Picpoetry: unedited mobile photography and rapidly, almost automatic unedited poetic prose writing, ideally on the spot in order to capture the atmospherics of the specific time and space. I upload all my picpoetry on Instagram under the name picpoet – one of the oldest poets of Instagram combining visual and poetic prose. Picpoetry is a method I invented in 2009 in order to explore an ontology of presence without falling into the standard trappings of visual and textual phenomenology. There have been two waves of picpoetry. The first one, with about 600 picpoems, ended in July 2013 were all except for the very last picpoem were ceremoniously deleted for picpoet’s suicide. The second one, since 2014 and still ongoing, counts more than 1000 picpoems and can be found below and on Instagram.
PICPOETRY
We the air, we the seaweed, we the jellyfish. We, the ones that climb, we the ones that drown. That time when the wind blew without upsetting a single hair on his perfect head and the city turned like a well pasted lipstick in the tube of eternal joy. That smoothness that took care of my whole life, one with everything else, my skin sleek slalom across my and other bodies. That smoothness that left me no identity. That angular smoothness. That’s all gone when he slid his hand on my face and ... Your secret is not safe with me. Yes, it’ll only stay in the box, where our hands touched when the lights were still on, and the fans were fluttering like bats ready to drink. But, look, the box is open and the world is crowding. That dance, slow and masked, we see connections, but connections ignore us. We ride our doubles, mirrors or smoke, but our doubles fade. Don’t forget to count, he said, foot already placed in the future. Artist hard at work. Artist upside down. Artist random shot. Artist not artist. Artist inevitably. Artist slumbrous. Artist afternoon. Artist get up already. Venice Pantone. Pick up the colour of the city of your dreams. Add time and salt that will destroy it in a year or so. Add hands that will touch it, feet that will step on it and eyes that will devour it. Add yourself in a night walk, light summer ... The future of a promise - that they will live and they will die and they will pray and they will eat - is a promise itself, wrapped in soft white lace of the type that carries forever the stains made from the melted wax. This will fill with water. There was a night that came visiting the day. They had tea and vodka together, they learned how to have sex while sleeping and cook breakfast while dreaming. I keep a piece of night in every one of my afternoons. The flower’s ray, the planet’s debris, the edge of your nose, all inclined, soft as tomorrow’s breeze, ready to be touched by me, the plucker, the sleeper, the glass-blower. 1, 2 or 3, which one do you like? These are recent Venice works. The motifs of water and stepladder are still around but something has happened to them. A bit looser, a bit greener, a bit more vegetal. I blame the canals. The lines rolled out across the roofs, down from windows and verandas, up in antennas and sidereal bird flights. The text finally became the city. The vegetal that we are. The water that we are. The gold that we are. . Single bell / background voices / two swallows vanishing in / three clappings : the order of a happiness Give her a minute. Just to finish her text. And she’ll jump right in. You just keep it open and deep for her. And she’ll swim in the light like a swan. Of a wall, of a master, of a tool, of a bounce, of an offering, of a way out, of a hole back in, of demolitions and armours. (Notes on acts of domestic vandalism) Slashing Waters - a performance on waters, law and wavewriting, online, double camera, twin sound channel, video, acetate, ink, water (video to come on andreaspm.com ) You’ve always seen me, even when I couldn’t. You’ve never lost me, even though I never found me. You’re always you. I am you only sometimes. Everyone bleeds. The air was stale with humidity. He opened the door and walked back in. He wished the gaps weren’t that wide so that he could shut the world out. But the world kept on bleeding in through the air. For you I turned my days into a stage, joy hidden under every teacup, sadness like dust on every tabletop. But the nights, I drew the curtains shut. Walking mid-water, ocean deep corridors of strutting backspines, pebble by pebble we make our houses, cracking always in that middle of dark water seashell breath. Hidden your hand holding a heated afternoon sun, keep it tight in, and when the evening becomes your companion, because it will, then remember to place it somewhere on your face, an electric smile fading or a memory of an adolescent thunder. No one is ever really fooled, no one really believes it, yet we all, long lines of unbelievers, turn up for heaven and turn down for whatever is left. You have never been here. Here has never been. Here is, chasing across the chess board the black becomes the other queen, here is, the white becomes the cliff of the game, here is, elsewhere. There is no outside. Etc. For your moment of glory, a pile of air made of fire that has not yet been lit. You will fly darling, across the lanes of a sky, rolls of clouds underneath your round fluffy wheels. She really thought that the glass would stop the waves. Not ordinary waves. Flat slow breathless waves of a city under a blue sun. Concrete and ondoyant, surfaces of her morning routine. She had trust in the glass, although the other day she saw a ... I swam through the window into the living room, past the armchair where you used to sit and wait for me. There was a nest of waves, round morning song, already looking out, impatient to surface. When the jungle moved onto the other side of your eye, and your home emptied out and filled up, and your voice what happened to your voice? a wave a rasp a round, that then unblocked the view. That untrammelled world, that unridged sky, our narrow is becoming even narrower. And I need to turn smaller. Oil and gold metal paint on small random canvases, in progress. Moths attracted and dying onto the thing that looks like a moon but actually isn’t even supposed to be a moon, just white oil paint with a dash of weed green. Or, the power of non-representation. Ok now what do I do!? *Sound ON* and I made music and placed it on a thought and let it float on the big river under the city and hope it reached you You gave me your blue and i made it a square, you gave me your summer and I made it yesterday’s afternoon, you gave me steps to reach you and I was afraid I would slip. I took your waters and made them paint, I took your waves and made them windows, I took your seabed and made it welcome. The three birds that never stopped singing even when they had to eat, mouths filled with necessity, the three cages that never opened even when everything else was opening, space filled with time, the three waters that never stopped reflecting even ... Thanks to @p_studio_f for the invite to perform last night my immersive lawscaping atmospherics - part of Performance Now v.8! #performance #performanceart This Friday 18:00 GMT on zoom Thames beach, even there you must carry on trying, the water never withdraws the earth never appears, 1 2 3, pole skipping, avoid earth avoid water, become Venice and fail. Repost from @daniellearnaudgallery my current work: Fifth in our series of works by artists, combined with their influences, is Andreas Philippopoulos-Mihalopoulos' series 'Sinking City', combined with J. G. Ballard's novel ... He remembered the first time he woke up in the middle of the night, that B&B was perfect, the day was perfect, the love he felt was perfect. But the night opened up like a flowery duvet with its seams all torn up. From then on, waiting became a ... Time was captured in the folds of the weeds / soft, aqueous, planetary waves / those weeds if left unattended, promise to fill your empty evenings as if they were real. All our words we hang on the daylight, it’s slippery, always slanted, nothing stays put for long, but yes this nothing falls into our arms if we wait at the right end of the diagonal. Mother presence, she wanted you to float away, on the wing of her blowing embraces, those flying kiss kiss that always ended up landing softly on your cheek. On the day we didn’t meet, the sky poured its gold into the pond. I don’t think you knew what to do with it, so you just let the garden drink from it. Starfish memory spreading like an umbrella on the skybed, you are all connected, a voice booms before the call ends. The light, the studio, the surface, the waiting, the drying, the piling, the dust, the odour, the water inside all curves and valleys. Of that time, when water was without waves, no memory. Just bottles that sucked it all in, smooth heavy liquid of an untarnished sometime. Evening. And the inside spills out, frenzied glacier that paralyses the city. Evening. And the outside licks the glazing off our windows. The memory of your shade, white this time, no longer pure, not yours, white till the end of white, it always comes. Tessellated planet, its surface cracked by gravity, so how did we fail to see the steps? Long before human skin was stretched on them to dry, steps were carved, resting places for winds, hunting grounds for plants. Here is the difference now: we have... Your dream, our dream, of perpetual flow, there it ends, here it ends, your feet plunged in the green, waddled through it as if it were another country, mirrors!, you exclaimed, mirrors everywhere! but no, no mirrors, just frames that square up the ... We are ready to fall. The light, cradle of square tenderness, will catch us again. mid-flight she knew, I am more than the sum of my parts, but mid-life she started collecting all her little parts, I am nothing more than my breaths never taken and my trips never completed from deep within our shoulders, the wings we gave our lives for, rose and folded around us, flooded us, filled our mouths with sorrow Oh my love, this night was never meant for us. It opens up elsewhere, on the dark side of a different planet, waiting for another dawn to kill it. This night is not our night. @oms_rocha and my collab work is out and can be purchased at super accessible prices. We would love to see them live in new homes. Please check my site andreaspm.com/show/poetry-duality/ and contact me for prices - all proceeds support struggling ... Never a form, never the outside, but flooding whatever there is, here is that flesh, irreducible, ready to leap off into the shapelessness of breath. Five of me were waiting behind me, a queue on springs shaking with a foretaste of life in their half-open lips, I could rest now, this bed, your body, our past, that late afternoon in that house by the sea, could be relived. shimmering waterless lake spreading fast across our dreams, flood again flood, but your voice framed it, made it a reservoir of slashes, your voice a dam stopping our dreams from bleeding. Teach me the ends of your hand, after this syllable, this mute promise of a sentence, never uttered. Seamstress of my full stops. don’t ignore these round rusty handles, pores of a skin stretched across birth times and death sighs, levers opening to those worlds your body really inhabits now, geographical desires so intense that axes turn the other way while you breathe in ... I give you all the halves that I am. We were waiting for the dawn, our night covers thinned out by the footfall of the ones who no longer waited, but we stayed on, our hands grabbing the horizon as if it would hold us up, our eyes glued to the point, but the point shifted and any light ... I never got to know you but I’ve always bathed in your circles, we shared that surface where our lives and our screens were contiguous, a common skin wrapped around our uncommon bodies Three times sliding down, laughing skin on the morning’s shine, and the steel warms up, becomes rosy sky, lake reflecting our breaths NEVER BEEN WHOLE Steps down, or was it up, every one a day in the life, little flames on my toes remind me how at night the air becomes a womb of light, and we walk. Collab with @sylviebacquet dr extraordinaire takes pix - happy Hanukkah Wasn’t what you said water? In my ear, what you said, water words whispering water worlds? Water was womb, you said, water was wonder, yes I heard this, water was wave, yes yes, but water was wound? Did you say that? Water was wound? There was no end in the rooms, corridors of her life, raging tides and lulling lakes sitting down with her every evening at dinner, a light left on by someone, not her, a signal from another life: she felt warm. Shaft, moat, barrier and then walk out. Fall, Swim, Jump and then walk out. Leave behind, Cleanse, Move on and then walk out. Or Collapse, Drown, Crash. And then you will still walk out.
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Oil and gold metal spray on canvas, 80X100, 2021, part of a diptych.
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Pic by @p.s.fiorenza
The water always comes from below.
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Sinking City XXII, oil and gold metallic spray on canvas, 100x50x3.50, 2021 (in progress)
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Oil and gold chrome on canvas, 50x70cm, 2021
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Sinking City XV, 2021, oil and gold metal paint on canvas, 100x100 (detail, in progress)
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Sinking City XVI, Oil and gold ...
Link on bio
Andreas Philippopoulos-Mihalopoulos The Space That You Are, performance lecture – participatory workshop, 45 min
Αυτή την Παρασκευή 26 Μαρτίου στις 20.00, ...
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Sinking City VI, oil and metallic gold paint on canvas, ...
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Acrylic and gold metallic paint on canvas, 91x91cm, 2021 (in progress)
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Sinking City X, Sinking City series, Acrylic and gold metallic paint on canvas, 90x90cm,
I give you the end of all my lines.
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#duality #collab with @oms_rocha
EVEN/WHEN HURTING .
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Acrylic and Sumi Ink on paper, 76x57cm, collab with @oms_rocha