Art is everywhere. Wherever I look, too. Before me, art, art behind me. On all sides of art. It consists of a lot of metal, cables and electric motors. The art is humming, they milled it throws around.
Art lives. But only if I am put the plug in the socket. I
and art are located on the ars electronica 2010th Festival for art, technology and society. I work there, the art allows perfectly free to take appropriate space. A lot of space. Nevertheless, she manages not the issue, the tobacco factory in Linz, to be completed. Between the art, there is a lot of air. The air smells of dried tobacco. Upon entering the building is day for me Bad days. The sweet smell of unburned tobacco hits the stomach.
the neon glare. As soon as I enter the halls, I have to squint. The yellowish light swallowed the hours.
Every step stirs up dust. Nevertheless it is here for a long time ahead no more. The Schultschik Bude to stop smoking. Welcome to the Steel City in the third millennium.
Although it is useless, but the art claims to be useful. They do not need, do not admonish, not angry, not upset. The only thing in any event, if nothing else causes the man: you must be unsettling. You must raise doubts.
All that we are not disturbed and no doubt is, is a mere day.
The dust lies in a thick layer at the bottom. He absorbs all the steps. I'm spinning in circles. Around me is art, I look at it. Slowly I approach one of the objects. There is a helmet which is equipped with two dozen small fans. Some of them turn around. As I get closer I can hear the soft hum of the presses. I tend to see the head, a closer look. Looks like a prop from an early Star Trek movie. It looks like the crown of an alien king. Or as Lieutenant Uhuras hood.
My far-reaching associations are abruptly interrupted.
"Excuse me, is it art?" Asked a voice behind me me. The voice trembles a little. When I turn around I look in a mocking face. It belongs to an older man with gray hair and gray mustache. His round body, he wrapped entirely in beige. Beige trench coat, a beige sweater, beige pants. Only the shoes are dark brown. He looks like a muddy clods.
I look him in the eye. "Um, is it art?" I ask.
The man apparently looking forward to my question in return. His eyebrows for a second quick in the air and he smiles.
"That does not make sense," he says, nodding to the helmet.
"Well, yes, there is a wind recorder." I reply, assuming that he has asked for the purpose of the helmet.
"Aha." The man looks at me skeptically.
"So you can record wind. This just takes music to a tape deck." I explain.
"That does not make sense," he repeated in the direction of the helmet. This time it sounds very energetic.
"Does art make sense?" I ask him.
"If it's good art, then already. But this .. this is not good art." He says dismissively.
I shrug my shoulders.
The man goes and leaves me back with Uhuras hood.
I look at the small fans that were stuck in computers used for cooling.
When is art good for? When they succeeded? The
Fans turn in circles.
Is art good if it is moral? Art is successful when she is upset? If she is beautiful?
I take a deep breath. Breathing out, I have to cough and Apparatus dust. I fold his arms behind his back and look further to the helmet. The neon
swallowed resistant hours.
get one point I concluded that art is neither good nor bad, neither can be successful even failed. Art can not be more than we are.
could therefore identify the Erdklumpenmann only a shapeless form.
For me, the metal structure is a question generator. A bone of contention. A provocateur. And somehow Uhuras hood.
