: .̡̡ͧ̇͋̃̀̐͐͛͛ͮ̆ͣ͑̐͆̋̑͡͏ĝ̶̷̽ͩ̆͒̋͡i̛̍͆͆̓͋̔̎́͢f̷ͨ̅ͦ̓͋ͧ̽̈̉̑ͣ͝s̷̷̢̨̏͑͒̓̓ͧ̍̄̊̋͟ :

: news :

News #3

:̸̂͌ͣ́̎ͦ͛̂͛ͬ̊̓̂ͫͩ̽̂̎̏̕͜͞͡ ̸̄͒͑́̌ͯ̈́͐͛͌̓ͣ̾͊̐̾͠t̴̸ͯ͛̒͋ͧ̅̓͜o̷̢̽͆͒ͭ̃͂ͣ҉ņ͆ͬͦ͆̾̄̅͑͑̚͡͏҉y̧͌͛̍͑̀ͭ̂̆́͛͐͆͌̀̚ ̃̑̽ͦ̂ͫ҉҉̵̧͢p̨̨̒́̅ͤ̀̌ͭ̃̓̒̒͒̿ͦ̏̇ͯ̉ͤ͝oͬ̽ͬ̉ͩͤ̍̎͑͋̕͟͡͝͏k̴̸ͯ͋ͫ̾ͫé̶͑̀ͩͣ̀̇ͤͭ͟͞͝m̷̂ͨͣ͌͊̀̿̾̎̉͐̒̓̚̚͡͞o̓̈́̒͑ͧͫͫ͌ͥ͛͡҉n̛̐̈́͆̄͑ͪ̈́ͫͭͮ͌ͪ̉͜͜͠tͩͬ͐̅ͥ͂́̅̓͌̆̆͛͗ͫ͘a̵̡̢̅̍̓ͧ͞ņ̵̛͆ͭͧ̇̈́̇̏ͫͪ̏̒͑́̔̇ͨ͗͘͢a̡͐ͪ͂͑̀͗ͪ̿̌̚͢͠ ̄ͣ̄͒͂ͥͪͪ̎͒̂̓̽͘͟͡:̶ͧ̄̑̌͂ͤͧ͋͏̡͘͠

:ͪ͒̒̅̒̋͌ ͬ̎̀͌̐͂͂ͮ̀̂̑̋̎̚b͒ͧͯ̾͌̈́̔̿ͭͪ̓͆̂ö́ͮ̑ͥ͋̌ͬyͬ̿̏͗̓̈́̑ͯ͒ͭ̆͐̚s͆͒̒̓͆ ̽̇͌̽̆̆͊̿d̆ͮ̿͋ͥ̐́͒̌o͗̒̅ͬ ͌͊ͫ͊ͮͦͩͣn̿ͫͦͦͤ̈́̽̂ͧo̽ͬͦ͊ͦ̄ͭt̐̇̓̐̒͂́ͯ́̒ͣ̚ ͛ͣ͛̎̏̅̆ͨͬͨ̓ͣ̍̈́̚̚̚cͮ̈́̏͋̈́̔̔͋̾̽́̚r̂̋̔͐ͤ̓ͩ̌̽̀̿̐ͦy̅̊ͦͭͬͫͩͩ̏̾̔͒ͬ̎̂ͤ͂ ͮ͆̆̌̀ͣͬ̃̿̽͂͛̎̓ͬ̀̚:͊ͫͫ͑́̉̿̅̀̉ͨ͛̐̀̚

http://culturetwo.wordpress.com/2014/03/31/why-i-hate-post-internet-art/

I really don’t like “post-internet art.” I don’t like the term and I don’t like the art that’s presented under its banner. Lots of people tell me that they don’t like it, either.

Whether people like it, or hate it, or feel indifferent, it seems like they all know what “post-internet” means but they can’t articulate it. The vagueness of post-internet, paired with the assumption that everyone knows what it means, is one of the most aggravating things about it. “I know it when I see it”—like porn, right? And it’s not a bad analogy, because post-internet art does to art what porn does to sex.

But let’s try to define it anyway.

I first came across “post-internet” when it was the title of the blog that Gene McHugh kept in 2009 and 2010. The use of “post-internet” as a label wasn’t common then—no one besides Marisa Olson really used it—and I misunderstood Gene’s choice of a blog name as a pun about blogging (a blog entry is a post, it’s on the internet). But he really did use “post-internet” as a term and he tried at length to describe what it means.

When the internet stopped being the domain of amateurs, programmers, and hackers—when it became an inseparable part of everyday life for people with no special interest in or knowledge about computers—it changed. That’s why Gene thought it was worth saying “post-internet.” He wrote: “What we mean when we say ‘Internet’ became not a thing in the world to escape into, but rather the world one sought escape from… sigh… It became the place where business was conducted, and bills were paid. It became the place where people tracked you down.”

I’m sympathetic to Gene’s approach to developing a historical framework. It seems similar to an attempt to think about how radio or television changed how people live and how art is made, or how newspapers changed things when printing and reproducing images became cheap and easy. Cultural shifts like these are impossible to quantify but they become visible in art and historians have used art to describe them.

The kneejerk negative reaction to “post-internet”—“How can we be post-internet when internet is still here? Shouldn’t it be during-internet”—doesn’t seem to hold up under scrutiny. Gene covered a response already. And yet, I have a problem with Gene’s response—with his “sigh” at what the internet has become.

Think about it through analogy to post-modernism. Post-modernism doesn’t mean modernism doesn’t exist anymore. Modernism penetrates all aspects of life: any big new building in any city owes a debt to modernist architects. Modernism infiltrates domestic life via Ikea. Everybody loves abstract painting now—it decorates the walls of banks and hotels. Modernism’s infancy was the period when it had the most potential, but that ended and now it’s living a dull adult life. Post-modernism doesn’t mean that modernism is gone. It means that modernism is familiar. It’s complete. It’s still alive but its features are recognizable, and that’s precisely why it can be repeated and reused. Scholars may continue to argue about the particulars of modernism, about the facts of its infancy, but they can do so because they have a handle on its general contours, which are out in the world in plain sight.

Post-internet says the same thing about the internet that post-modernism says about modernism. But isn’t that a little presumptuous? “What about what we mean when we say ‘Internet’ changed so drastically that we can speak of ‘post Internet’ with a straight face?” asked Gene on his blog. I’d agree that it changed drastically but I’d also ask: Why assume that it can’t change again? The internet is always changing. The internet of five years ago was so unlike what it is now, to say nothing of the internet before social media, or the internet of twenty years ago, or the internet before the World Wide Web. Why insist that the changes are over?

Artists who begin with the proposition that the phenomena of their world are boring and banal, who begin with an exasperated sigh, are going to produce art that is boring and banal, art that produces exasperated sighs. That was the case with a lot of conceptual art of the 1960s and 1970s, when artists explored the aesthetics of administration, producing charts and diagrams and photocopy texts that presented viewers with the particulars of bureaucracy. Sigh.

What’s the new equivalent of the aesthetics of administration?

The post-internet art object looks good in the online installation view, photographed under bright lights in the purifying white space of the gallery (which doubles the white field of the browser window supporting the documentation), filtered for high contrast and colors that pop. The post-internet art object looks good online in the way that laundry detergent looks good in a commercial. Detergent doesn’t look as stunning at a laundromat, and neither does post-internet art at a gallery. It’s boring to be around. It’s not really sculpture. It doesn’t activate space. It’s frontal, designed to preen for the camera’s lens. It’s an assemblage of some sort, and there’s little excitement in the way objects are placed together, and nothing is well made except for the mass-market products in it. It’s the art of a cargo cult, made in awe at the way brands thrive and proliferate images in networks, awe at the way networks are ruled by brands. It’s like a new form of landscape painting, a view of the world as it is, and that’s why its visual vocabulary is hard to distinguish from that of advertising and product displays. An artist’s choice to make art that way—as a plain reflection of reality and the power systems that manage it—shows a lack of imagination, when there are so many other ways of making art available. Post-internet artists know what the internet is for, and it’s for promoting their work. Post-internet art flaunts a cheap savvy of image distribution and the role of documentation in the making of an art career. Post-internet art seems like art about the idea of art world success—the art one would make to become a well-known artist if one doesn’t care about anything else.

Should I name names? What’s the point of an angry rant if I don’t even call anyone out? I don’t want to do that, mainly because discussing the body of work of a particular artist or critiquing certain pieces would require a level of research, attention, and thought that I’m not willing to spend on post-internet art. It also seems futile because post-internet isn’t necessarily a permanent identity for any given artist; an artist can make post-internet art sometimes and another kind of art, for better or worse, at another time. Post-internet is an outfit that can be worn and discarded. So it’s better to call it out as a trend, or to call out the scenes and social groupings that do the most to popularize the trend. The Jogging—the people closely associated with it and the people who want to be closely associated with it—abuse post-internet most egregiously. The scenes that have been cultivated around Berlin galleries Kraupa-Tuskany and Societe are bad, too. If it’s at Higher Pictures gallery in New York I probably won’t like it. If it’s in a group show curated by Agatha Wara I’m sure I’ll hate it. If it’s on a cool Tumblr I can’t be bothered.

So post-internet is bad. But if we’re not post-, then where are we, when are we? What prefix can people who love labels use to situate themselves in history? Recently I’ve become enamored with Mikhail Epstein’s writing on proto-, which supposes that the modern age of humanity is over, and that sweeping changes to nature and technology herald the onset of a new, still nebulous era. Epstein writes:

“The period we are entering is no longer a period after something: postcommunist, postmodernist, ‘postthis,’ or ‘postthat.’ The present era is ‘proto,’ but a preface to what, we do not know. Proto- is noncoercive, nonpredictive, and unaccountable: a mode of maybe. The future is a language without grammar, an unconscious without dreams, pure nothing. Inescapably the future becomes everything so as again and again to remain nothing.”

Post- presupposes finitude, closure, knowing retrospection. Proto- points to multiplicity and possibility. An art that is proto- would approach the internet’s ubiquity not as a boring given but as a phenomenon ripe with transformative potential for the mediation of people and art (or people and people), for the creation of new genres from the microforms of texts or tweets, or from game design, from karaoke and fan art, and so on. Proto- is okay with not knowing or not working. As Epstein says, we don’t what proto- is a preface to, and so there’s no way to append it to a root and complete a buzzword. Proto- sucks for promo. But as a starting point for an artist, as a disposition for art, proto- is a lot better than post-.

:̷̸̳̜͓͎ ̷̶̢̛̪͔̣͇̳̬̣͔̬̝̣̥̰̥̥͙̮͟t̴̺̯͓͓̲̦̘̳̖̥̲͔̻̠͈̺̀ͅh̛͢͢҉̷̗̩̳̠̘͉̝̬̳̱̼̝̭̣͎̘͈͓̼a̷̡͟͏̙͎̤̩̤̯̣n҉͉̘̹̹̲̲̦̺̺̫͇̪̠͓̟͟ͅk͔͓̺͙͎͟ͅ ̵̛̥̝͈̳̫͢͠ͅͅu̴̻̣̰͍͍͖͕̝͉̞̩̬̦̗̺͈͠ ̨̢̠̰̪̜̱̺̠͉͈̩̦̼̬̩͜b͓͖̬̣͇̩̙͉̪͇̕͜͟͝a͜͏͖̥̯̬̖͔̟̻̣͕̣̖̪͉b̢̧̢̝͔͔̙̹̮̹̩͈̼̹̠̬̠̟̲͟͟y̛͕͔̭̝̘͎͡͝ͅͅ ̶͙̲̝̹̝ͅ:̡͕̮̤̮͇̙͕̻̯

: seven-11 :

: ư̧̤̰͍̘͈̦͔̣̘̱̲̹̲̄́̌ͫͪͤͬ̄̅̿̈͊p̳̭̦̗̞̟̺̟̥͎͉̅̎ͬ̅̕͘l̸̢̙̩͚̟͓̭̜̯̪͎̫̭̥̜̉̉̐ͥ̎ͬ̀͘͡o͆͐ͩͦͣ̏̿̉̑͋ͮ͌͛̏̑͏̧͖̰̞̪͍͕͎͈́͡ȃ͎̮̼͕̫̜̺͕̳̟̱͓̗̟̭̗̦̞̣̎ͪͬͥ̏͟͠d̛̬̠̭̰͉͔͌͐̒ͫ̆̉̃̋̾ͧͤͤͣ̔͌ͯͥ̄̚͢͜͠ę̷̸̛̦̻͉̞̹̥̬̱͙̥ͬ̍ͬ͂͠t̸̶ͭ̈́͌͑́̚͏̧̜̞̦̱̱͎̗̥̩̱̳̹̼̬̜̪̝̠͍ ̧͚͈̗̯̑ͨ̂ͪ͊̀ͨ͆̓̾̑͜͟t̵̢̞̤͔͍̠͇͚̯̮͈̤͖͛͊̈ͣ͋́ͬ̋̋ͣ͐͂̆̃̾͐ͦ̈̀̕͞i̡ͨ̐ͨ̍̑̄̐ͧ͒͐̊̿́̔̀ͨ̎͏҉̘̻̦̺̲̬̝̥̼̱͚͇͓̗͍ͅl͚͙͇̲̠̺͙̲̞̠͖̳̞̖̙̹͇͉ͪ̊̇̋͆ͩ̅̑̅ͭ̅́̉̅͌͢͝ ̻͈̝̥̣̙̜͚̙̬̬͉͖̲͚ͯ̆̓̎̄ͣ͆̔̈ͥͬ̒̂ͧ͒̽͜ͅs̨͓̠̳̪͇͔͕̻͔͉͇ͩ̑̀̎̈́ͨͥ̓̊̓̓͐̑͊ͩ͑́k̸̨̯͓̟̱̙̥̬͓̍ͥ͆̃̉͗̆͘o̵̘͚̜͎̲̐̈̍̐̄͒͒̈́̊͑ͯ͂͑̇̀̋͠l̷͓̠̹̺͙̱̫̱ͫ̈ͤ͒̾̊ͭ͜͢͠ͅͅȩ͍̻̟̦̙̣͍̲̼̰͇̘̓ͭ̒ͣ̏͟͠͞ͅn̢̛͎͇̭͎͉̤͈̱͚͚̪̻ͣ͌̈̐̎ͩ͑͒ͤͭ̌ͥ̅ͧ̒̾ͅ :

: ค้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้ฏ๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎ค้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้ฏ๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎ค้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้ฏ๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎ค้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้ฏ๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎ค้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้ฏ๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎ค้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้ฏ๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎ค้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้ฏ๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎ :

: ค้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้ฏ๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎ค้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้ฏ๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎ค้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้ฏ๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎ค้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้ฏ๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎ค้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้ฏ๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎ค้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้ฏ๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎ค้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้ฏ๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎ :

: ค้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้ฏ๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎ค้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้ฏ๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎ค้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้ฏ๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎ค้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้ฏ๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎ค้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้ฏ๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎ค้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้ฏ๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎ค้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้ฏ๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎ :

: ค้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้ฏ๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎ค้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้ฏ๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎ค้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้ฏ๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎ค้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้ฏ๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎ค้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้ฏ๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎ค้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้ฏ๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎ค้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้ฏ๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎ :

: ค้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้ฏ๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎ค้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้ฏ๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎ค้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้ฏ๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎ค้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้ฏ๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎ค้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้ฏ๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎ค้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้ฏ๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎ค้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้ฏ๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎ :

: ค้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้ฏ๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎ค้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้ฏ๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎ค้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้ฏ๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎ค้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้ฏ๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎ค้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้ฏ๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎ค้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้ฏ๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎ค้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้ฏ๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎ :

: ค้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้ฏ๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎ค้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้ฏ๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎ค้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้ฏ๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎ค้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้ฏ๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎ค้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้ฏ๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎ค้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้ฏ๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎ค้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้ฏ๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎ :

: ค้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้ฏ๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎ค้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้ฏ๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎ค้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้ฏ๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎ค้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้ฏ๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎ค้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้ฏ๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎ค้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้ฏ๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎ค้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้ฏ๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎ :

: ค้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้ฏ๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎ค้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้ฏ๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎ค้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้ฏ๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎ค้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้ฏ๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎ค้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้ฏ๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎ค้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้ฏ๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎ค้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้ฏ๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎ :

: ค้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้ฏ๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎ค้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้ฏ๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎ค้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้ฏ๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎ค้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้ฏ๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎ค้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้ฏ๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎ค้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้ฏ๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎ค้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้ฏ๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎ :

: ค้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้ฏ๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎ค้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้ฏ๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎ค้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้ฏ๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎ค้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้ฏ๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎ค้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้ฏ๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎ค้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้ฏ๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎ค้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้้ฏ๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎๎ :

:̙͓̪̞̮̗̬͕̀ ͏̠̩̹̣̖̗͖̀L͍͚̦̥̼͓͟͟U̖̘͔̟͉̯͖͟ͅC̙̫̭Ą̖͙̬͉͈̳͡S͎͙͔̺̺̤̦̣͟ ̢̣͓̥͖̝̰̼͎͠V̛̺͉̭͙̣͔̭I̗̟Ḍ̨̣̩̲̤͠E҉͏҉̮͓̫̫͙̖̮͍̳Ǫ̘̲͔̤̭̺̩͟E͇͍̣Ŗ̖̜̬̠̭̮͕ͅ ̛̳̜̞̲̲͈͚͎̀͞:͟҉̫͟

_

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        `\ \   / // /`/ /
          ; `-`  (_/ / /
          |       (_/ /
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           )       /`
    ...   /      /`

https://www.youtube.com/user/LucaVanDerWoodsen/videos

* g o a t s e x * g o a t s e x * g o a t s e x * 
g                                               g  
o /     \             \            /    \       o  
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s`        |             |        \|       |     s  
e \       | /       /  \\\   --__ \\       :    e  
x  \      \/   _--~~          ~--__| \     |    x  
*   \      \_-~                    ~-_\    |    *  
g    \_     \        _.--------.______\|   |    g  
o      \     \______// _ ___ _ (_(__>  \   |    o  
a       \   .  C ___)  ______ (_(____>  |  /    a  
t       /\ |   C ____)/      \ (_____>  |_/     t  
s      / /\|   C_____)       |  (___>   /  \    s  
e     |   (   _C_____)\______/  // _/ /     \   e  
x     |    \  |__   \\_________// (__/       |  x  
*    | \    \____)   `----   --'             |  *  
g    |  \_          ___\       /_          _/ | g  
o   |              /    |     |  \            | o  
a   |             |    /       \  \           | a  
t   |          / /    |         |  \           |t  
s   |         / /      \__/\___/    |          |s  
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x  |          |         |    |       |         |x  
* g o a t s e x * g o a t s e x * g o a t e x *  

: Untitled Short Story : Luca van der Woodsen :

Untitled Short Story

O my %&/%)=! God! How he

screamed! Even though the time just struck 4 AM, a little

homeless boy without iPhone or museum card (for only €98927.45 up

to 24 years of age you can own your own museum card

to enter more than 400 museums/galleries in

Amsterdam), was walking in the streets outside the manʼs apartment. As the

little boy walked by the manʼs bedroom, he heard an uncontrolled orchestra of

thundering roars, sounding exactly like a nuclear deformed hyena dying from an

ecstasy overdose. The young boy instantly twisted his neck in a 1080-degree

perfect circle, and allowed his curious eyes to pop out of his head, in order to

peek through the manʼs window. Blood streaming like an ocean during a great

storm, blasted itsʼ way through the windows, creating a pool of blood and oil paint

around the boyʼs feet. The man was suffering from Temporal Lobe

Epilepsy, Bipolar disorder, Thujone poisoning, Lead

poisoning, Hypergraphia, and Sunstroke, and if that wasnʼt enough,

the man still hadnʼt sold one painting. The blood was catapulting out from a big

whole were his right ear once was attached, as he hysterically skated around in

900 blood-covered paintings, while violins were playing melodramatic tunes in

the background. In a split second, the boy forgot about his own hunger and the

fact that he now had to sleep in ear-juice smeared clothes, burst into tears for this

holy geniusʼ faith, and for the lack of the societyʼs recognition for the manʼs

mastermind.

The paintings in the main room was painte…

I don’t like to read SO long paragraphs, it could have been sorted out in tags, but what a

poor guy eh’! Don’t you think so Lisa? OHGGgd Yhduses (translation: O yes) Lisa

replied with her entire mouth stuffed with Fitty Snacks (With Fitty Snacks

you can and will loose up to 57 pounds instantly per bite), whereas she folded the museum brochure back together. Lisa moved to

one of the first paintings in the museum, and even though her eyes pointed in the

direction of a tall man looking down at the ground, she was happy that she paid the

500999€ entrance fee (they got group discount). Casper was a new employee at the

museum, and he had to raise his voice quite a lot for everyone in the group to hear him.

PEOPLE!!! THIS IS ALL VERY NICE, BUT AFTERWARDS WE CAN TAKE A

LOOK AROUND IN THE GIFT SHOP:) WE NOW ALSO SELL SMALL COFFEE

CUPS WITH CUTE EAR PRINTS ON THEM. Terrance, do you think we will be back

at the hotel before the sun goes down? I certainly hope the radioactive dinosaurs won’t

attack us again, like they did last night IMGO! SO THIS PAINTING HERE IS CALLED

THE POTATOE EATERS AND IT’S PAINTED WITH OIL PAINT… wow Casper

certainly has a great knowledge about art! Maybe I will subscribe to his thoughts via

Brainstalker? But then again I subscribe to too many brains these days, I can’t think

straight (sad smiley). Oh my god Terrance! Don’t brain-subscribe to intellectuals, they

think way too much! Plus you will most likely get boring university spam! AND THIS

PAINTING WE HAVE RIGHT HERE IS CALLED STARRY NIG... A rumbling noise

interrupted Casper’s sentence, as twenty-five men wearing black suits, screamed their

way through the museum like a fuming pack of wild lions on steroids. One of the men,

carrying a belting leather briefcase in one hand, crawled his way up an old crippled

woman who just entered the museum, and screamed through a megaphone while

mountains of cash flew out from his briefcase: THIS IS A MESSAGE TO OUR

EMPLOYEES, YOU ARE ALL FUCKING FIRED! Smoke bombs fired

through the great windows of the museum, as a swarm of sweaty yet tanned and good

looking, pure muscled male hunks of meat, rappelled their way down the building and

swung through the holes in the windows. A rather catchy techno remix of the Gladiator

soundtrack was playing from monstrous speakers, in the mean time as the newly arrived

sexy men, used their jetpacks to fly around to each visitor, while handing out consolatory

baskets (including wine, fruits and a card saying, “Sorry for the interruption, do continue

your museum trip”).

Hey! What the hell are you looking at? Pay attention to this add or you may waste your

entire life, by working at a supermarket like a boring normal person. Do you feel

differentiated from society, perhaps as a great thinker rather than a Goth or an Amish?

We now offer you a chance to rip your buttoned shirt right open, in order for you to reveal

your glorified inner artistic soul. Become a student at our art academy and learn how

objects relate to space, and other attention-grabbing business opportunities...

Simon Fredolski… wait, that’s a rubbish name for the main character of this story. Alfred

Carlson… OMFG, that also doesn’t work! AIIJ, it’s so hard to be creative with the

diminutive government money I receive for doing my studies! If god really exists, I

would at least get paid 109809 times more for my creative skills as a contemporary artist.

I have a rent to pay for fuck sake! What don’t you get about that?

Alfred Johnson (a decision has been made by the board, concluding that Alfred Johnson

is a magnificent name to use for our main character) was at the academy quite early that

day, so he decided to take a look around the school, in hope of experiencing the artistic

atmosphere. The school mainly consisted of bricks, cement, and glass, obviously some of

the materials you normally build a building out of, however, Alfred once overheard a

conversation in a bussix1 between two splendid men, contemplating upon an art academy

being more than just a building, essentially existing as a trampoline for thoughts to jump

into our planet’s universal playground. Alfred did not know what that meant, but he did

notice students gathering around conceptual tables (not an actual table, but rather the idea

of it being present) saying things such as “interesting”, “materials”, “but is it art”,

“crucial” and “that’s a fruitful thought”. Alfred liked the word interesting, and found it

1 A futuristic slang for bus.

“interesting” that they used that exact word to a great extend, like a bunch of damaged

retro vinyl players, stuck in one spiral groove for all eternity. Alfred often took use of that

word in situations were he was to give an opinion about any given subject; he had no or

little knowledge about. A group of students were chilling and relaxing outside of

school, when a couple of guys who were up to no good, started making

trouble in my… For fuck sake! That was the beginning of the “Fresh Prince in Bell

Air” intro song; I hate these advertisements, spamming their way into my brain!

As an attempt to blend in with the environment, Alfred placed himself next to a group of

students. A younger man in the group, who would appear as your average intellectual,

seems to be the person leading the conversation. The young man takes a fleeting look

directed at the sky, redirects his view back into the eyes of his classmates and says, AAhh

I’m so special, yet I am wasting my freaking time hanging out with you idiots. A chubby

girl standing close to the young man, replies to the classmate, The only thing you seem to

do is point your finger at everyone and everything, you are such a child. The young man

starts screaming as a response to the classmate’s words, breaks down to the ground like

Michael Jackson breaks down in the music video to his song “Earth Song”, you know…

the music video in some kind of horrible paranoia desert, with a lot of dust everywhere

and some elephants. AHHHH I HATE ART, The young man howled like a terrified owl,

savagely bitten by chipmunks. As the young man repeats to scrape his entire body around

in perfect circles on the concrete grown, the embarrassed group of classmates slowly

dissolves, and the chubby girl encourages the younger man, not to have such a Luca Van

Der Woodsen 2 attitude towards life.

2 At the time this short story takes place, Luca Van Der Woodsen is a well known artist,

usually viewed upon either, as a great intellectual with radical opinions about art, plus

good looks, or as a pessimistic, self-centred arrogant piece of shit.

To sum it all up, Luca Van Der Woodsen has been discussed to a GREAT extent. This is

what the two well respected modern art critics, John Lawman and Hans Kappelhoff, said

about the subject at the recent art conference, “The Future of Art” in 2011.

Throughout a great deal of his works, Luca Van Der Woodsen seems to capture different

aspects of the fields of art, not to mention the society around it, and to a somewhat manic

state blast a spotlight on the sad tendencies within. Mr. Woodsen (also known as Wutzen)

manage to create a comical warning sign against how we present and deal with art, which

in most cases have degenerated into one big shallow business deal. It’s a redneck

mentality of a parody crashing into “what we end up with if we aren’t aware, and a demo

of a world gone terribly wrong”. As Sylvére Lotringer states in the introduction to Jean

Baudrillard’s book “The Conspiracy of Art”, “Never has art been more successful than it

is today-but is it still art? Like material goods, art is endlessly recycling itself to meet the

demands of the market”… This statement does not only refer to how and for what

reasons we create art, but how art (art academies, art history, museums) is manipulating

its way into a meaningless money-flow, which can’t be distinguished from anything else

in modern pop culture. Woodsen never comes up with an alternative to the situation

heading towards nonsense, he rather observes and pukes out more superficial material,

however in this case it’s in a more obvious manner. It results in a joke within a joke, yet

most people aren’t aware of the joke in the presentation of art in the first place, they just

follow the flow to “fit in”.

It has to be mentioned that Mr. Woodsen at times allows himself to psychotically fly into

such extreme dimensions, that the criticism disappears quite a bit, but maybe that’s Luca

Van Der Woodsen’s way of dealing with things. Woodsen’s “Untitled Short Story” is as 

we know written in the future, and transported back to spectators via a hi-fi time

travelling teleport. It’s quite difficult to know if Van Der Woodsen, in all reality is

creating a parody, considering the fact that we don’t have that much knowledge about the

future, however, parody or no parody, something appears to have gone wrong…

If the wrong tendencies is a minus, and Luca Van Der Woodsen and his self irony is a

minus, we get plus…

-John Lawman 2011

Reading Luca Van Der Woodsen’s “Untitled Short Story”, one might come across the

possibility that Woodsen serves an artichoke, though, as you peel the leaves off, you

subsequently arrive at some sort of deeper or clearer understanding of his intentions.

Sadly I must admit, that in my point of view I see nothing but a one minute “artist” (if

that would even do it), who does nothing but point his finger at his own crowd, a plain

and simple parody of his own vague criticism, resulting in null! Woodsen is a joker, with

a humour I just find annoying and self-centred, chronically ironic, crying for attention.

He might be seeking a position, viewed upon by others, as someone discovering the

“tragedies” about art, but in the manner of his expression, he becomes his own worst

enemy. A hipster with the typical, “look at me and my opinion” kind of guy, who just

brings more confusion to the table. A hype has been created around the “Untitled Short

Story”, as it presumably is send from the future by great mysterious machinery. Who

seriously believes that? I bet he is a cocky club-kid look-a-like, failing his art academy

studies somewhere in the western part of Europe, who perhaps could have become

something more, if he wouldn’t have wasted his time on commenting on art itself. The

fact of matter is, that if Woodsen has more to give than what I perceive, his loud irony

makes it unbearable to dig into what that exactly would be...

-Hans Kappelhoff

Alfred’s iHuman reminded him, that he at the given moment, should head towards room

210 for his meeting. Alfred was applying for the academy’s Fine Arts department, a

department with an unique program that focuses on developing students’ expressive

capacities, with emphasis on thinking and acting as a visual artist. The interview takes

place in a room with the newest “Peoxels Creativan”, 3a “Peoxels ZaZZler”, 4paper printouts

of diagrams, displaying random artists’ recognition along with their money flow,

electro-pop on full volume, and three art critics asking questions about your personal life.

The art critics’ purpose is to imitate the situation, when unknown drunk people come up

to you at social art gatherings (exhibitions), attempting to mess with your mind. While

Alfred had waited outside the examination room for his turn to enter an artistic version of

the TV show “Idols” (or atlist how its in d future (btw. U shuld mos def come ona visit 2

d future sumday, it’s so awzm IMHO)), his mind was full of floating, worried thoughts of

weather or not he would be admitted to the school.

A hologram of a delightful lady rapidly beamed its way out from a spot in the ground,

right in front of Alfred.

Well… hello there, are you applicant 352, Mr. Alfred Johnson? The hologram-projected

3 A Peoxels Creativan is a 980-processor human creativity analysing computer, with the

ability to perceive information about a person’s attempt to create something within the

arts, subsequently calculating the information into statistics, concluding the exact chances

of that person fitting into the greater art tendencies of the century.

4 A Peoxels ZaZZler consists of a larger invisible silicone cube, scanning artworks for

information about the person’s work, expanding from materials used to the different

styles in brushstrokes. The information is usually redirected to a Peoxels Creativan or a

Peoxels Creativrem, which reads the scanned artwork information, and places it into a

higher context.

lady asked. Alfred responded, yes smiley (), I am. Is this a performance, or are you

really applying for the school’s program sir? No no… it’s not a performance, I really am

wishing to become a student, at this here fine academy. The lady smiled at Alfred, Ok,

well you’re now awaited in the examination room, please enter. For the reason of

Alfred’s nervous momentary condition, he indulged in an attempt to comfort his mood,

by telling a joke. So… O may it B 1 lady, should I use the force? By the means of

referring to previous centuries’ culture, Alfred appeared to be somewhat intellectual,

despite the fact that it might seem silly to refer to movies such as “Star Wars”, even

though a hologram was in attendance. I mean come on! The existing great universal war

is not exactly a bona fide war.

Basically an eminent silver cube, drifts around the universe, seizing any approaching

molecules into rotating smiley-emoticons. Nevertheless, the witty comment appeared to

amuse the lady, and as she vanished backwards into the ground, Alfred, grabbed his

portfolio and marched through the room’s silky-identification doors.

We Here at ArtKnow, share a great gratitude for being in the position of, writing our past, present as well as our future. Through the years, we as a growing agency of broad-minded intellects, gained indescribable knowledge of our common “art history”, so that we can forward the subtracted knowledge, to anyone who might be interested. At ArtKnow, we specialize in generating

educating data volumes of astonishing journeys, elevating through the fields of “art”. By subscribing via the payment methods we provide, we deliver the

subscriber, daily wisdom-giving episodes of our “art history”.

What have we got? You bunch of Retarded Maggots with spasm disease, of supersonic

dimensions! Lately our data volumes can be identified with, gene-manipulated alligators’

deformed shit children, of shit full of shit what a shit fuck! We can loose investors! Do

you know what that means? Or do I have to slice the problematic situation we are in, out

in human skin, before you realize the challenge we are obliged to overcome?

The entire hall of terrified colleges, remained absolutely still as Mr. Kratenkroof

unrelentingly continued his speech.

We must construct attention-grabbing volumes, not some mind-numbing story like the one

we did on “Elli Cimber” (Elli Cimber is a robot-driven painter from the future, who

primarily converts data-system errors into colorful figurative paintings). Who was in

charge of designing that volume? It was Karl Rottenfootri, right? Yes… sir… yes… I was in

charge… sorry. Mr. Rottenfootri… When you stroll home after work, perhaps you ought to

take a detour through the more slummy parts of the city, or through any uneducated area

where the inhabitants share a vague knowledge of art. Along your little detour, you shall

question twenty forthcoming individuals, on the subject of Vincent Van Gogh. The

colleges remained silent in the moments to come. Ehmm yes… I suppose you want me to ask why… sir?

Yes! Ask away. Why? Sir. Do you assume the forthcoming are capable of, truly recognizing

a painting of Van Gogh? Well sir… perhaps not, ehh, maybe a few? Is that correct sir? Yes it is, my little

student. Now, regarding Van Gogh, what are these people most likely familiar with?

Perhaps… that he sliced his own ear of? JACKPOT! Now that’s a catchy story! What the hell is catchy

about the Elli Cimber volume? She had a cat named “Fluffy”… and Fluffy accidently got run over by her own robotdriven

wheels. Sir.

A tremendous amount of dark smoke, steamed out of Mr. Kratenkroof’s burning ears,

whereas his entire brain exploded out of his shivering forehead, spattered up against a

newly painted wall and rebounded back into his skull. As this reaction from Mr.

Kratenkroof’s behalf, beyond belief and physical possibilities, simultaneously takes place

whenever Mr. Kratenkroof gets mad, the terrified colleagues succeed in remaining calm.

Mr. Kratenkroof inhaled so mightily, that his raw-diamond buttoned fine suit broke over

in halve, along with illustrious Chinese firework bombing away in the background.

“FLUFFY”!!! I DON’T GIVE A FUCK! Mr. Kratenkroof screamed so intensively, that

twenty-nine massive windows in the room shattered. DO YOU HEAR THE SOUND? 

KA-CHIIIIINGGG!!!! (The sound of a loaded cash register, blasting

out its’ cash drawer to the extreme MAX, resulting in a

hurricane of 100000000$ bills and gold… Everywhere!!!!)

DOU YOU? ARE YOU LISTENING? No sir, I mean, yes I am listening… no ka-ching sound around here.

Exactly! So tell me gentlemen, what have you got for me today? Seeing that everyone was

reasonably afraid, it had to be the brave Mr. Ronald Moniguts who broke the ice. Sir, we in

department 435 are writing a story on the upcoming conceptual artist, Patrick Neiman.

And? Well, for the purpose of relating objects to space (quite literally), Patrick Neiman is the first artist to

solidly place objects on Jupiter, however, we tracked some dirt on this guy. Apparently an alien, savagely

raped Patrick on one of his journeys to Jupiter, and is currently being treated for alienated hepatitis-c. We

can even branch the artist with speculations such as, Does something more than brutal rape, exist between

the evil alien and Patrick Neiman, seeing that he keeps flying back to Jupiter for his monthly shows?

Subsequent to Mr. Moniguts’ small presentation, the hall of colleagues eagerly waited for

Krattenkroofs’ response.

SOLD! I LOVE IT!

The sound of a massive orchestra roused the room, along with joyfully crying grown

men, congratulating one another by shaking hands and opening Champaign bottles.

Several co-workers managed to do some pretty impressive back flips out of the eminent

windows, as hot chicks in limousines crashed synchronically through the walls.

Every soul in the room screamed all at once, The Future is amazing!

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“A true masterpiece” TATE MODERN

“THATʼS WHAT IʼM TALKING ABOUT!” THE NEW YORK TIMES

“I wish I had written that. Luca Van Der Woodsen is a real artist!” ANDY WARHOL (Andy Warhol

resurrects in the future, in the shape of a Coca Cola bottle)

“What a great guy” “ ”PLANET EARTH”

☆¸.•°*”˜˜”*°•.¸☆ ☆¸.•°*”˜˜”*°•.¸☆

☆¸.•°*”˜˜”*°•.¸☆ ★ ✾◕✾ ★ ☆¸.•°*”˜˜”*°•.¸☆ ☆¸.•°*”˜˜”*°•.¸☆ ★ ✾◕✾ ★ ☆¸.•°*”˜˜”*°•.¸☆

Luca Van Der Woodsen

Lucavanderwoodsen.com 2011