MAYDAY

MAD FOR REAL: by the performance art collective including JJ Xi and Cai Yuan

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TWO ARTIST PISS ON DUCHAMP’S FOUNTAIN – Tate Modern, London (2000)
TWO ARTISTS CRAWL THROUGH CENTRAL LONDON (2000)

Ignored by some onlookers and creating a palpable sense of unease in others, MAD FOR REAL wore camouflage combat gear and crawled in the mode of combat troops from Trafalgar Square to Waterloo Bridge via Downing Street, Westminster, and the Mall. The progress of the event was transmitted to a radio programme and broadcast.
TWO ARTISTS CRAWL THROUGH CENTRAL LONDON NO. 2 (2000)
TWO ARTISTS JUMP ON TRACEY EMIN’S MY BED – Tate Gallery, London (1999)

This intervention took place during the Turner Prize exhibition. It caused a sensation, receiving nationwide press coverage. The artists were arrested and then released without charge.
TWO ARTISTS JUMP ON TRACEY EMIN’S BED NO. 2 – Tate Gallery, London (1999

 

Return to table of contents for PRACTICES, POWER & THE PUBLIC SPHERE

Return to table of contents for Issue 2 Winter 2010

Further Reading

MICHAEL THEUNE’S RESPONSE TO “SOME DARKER BOUQUETS”

I largely agree with Kent Johnson’s analysis of the state of contemporary American poetry reviewing and criticism.  (NB: I’m not the only one.  Johnson’s analysis jibes with the findings of some similar analyses, including Kevin Prufer’s “‘We’re All in Bed Together’: Poetry’s Good News Culture” and Kristin Prevallet’s “Why Poetry Criticism Sucks.”)  And I largely […]

JOE AMATO’S RESPONSE TO “SOME DARKER BOUQUETS”

At first blush, Kent Johnson’s proposal makes a lot of sense. Problem: how to reenergize the review mechanism, which — as Johnson has it — suffers from the puffery of academic poet-careerists who are only too willing to forgo genuine critique for the chance to gain a leg up in the poetry lottery. Though Johnson’s […]

BLACK EARTH by Osip Mandelshtam (translated from the Russian by Tony Brinkley and Raina Kostova)

Every mound—cultivated, black— every furrow combed with air— ground crumbled, figured as a chorus, the damp ground is my soil and freedom . . . Spring mornings, tilled—black to blue—unarmed, peaceful labor— a thousand ploughed-up rumors— in its radius unbounded. And, nevertheless, the ground—mistaken thunder—unmoved if you plead, even pounding the ground metrics—a decaying flute […]

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