Kaspars Groševs
info
DOPESMOKER
10 Minute Walk From Solitude
C.D.M.M.M.H.
White Walkers
Divdabis
Dancing Water
I didn't have wi-fi so I started to paint
Things
Exit, stuttering & nebula
427
Qu'est-ce que ça peut faire tout ça
White Tapes
A Guide to Making a Genie
00:10:00:00
H
I/O. Without Enemies
etc.
Selected
Writing
Christian death metal made me hardcore​

Feeling a bit woozy from my first snus of the day, I started my morning with the usual Dutch hardstyle mix which made me feel as if I had just injected at least seven shots of espresso. Retinal trash was bursting through the open windows. Kenny G was breathing through his nose and blowing at the same time - I wish I knew how to do that. A bit later, with a sense of silence and doom, we were hunting for EVP voices and drinking coffee. The Koreans were skating, the Americans were flying. Living Sacrifice. Lines and inscriptions outlined bodies moving in the speed of flying monks. We were eagerly waiting.
Yes, Mr. Paik, books were the most advanced of technology. But then hierarchy, stairs, and pyramids, all of that blew up. Trains were no longer going from point A to point B; if necessary, they just appeared and disappeared at random places on the tracks. Each story could begin with an epilogue or even a voice from the afterworld. Love stories began with stalking and ended with a thoughtless cookie. But a moment before the end of linear life, I was pressing FWD and listening. The first chords, the first manoeuvres with the drumsticks. A and B sides. From one to thirteen. It wasn't hard, patience wasn't something exclusive. Information was travelling like measles, like an old man with bare feet, like a recipe of tasty rye bread. Step by step I was cultivating my limbic system, my amygdala. Hair dye was replaced by nail polish, and so on. Biathlon of knowledge, skeleton of experience. When in 1895 August Strindberg wrote to Gauguin, it is possible that the ears of the documentarian of Tahiti caught these words: “for the moment you were approved and admired, [your supporters] would classify you, put you in your place and give your art a name which, five years later, the younger generation would be using as a tag for designating a superannuated art, an art they would do everything to render still more out of date.” Even if this line has not disappeared, it is now shining on the cover of Vogue. It bends through the Italian serpentines, it breaks in the Neapolitan landscape, like a window cleaner it stretches down the facade of the Empire State Building, it extends through the 242 bus route in Shoreditch and draws out the restaurant network in Belleville. Like a Peking duck, the line is golden all through, though it differs in the hands of a skilled chef, mimicking the sound of a piano in a hotel lobby, a crystal radio or the latest skirt fashion. Patience breaks like a tennis racquet, like an Insta Story, like an ankle, like a tail of an airplane. I am watching bobsledding, I am looking at an exhibition in Prague, I am reading about Guggenheim, I am messaging a friend in Rotterdam, my lunch is 20 minutes away - let's hope the snow will not delay it. Where do the potatoes with egg go? Where does the wooden cross in the Beberbeķi graveyard go? A text from Mom. Where are the doves? The prophets of these last days. My dial button is hidden. Hit with a leg.

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Christian death metal made me hardcore​

Apdullis no sava pirmā dienas snus​, es sāku rītu ar kārtējo hardstyle miksu no Holandes, kas lika justies kā iedūrušam vismaz septiņas espresso šprices. Retināla miskaste gāzās no atvērtajiem logiem. Kenny G pū​ta un vienlaicīgi elpo​ja caur degunu – kaut es tā mācētu. Vēlāk mēs ķērām EVP balsis un dzērām kafiju, klusi un nolemti. Korejieši slidoja, amerikāņi lidoja. Living Sacrifice. Līnijas un uzraksti iezīmēja ķermeņus, kas kustējās lidojošu mūku ātrumā. Mēs gaidījām ar nepateicību.
Jā, Paika kungs, grāmatas bija visattīstītākā tehnoloģija. Bet tad uzsprāga hierarhija, trepes, piramīdas. Vilcieni vairs nebrauca no punkta A uz punktu B, bet parādījās un pazuda jebkurā sliežu posmā, ja tas bija nepieciešams. Jebkurš stāsts varēja sākties ar epilogu vai pat balsi no aizsaules. Mīlas stāsti sākās ar stalkošanu un beidzās ar neapdomīgu cepumiņu. Bet īsu brīdi pirms lineāra dzīves gājuma izzušanas, es spiedu FWD un klausījos. Pirmie akordi, pirmie manevri ar bungu vālītēm. A un B puse. No viens līdz trīspadsmit. Tas nebija grūti, pacietība nebija ekskluzīva vērtslieta. Informācija ceļoja kā masaliņas, kā vecs vīrs ar basām kājām, kā smaržīgas rupjmaizes recepte. Soli pa solim es audzēju savu limbisko sistēmu, savu mandeļveida kodolu. Matu balinātāju nomainīja nagu laka, un tā tālāk. Zināšanu biatlons, pieredžu skeletons.
Kad Augusts Strindbergs 1895. gadā rakstīja Gogēnam, iespējams Taiti dokumentētāja ausīs iedūrās vārdi: "brīdī, kad kļūsti atzīts un apbrīnots, [tavi atbalstītāji] tieksies tevi (..) ielikt savā vietā un nosaukt tavu mākslu vārdā, ko pēc gadiem pieciem jaunākā paaudzē lietos, lai apzīmētu savu laiku nodzīvojušu mākslu (..)". Pat ja šī līnija nav zudusi, tagad tā zaigojas uz Vogue vāka. Tā lokās pa Itālijas serpentīniem, tā salūzt Neapoles ainavā, tā stiepjas lejup pa Empire State Bulding fasādi kā logu mazgātājs, tā stiepjas pa 242. autobusa līniju Šordičā un iezīmē ķīniešu restorānu tīklojumu Belvilā. Līnija, kas kā Pekinas pīle, visur ir vienlīdz zeltaina, tomēr atšķirīga prasmīga pavāra rokās, atdarinot klavieru skaņas viesnīcas foajē, kristāla radio vai jaunākās svārku piegrieznes. Pacietība salūzt kā tenisa rakete, kā Instastory, kā potīte, kā lidmašīnas aste. Es skatos bobsleju, skatos izstādi Prāgā, lasu par Gugenheimu, sarakstos ar draugu Roterdamā, manas pusdienas ir 20 minūšu attālumā - cerams, sniegs tās neaizkavēs. Kur paliek kartupeļi ar olu? Kur paliek koka krusts Beberbeķu kapos? Īsziņa no mammas. Kur palikušas dūjas? Pēdējo dienu pravieši. Mana zvana poga ir paslēpta. Sit ar kāju.
Curated:
Luksafors
Fat Gnomes (Ears
of New Jersey)
Retrospect 1996-1999
I had an amnesia once or twice
A Very Small Window
Demons and Ashes