NICK STOLLE DOT ORGASMS

nickstolle — Tue, 14 Feb 2012 05:05:03 +0000

MASS-MARKET FICTION

I don’t suppose, I don’t suppose, I don’t suppose.
One ahould trust anything that presents itself as a good idea.
Don’t make maps, don’t take notes, lists, preliminary sketches, armitures of any sort.
Stumble through, plinko about, ragdoll through time.
Hit this, hit that, good as any, catch as catch can catch catch catch catch, get caught up.
You about to get caught up.

But then, but then, but then.
One might like to sleep at night.
A calm sea stomach, punch in punch out, a big fat ass, crossing words out, a slab of concrete for your family.
Stay the course, an arrow’s trajectory, a confusing metaphor about the physical realities of past/present/future.
You were here, now you’re there, on to that, work cut out for you cut out cut out cut out.
You ought to cut that out.

nickstolle — Mon, 13 Feb 2012 00:25:45 +0000

I am very pleased to report that I will be included in an exhibition at the 2012 Scope Art Fair in New York City, March 7-11. I will perform an oration in conjunction with a feat of physical agility/daring, and will also have on display some stagnant, non-living/breathing artworks.

The enterprise is called Burn Before Reading, and it will take place inside the Scope Pavilion, West 57th and 12th Avenue. The Armory Show will be taking place across the street. You can go after. Pack a sack lunch. When I know of the precise moment of my oration, I will be sure to let it be known.

Many thanks to Lilah Freedland for inviting me to participate in this endeavor. Below is a link to more information, and a full list of participants. coughcoughric-ocasek-holyshitcoughcough

SCOPE NEW YORK 2012

nickstolle — Tue, 10 Jan 2012 19:45:12 +0000

Hey now, if you want to, you can click on the word ‘ALSO’ in the right hand column and view some work from my studio. This work will cease being work very soon, so say your goodbyes.

nickstolle — Mon, 26 Dec 2011 22:27:28 +0000

nickstolle — Mon, 26 Dec 2011 22:10:15 +0000

nickstolle — Mon, 12 Dec 2011 01:04:44 +0000

AW, HELL.
RECKON I GOT A BIT A WAYS TO GO. A BIT A WAYS TO CRAWL ON MY BELLY, THATS TO SAY.
THEYS GLASS AND SOIL AND GRAVEL AND FILTH, DISORDER AND DISINTEREST LAYING ABOUT UNDERFOOT,
AND I THERE ON MY BELLY, JUST PROPER FUCKING IT.
DONT RECKON I KNOW OF A BETTER WAY
TO GET WHERE YOURE OFF TO.

AW HELL.
WHAT IF THEY AINT NOBODY AT THE PARTY?
WHO GON EAT ALL THIS SHIT?
WHOSOEVER GONNA SIT DOWN WITH ME AND DRANK AWAY ALL THESE JARS? I BEEN SAVING JAR AFTER JAR OF JUST UNSPEAKABLE BILE FOR THE OCCASION AND I RECKON I NEED TO BE REALISTIC ABOUT THE POSSIBILITY THAT MIGHT NOT NOBODY SHOW UP.

AW. HELL.
WHY IT GOTTA BE THIS WAY?
WHY I STANDING BEFORE YOU, FLINGING GUFF INTO HOLES,
FILLING IT UP BEST I CAN, PISSING MY VERY DRAWERS OUT OF TREPIDATION FOR THE FUTURE?
I RECKON THIS IS JUST THE WAY.
I RECKON GOOD AS ANY.
I DONT RECKON I’LL EVER GONNA FILL THIS THING UP.

nickstolle — Fri, 04 Nov 2011 14:29:12 +0000

I will be passively and actively participating in the 2011 Brooklyn College MFA Open Studios. November 18, 19, and 21.

Please make the long, treacherous trip out to Flatbush to inspect firsthand the work of some two dozen young ladies and gentlemen -actual crazy people!- currently seeking their fortunes.

Here is a link with pictures and words and links of its own:

http://brooklyncollegeopenstudios.com

SIXTEEN MAKING DO

nickstolle — Fri, 04 Nov 2011 14:15:54 +0000

An ape hollering in a corner, squeaking and honking, tears streaming down his cheeks, muddy, striped pant-legs. A well to do pompous ass, a fine tailored suit, fingernails taken care of, knocking at your door with a pamphlet. A dusty old toad, piled on top of a metal stool, humming and urping, lungs full of rotten old wood and the airborne contents of tin cans. A frail, nervous bird, a cable-knit turtleneck with a seasonal design, softly, softly objecting.

A big dummy, warty hand clutching a fountain soda, whimpering and alone. A slick, greasy, perfumed turd, sunglasses indoors, pathetically pointing his finger and grinning. A balloon deflating on the sidewalk, dark indigo denim, varicose and coarse, bellowing about the past. A beautiful, precarious arrangement of lady things on a shelf, absorbing every vibration for years and years, the curious mediation of this energy, nothing to say on the matter.

A very kind, sad old dog, sick, wet eyes, top collar buttoned, sighing and stuttering. A puffy, braying rooster, impotent but loud, shrieking about propriety. A 4″ x 6″ inkjet photograph of a romantic pairing, matching Los Angeles Lakers clothing, yellow and purple, yellow and purple, stepped upon and scratched, made to envelope tiny bits of gravel and soil, shame-facedly venturing a question which makes it feel simple. A crunchy exoskeleton roach, on its back, in a hallway, commented upon and plinkoed this way and that for weeks, finally emitting a wet, puffy hiss upon severance.

An image on a screen, fluids in a sack, wadded up and crammed, hammered out flat on a glass screen, orating at an unpleasant volume, black plastic housed speakers vibrating awkwardly. A little weiner, crumpled hat in hands, Willy Loman feet not touching the foor, who never said anything in his life, just once began to squeak, aborted, quickly looked at the ground. A great big proud egg, easily twelve feet around at the widest point, an impressive feat of equilibrium, gold plastic paint on purple cotton, emitting a careful music, minimal and not unpleasant. A real tree branch, knobby and flaking, miles from home, dead eyes and guppy lips, slack-jawed mouthing the same syllable, over and over again.

BORN TO DIE

nickstolle — Wed, 26 Oct 2011 06:23:33 +0000

nickstolle — Tue, 18 Oct 2011 21:00:12 +0000

We should all receive government grants to go out into the woods, make a clearing, and reconstruct our grandmother’s house, with our bare hands, out of twigs and leaves and mud and whatever else we can scrape together, as best we can recall it.

Then let’s fill the thing with scraps and bits, dead animals and abandoned dishwasher parts, this standing in for that, that meaning another thing, all the fascinating objects and icons we can remember being entranced by in our earliest days.