clothes.

It is not fair what we do to each other
shouldn’t this be the way we love?
Seems almost fair to spend my days
crying for a lost friend.
I promise,
I’ll send you flowers on my way home
this might song sounds like a denim jacket and a stab in the heart.

IRL/URL {Body, data, presence}

Am I the body that I see on the screen?
Or am I the shadow
sleeping at night
with the eyes open.
All I have is a screen
laying next to me
my guardian, my company.
How do you make sure that you still exist?
Your flesh, your thoughts
If you don’t write them anywhere
if no one hears about them
are they still real?

I deleted my account
but I am still breathing.
I have a friend
in common
with my best friend
I have liked thousands of pictures
we never spoke about it.
What was I doing before I had a screen?
Drawing, writing, reading, driving around at night
taking pictures and printing them months later
the memory fades.

Where have I been?
I don’t have time anymore
for reality
it scares me
I prefer to surround me with myself
my ego
my reflection
mirroring good behavior
do you like me?
Or maybe you love me
I can share my secrets
I feel safe with you
I know you know where I live
What I like to do
What is my favorite movie
The school I attended, the place where I was born
You told me to connect with other people
I obey your orders
And I’m free.
Yesterday something happened on our way to work
I couldn’t recognize reality anymore
the screen is glued to my hand
it gets in the way of every gesture
You showed me a picture from 10 years ago
that made me sad
I don’t want to go out anymore
I can see my friends on the computer
Can you hear my voice?
My connection is slow
Something got lost in the depth of the network
a glitch
a glimpse of humanness
banned, blocked, canceled.

You know everything about me
But I don’t know nothing about you
You keep saying
I’m safe
but I don’t know who you are. A singular entity? A moltitude?
Where do you live?
Am I just a binary number on a server to you?
Am I just a handful of data archived in a digital haven?
Pull me away from the embarrassment
o f sitting alone in a bar
having nothing to stare at.
I’ve already seen everything around
nothing seems interesting.
You say you’re making people closer
 and yet
you build barriers
a positive feedback, a negative cycle
who is who 
what is what
Are you spying on me?
Oh no, you’re just my best friend
. Do you like me?
I shared a song that I adore. 
No one seems to care.

Online, offline
in and out
the presence within the present
the virtual body
do you remember the first time you saw the internet?
A galaxy of bodies
Alive somewhere
a globe without boundaries.

we obey a fictional eye

Possessed suggests in medias res that the centre of the human universe is a smartphone. The next image shows more clearly a girl lying on a bare mattressed bed, in a ruined house devoid of any furniture, with the presence of only one object—a smartphone. She greets the viewers with the words—both vocal and written—“welcome to the modern age”, followed by:

“You may think that this is a house. But there is no house. You may think that this is a girl. But there is no girl. Don’t ask me who I am.”

Examining the complex mutual relationship between the socio-political context and the work of art which documents the historic period it emerged in, the words are intercut with film negatives of houses, a helicopter, the ‘invisible’ humans (“you never noticed me, I wouldn’t be missed”), a footage of Pope Francis, all accompanied with smartphone selfies made with a raised arm in front of the masses of people and monuments.

This verbal segment is intercut with the images of the cross and a drawing of a hand collaged with the real human arm holding a smartphone, as the new disease to be cured of (by exorcism) seems to be—the reality. The raised arm holding a smartphone becomes the pervasive film symbol—it is present in Vatican, over the heads of a faceless mass, in restaurants, in shopping centres, in our empty homes, in the streets, it is everywhere—questioning the beliefs of people. Religion becomes a kind of superstition, because no matter what people ‘know’ in the information age, they still interpret the world and the reality according to their pre-existing fixed set of beliefs.

POSSESSED, 2018

“It began raining facts from the ceiling”

In 2014, a strange set of events unfolds.
Without apparent plan or structure, they seem connected.
Our views of the world are changing, as if we wake up from a dream.
We no longer see the internet as a means of communication,
but as a way to change the nature of
reality itself.
Mind-warped, pixelated illusions
replace our faith in information.
Ideologies collide in chasms of
uncertainty and hope.
We are gazing at out screens,
trapped in a sprawl.

©  Metahaven, 2016.

I’ve been living in an idea (boys don’t cry)

Speaking of Nirvana, it was there
Rare as the feathers on my dash from a phoenix
There with my crooked teeth and companions sleeping, yeah
Dreaming a thought that could dream about a thought
That could think of the dreamer that thought
That could think of dreaming and getting a glimmer of God
I be dreaming a dream in a thought
That could dream about a thought
That could think about dreaming a dream
Where I can not, where I can not
Less morose and more present
Dwell on my gifts for a second
A moment one solar flare would consume, so I nod
Spin this flammable paper on the film that my life
High flights, inhale the vapor, exhale once and think twice
Eat some shrooms, maybe have a good cry, about you
See some colors, light hangglide off the moon

Quicksilver;Poem;

Giaccio
nella sottile linea d’argento
che si dissolve rapida
prima della comprensione.

Giaccio
sul pelo dell’acqua cristallina
tormentata da correnti indefinibili
prima che l’attrazione molecolare ceda.

Riposo
nell’ombra del mio stesso dubbio
di forme che crescono senza controllo
irradiano agilmente un nuovo pensiero:
che non se più tu la persona nello specchio.

Giaccio
pesanti le membra sui silenzi
dei corpi vicini, dei genitori.
Fulminei, fantasmi di antiquati giudizi
visitano i sogni.

Prima del risveglio si disperano le soluzioni
corrente elettrica e acqua, ricerco l’impulso mortale
allontano la marchiatura che mi rende cieca
un ruolo che non si addice
un’etichetta che lascia la colla dopo processi di distruzione e ricomponimento.

Giaccio
nell’immagine sfuocata
di mille altri cloni
coloro a cui cerco di dare un nome:

io, identità.

///////////////////

I lie
within the thin silver line
which dissolves quickly
before I understand.

I lie
on the surface of the crystalline water
tormented by indefinable currents
before the molecular attraction yields.

I rest
in the shadow of my own doubt
inside me forms that grow without control
they radiate new agile thoughts:
that it’s no longer you the person in the mirror.

I lie
heavy limbs on silences
of the neighboring bodies, of the parents.
Lightning, ghosts of antiquated judgments
they visit dreams.

Before awakening, the solutions despair
electricity and water, I search for the deadly impulse
remove the marking that makes me blind
a role that does not fit
a label that leaves the glue after processes of destruction and reconstitution.

I lie
in the blurred image
of a thousand other clones
those I try to give a name:

me, identity.


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