part VI

So, Slaginc looks out over Dalston Lane…

The exhibition … is a collaborative work of Pav Mxski and Panko Rzadka. In an installation of poetry, photography and found objects they are creating a narrative without real characters, hinting on lost history, lost love and lost identity.

" I iron out the crease in your flesh
a too much to bear
reminder "

It’s not about (true) love, nor even (sexual) lust - it is about the vulnerability, the violence and the anxiety of the body, and thus of the human.

Through the repetition of images they trigger an obsessive insistence, which peels off the cursory shine of the image and reveals the unglamorous reality underneath it - a defiant action to undermine the first impression of sex, flesh and pornography.

The photographs question the very premise of the portrait and within them the individuality of the sitter is erased without compunction.
The set ups seem like Baconesque arenas, a house of dolls into which deformed and mutilated bodies are placed. This is exaggerated by the impulsive and smeared paint on the surface of the photographs, which tries to simultaneously destroy and resurrect the image.

The artists, seemingly the masters of the spectacle, are maybe, in reality merely pawns in a hidden repetitive poem:

" on the door step
of hopelessness
conquer reason
mistrust
repeats
repeat the words
again
again
again "

A collection of writings acts as a guide through the visual fragments of the play.

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part V

So, Slaginc says...
Do you like painting?

You are not an artist.

You are making excuses people are attracted to you.


Real extremes do exist.
You are not an artist you are a rock star.

You are an outsider.
Are you ruthless?
Your house is covered in blood.
Is art ruthless?

No time to be poor. Steel yourself for acts of misappropriation.
You see something you take it without asking.
I don't care who sees you.

Light fingered and hard hearted with the skin of a rhino.
Steal, lie, love and get away with it.

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part IV

So, Slaginc says.......die......in poplar...............................................................................
location.....relocation.....dislocation..................................................................................

sickness…………………………………drunk on light headedness......…….poisoning
strongbow……… 65 in front of the door……lynch……………………………….....mob
in the ghetto......on an island............................................................I thought I am there..
.......but I am 58 min away.................my flatmates are.....all over.......fifty..........................
my neighbours are drunken...........hiding behind pink walls...........aquamarine doors
..................the england flag waves in my garden...............................................................
the boys want me to open my ass........................................................................................
take my power................................................................I am not a spanker........................
fat.......or really thin..............................................................smell of pie and chips.............
.............................................................the sweat.......flip flops................................................
people.....pitted like concrete … anaemic… .......................home of the disposed............
seamen and loners and travellers...............they are real wearing plastic...........pyjamas.
.....................................all year round...............................................................................


the landscapes have no mercy they are on top of the people…………….resigned…......
he is actually dead already.

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part III

So, Slaginc muses

We are the gloomy children of the night.
Curses they call us in our homes beneath the ground.
We drive from home those who have shed the blood of men.

Where is the place, then, where the killer's
flight shall end?

A place where happiness is nevermore allowed.

Now
the House of Justice has collapsed.

There are times when fear is good.
It must keep its watchful place
at the heart's controls. There is
advantage
in the wisdom won from pain.

I, disinherited, suffering, heavy with anger
shall let loose on the land
the vindictive poison
dripping deadly out of my heart upon the ground;
this from itself shall breed
cancer, the leafless, the barren
to strike, for the right, their low lands
and drag its smear of mortal infection on the ground.

In complete honesty I promise you a place of your own,
deep hidden under ground that is yours by right
where you shall sit on shining chairs beside the hearth
to accept devotions offered by your citizens.

Aeschylus "Oresteia"

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part II
So, Slaginc cannot give you any explanation –
ask the curator.

A meaning – no meaning.
Turn from the private to the public and your no meaning becomes full
of meaning.
Walk around with a swastika in your room, now step outside into the
street. Noticed any difference?

The symbols you play with will taint you. Their dye will colour you.
You will be the gangster, the rapper, the woman. You will be the singular revelation of all that is coded. But, remember, "not everybody who wears a swastika is a Nazi". They just haven't come out of their psychic closet. Wash all meaning away and you will be lost.

The glint from the symbol pinned to your coat will determine how you are treated. With love or with hate; with lust or repugnance. The eyes of others will see your image, never your unique self. Personas are freely exchangeable, the icon lives on our breast and not the chapel wall; appropriate at your leisure and at your peril.

Slaginc does not explain, instead we emotionalise and sexualise the codes of your group. We warp the mirror and your once familiar reflection spits back hysteria.
Slaginc asks, will you go down with your ship and rise up reborn as the bitch stripped bare? The flicker of hesitation in your eyes betrays you my child.

Come forth and enter Slaginc.

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part I
So, Slaginc says " don't you know your car is dead? " Or
" ever get the feeling there's more to life than materialism? "

This space reflects the vulnerability of human sensibility. We renounce materialism and embrace the spirit of love, sex, religion and death. We don't paint the bodywork; we visualize the guts. Our ancestors are our teachers. All the pain and love from the past flows into the present and we meld it into the future.

This art is not a rock but an endless string unraveling forever beyond the transient limits of modern society.

Through the exposure, the nudity, the stupidity we become who we are: a single human reaching out for understanding. Let's appreciate ourselves and then we'll be happy.

Beyond the fear of a packed bus, the slurs of racists, the grind of
conformity, we know that deeper values exist and always have done -
eternal values. We are the present day conduits for them; the Achilles
heel of materialism.
No excuses, all there is left are excesses...

Welcome to Slaginc