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PROTEUS MAG ISSUE #5 AVAILABLE FOR DOWNLOAD
Dustin Parker Arts, LLC is proud to announce the release of Proteus Mag issue #5. Issue #5 features work by Joshua Hoffine, Phil Toledano, André Sanchez, Chris Trueman, Jeff Depner, Sarah Scott, Heiko Müeller, Emilio López-Galiacho, Francesca Popolizio, Géraldine Georges, Tommy Kane, Sauerkids, LYS, Marek Haiduk, and Papermonster.

You can download Proteus Mag issue #5 at http://www.proteusmag.com or http://www.proteusmag.com/issues/proteusmag05.pdf


Cover Image by Papermonster

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one of my feeds comes from techcrunch. this morning it linked to this blog and a long polemic about artists and pirating music, a little dirt kicking and crying into pillows. rather than repeat what i read, i just want to post my comment. if you find that interesting, read the article. then read comment 6 by cliff gerrish who keeps the blog echovar. love his before you vote: 20 questions for day one article from april 5.

in response to reducing back to art at blackrimglasses.com:

“… i totally agree with cliff gerish. sidenote: i had a conversation once with a musician friend in which he said, “where’s your drive to get work into galleries? you only make stuff when it’s time for christmas or birthdays or funny envelopes for friends.” i told him i could care less about making art for an audience. after school, my production hasn’t slowed, it’s just made when it’s made when i want to make it. it’s freeing to make things for friends and family or posting drawings to my blogs. the thought of putting something together for the masses makes me creatively impotent.

the musician friend said, “don’t you want an audience?” gross. annoying.

i told him that to me, the philosophy of art and the business of art were two separate things. in my opinion, it’s quite a responsibility to call ones self an artist. although i have an art degree and work in an art museum, i still have a hard time calling myself an artist. it feels silly. but i’m completely embedded in the culture. i read and write and go to openings and draw on napkins and sometimes paint and other time post pictures to flickr and it all feels like the same thing and i love it and would continue to do it with or without an audience. if left alone a desert island without formal tools or people to applaud/purchase/love/hate i would eventually have to build something and create. my friend was dumbfounded. he said, “but i have something to offer the world an i feel like they are missing out if they don’t experience it.”

for other reasons we are no longer friends, but this was such an irritating thing to hear i should have seen it as foreshaddowing. art is a religion. it has a tribe. and there are infil-traitors amidst us who would’t think to bang two rocks together without a recording device to collect their sounds or a public to clap and swoon. or monetary kickbacks. it is what it is. it’s conversation. it’s breathing. it’s calories in calories out. it’s a force and i am bored with the notion of marrying it to some mode of income. it makes it not fun anymore. i make a living teaching people about art. i don’t have to make it making. i’m satisfied creating and if someone likes it or finds it funny, great. but it doesn’t determine my next move …”

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it’s 6:19 and grey. my windows are open. i’m home with a stomach virus that jumped ship from bean tostada to intestine island and my down there thinks it’s monday night on mass street circa 10 pm. broken glass, dicks out, vomit et al.

so i’m not especially a good candidate for new posting, but–on monday night after getting hit in the face for the third and final time by a drunk’s KU flag i looked around at the crushed flowers beneath my feet, the hairy balls 20 feet from my face, the multitude of straw cowboyhatted soroity girls in broken form and challenged myself to find the art. because someone somewhere will reduce an experience like that to an eloquent concentrate and i want to push myself to be that person. for me, art must reduce experience to its essence. all experience. positive negative vomit sunshine. that’s my new.

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first loves / 1

benjamin edwards: makes me feel artificially clean … my ability to maintain my 20th-century pace is cresting … it’s a matter of time before i slip to the back row of class … i’m showing signs of fatigue … i can’t retain (any, more) mass quantities of visual information … my mind no longer retains facts from google … it doesn’t have to … i forget what i want to remember but find it in my pocket … i’m losing abilities that took thousands of years for humans to specialize … being the last person on earth won’t be so bad if his utopian landscapes come through on their promises … how many wireless conversations intersect my heart and lungs and take up space intended for breathing and circulation?

benjamin edwards / the triumph of democracy

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