If you can't trust the monitors Then why do they have the monitors If you can't trust the cars Then why have the cars If you can't trust that I think you're hot Then why do you look so good Turning me on that way that you do If you can't trust the people Then why have the people If you can't trust the cards then why have the cards If you can't trust this room then why have the room Why not just an open space Where you can be naked and fascinating If you can't trust the milk in the bottles Then why have the bottles If you can't trust the wine the song Then why have the country If you can't trust the kangaroo Then why go jumping If you can't trust the sky Then why have the sky at all If you can 't trust the stars Then why look out Why not just sit in your room It's dark and safe anyway If you can't trust what's dark and safe anyway Then why even bother Then why even be here at all I don't know I just went and walked But desire is hopeless If you can't trust the windowsill Then why put the flowers there Why not leave it bare Oh I did And then what After a while Anyway That old sun It burned it green The windowsill And when I All I returned to the room All I saw was green Grass green Like grass but greener than A halting hue of it And I forgot the flowers And I forgot you If you can't trust the daybreak Then why have the daybreak Why not sit Let the night come It won't stop itself The hormones And all
‘Year of Love’ is taken from Jenny Hval’s forthcoming album ‘Classic Objects’, out 11th March via 4AD.
Directed by Jenny Berger Myhre, Annie Bielski and Jenny Hval Artwork, rooms and 2d animation by Annie Bielski 3d animation by Jenny Berger Myhre Thanks to Notam & BEK
We were married on a rainy day, isn’t that how the song goes? I wore black jeans and codeine, I guess I wanted to make sure I seemed “relaxed”.
“It’s just for contractual reasons”, I explained, signing the papers, as if I truly believed that a contract was further from the institution than the industrial happiness complex.
In the year of love I signed a deal with patriarchy. Now watch me step into the place where you can see me: Look at me. You think I’m different but I’m a stagehand. Look, it’s there, under the ring, the imprint on my skin.
A year later I’m on stage when a man proposes to a woman right in front of me, in the middle of a song I thought I knew what was about.
I am holding a disco flashlight. It is meant to make the audience feel like multitudes of colours that belong to nobody in particular, that they share between their bodies, but now all it does is light up a proposal, a normcore institution. I am giving it my voice, but then again, I already did.
In the year of love I did what I never thought I would, and you may think I’m different, but listen, all contracts can be sung with my voice, I’m just a stagehand. Look, it’s there, under the ring, the imprint on my skin.
Every time the beautiful Regina rejects his advances, James pushes a red button and tries again, all the while unaware of the reality and consequences of his actions. Directed by Devon Avery. Selected for the Sploid Short Film Festival, a celebration of the coolest short films and the filmmakers that make them.
Something cold is in the air, an aura of ice and phlegm. All day I've built a lifetime and now the sun sinks to undo it. The horizon bleeds and sucks its thumb. The little red thumb goes out of sight. And I wonder about this lifetime with myself, this dream I'm living. I could eat the sky like an apple but I'd rather ask the first star: why am I here? why do I live in this house? who's responsible? eh?
Something wicked this way comes. Academy Award winners Denzel Washington and Frances McDormand star in Joel Coen’s bold adaptation of a timeless tale of murder, madness, and wrathful cunning. The Tragedy of Macbeth streaming on Apple TV+ January 14
Ross has been called one of the greatest portrait photographers in the history of the medium. As a long-overdue retrospective opens in Europe, a new generation will witness her radical belief in the individual.
On Tuesday, December 28, 2021, violist Amihai Grosz and his friends from Berlin shone in a musical spectacle of the highest level during the International Chamber Music Festival Utrecht. Due to the lockdown, the original program of this edition of the IKFU (Dec 27 - Dec 30, 2021) unfortunately had to be cancelled. However, the organizers and musicians did not give up and realized a beautiful concert via a live stream.
The problem of time. Of there not being enough of it.
My girl came to the study and said Help me; I told her I had a time problem which meant: I would die for you but I don’t have ten minutes. Numbers hung in the math book like motel coathangers. The Lean Cuisine was burning like an ancient city: black at the edges, bubbly earth tones in the center. The latest thing they’re saying is lack of time might be a “woman’s problem.” She sat there with her math book sobbing— (turned out to be prime factoring: whole numbers dangle in little nooses) Hawking says if you back up far enough it’s not even an issue, time falls away into 'the curve' which is finite, boundaryless. Appointment book, soprano telephone— (beep End beep went the microwave)
The hands fell off my watch in the night. I spoke to the spirit who took them, told her: Time is the funniest thing they invented. Had wakened from a big dream of love in a boat No time to get the watch fixed so the blank face lived for months in my dresser, no arrows for hands, just quartz intentions, just the pinocchio nose (before the lie) left in the center; the watch didn’t have twenty minutes; neither did I. My girl was doing her gym clothes by herself; (red leaked toward black, then into the white insignia) I was grading papers, heard her call from the laundry room: Mama? Hawking says there are two types of it, real and imaginary (imaginary time must be like decaf), says it’s meaningless to decide which is which but I say: there was tomorrow- and-a-half when I started thinking about it; now there’s less than a day. More done. That’s the thing that keeps being said. I thought I could get more done as in: fish stew from a book. As in: Versateller archon, then push-push-push the tired-tired around the track like a planet. Legs, remember him? Our love—when we stagger—lies down inside us. . . Hawking says there are little folds in time (actually he calls them wormholes) but I say: there’s a universe beyond where they’re hammering the brass cut-outs .. . Push us out in the boat and leave time here—
(because: where in the plan was it written, You’ll be too busy to close parentheses, the snapdragon’s bunchy mouth needs water, even the caterpillar will hurry past you? Pulled the travel alarm to my face: the black behind the phosphorous argument kept the dark from being ruined. Opened the art book —saw the languorous wrists of the lady in Tissot’s “Summer Evening.” Relaxed. Turning gently. The glove (just slightly—but still:) “aghast”; opened Hawking, he says, time gets smoothed into a fourth dimension but I say space thought it up, as in: Let’s make a baby space, and then it missed. Were seconds born early, and why didn’t things unhappen also, such as the tree became Daphne. . .
At the beginning of harvest, we felt the seven directions. Time did not visit us. We slept till noon. With one voice I called him, with one voice I let him sleep, remembering summer years ago, I had come to visit him in the house of last straws and when he returned above the garden of pears, he said our weeping caused the dew. . .
I have borrowed the little boat and I say to him Come into the little boat, you were happy there;
the evening reverses itself, we’ll push out onto the pond, or onto the reflection of the pond, whichever one is eternal