Original subtitles

Something is happening.

Beauty's at work through pure and selfless acceptance, through everyday

transcendence that remedies the chaos, an antidote to the sorrow on this earth

for eternity.

Music heard so deeply that it is not heard at all.

You are the music while the music lasts.

Insist on beauty in spite of everything.

Decorum.

As I'm walking, I see you on your motorbike.

I can see your blue eyes and nose peering underneath the crash helmet.

But it's not you, it's just a man that looks like you.

I'm disappointed every time.

Every time I see a man on a motorbike, I think it's my dad.

I'm not sure why this is.

Sometimes I forget what your bike looks like.

Everyone's eyes and faces look the same underneath black crash helmets.

From a distance, everyone looks like you.

Although soon I realized it's not.

I remember you used to paint pictures of naked women in crash helmets.

Their identities were hidden too.

I always wondered who these women were.

Their shiny black round heads like lollipops.

Props.

Who were they, Dad?

Breathe.

The Laughing Heart Your life is your life.

Don't let it be clubbed into dink submission.

Be on the watch.

There are ways out.

There is light somewhere.

It may not be much light, but it beats the darkness.

Be on the watch.

The gods will offer you chances.

Know them.

Take them.

You can't beat death, but you can beat death in life sometimes.

And the more often you learn to do it, the more light there will be.

Your life is your life.

Know it while you have it.

You are marvelous.

The gods wait to delight in you.

Rascal was a wildcat when it was four degrees outside.

When I moved in, she'd stand with me in winter and rain, sleep with me, mostly

outside.

Hunter, I never tried to break her spirit.

Hit by car in front of me.

I was shocked.

I buried her by cat litter and wild food.

Her sunshine place could only dig to stones because the city's sewage pipe's

about three or four feet.

I wish it was deeper, next to keep other animals from digging her up.

When I find stones I'll cover up could her decompilation begin to swell.

If so, I'll put more soil on top.

First, cat and friend.

Hi.

Yeah.

I saw you last night.

I was in the club.

Yeah.

I saw who you're with, too.

She was holding you so tight.

Because she knows you want me.

Oh, no.

She can't love you.

She can't love you like I do.

I said to myself that you must be out of your mind.

You were there with somebody else.

You know you're wasting your time.

Oh, no.

Because she can't love you.

She can't love you like I do.

You're missing my beat, and I'm needing your moves.

Let's give it one more try. Let's get back in the groove.

Because she can't love you.

She can't love you like I do.

When I was younger... My father was the producer of a transvestite troupe, and

it seemed a dream for me to be able to observe what was behind the curtain.

I think this is when it all started, while growing up.

I kept on searching for this feeling of wonder, this taste for metamorphosis.

I direct to speak of cabarets, shows, or even the strange.

From video to another, often the same protagonists progress in this mysterious

and phantasmagorical universe.

I consider my videos as living paintings.

I use the camera as a painter with his brushes.

What could my world be made of?

Red.

Green.

If you want to turn yourself into a proud samurai warrior, you need the

Katana Samurai Sword.

This high-quality plastic weapon is a Japanese longsword which will look just

perfect with your traditional Japanese Hakama and the traditional Japanese

Gita, and add the finishing touch to your Asian outfit.

The black and gold Katana Samurai Sword comes with a matching black scabbard so

it can be stored safely.

The Japanese sword will protect you in fights and is sure to make you an eye

-catcher at any party.

105 centimeters blade length 70 centimeters material plastic

Yeah, so

a couple years ago a bunch of us went down to the beach and we got there and

and Coast guards run it all up and down the sand like you can't get in the

water, you know screaming at us and so we waited a bit and they went further

down the beach and then We decided we would go. Like, what the fuck? Why did

we come here?

So my buddy went down there and he's like, all good. Come down here, man. So

I walked over and we looked down and we couldn't see it from where we were

parked. But like when we looked down, we were really close.

You look down and there was just all these fucking jellyfish, you know, like

one every, like all over the place, one every two or three feet.

And from where we were standing, you couldn't really tell.

if they were living or dead, you know? Because some of them were still moving,

but then others were, like, just... just totally limp.

So, tell me what it's like growing up in Singapore.

Well, we had... I had these really magnificent memories of my childhood.

Because we had these magnificent playgrounds.

It was like these big watermelons.

I remember I used to climb to the top of the watermelon and I'd rub myself

on the ridges to give myself pleasure.

You think we can fall in love on the internet?

No.

Because it wouldn't be love, it would just be porn.

I don't think so.

Seen from a distance, almost everything looks beautiful.

As the distance increases, the more we romanticize.

All the small details from the everyday reminisces the past.

Because things we want to forget are the things we can never forget.

Do it!

Just do it!

Don't let your dreams be dreams.

Yesterday, you said tomorrow.

So just do it! Make your dreams come true!

Just do it!

Some people dream success while you're gonna wake up and work hard at it.

Nothing is impossible You should get to the point where anyone else would quit

and you're not gonna stop there No, what are you waiting for?

Do it Just do it.

Yes, you can just do it

tired of starting over, stop giving up.

Emerging gaming technologies operate within a nexus of social relationships

that characterize the modern world.

These technologies enable a constant commentary which has become the

quintessential quality of power, often operating as mechanisms that dictate our

action and preordain our expectations.

The work interrogates the cultural logic of feedback as a metaphor and material

condition. It is live, cybernetic, reactive.

Sensory data translated through visual and tactile apparatus.

Disillusion of the virtual and corporeal boundary.

Reorienting perspective of the existing in an alternative space and time.

An avatar in symbiosis with the subject.

Taking the lead in a continuous loop of action and reaction.

We're surrounded by forms, yet it's still so elusive, right?

You know, sometimes it feels like we fill that void between us with something

that grows slowly, like it's overtaking us or something.

like the way we speak or what we do where we put stuff around us even like

the The stances we inhabit or like the faces we make or even the body parts,

you know the food we whatever sometimes It gets heavier, you know

We're more light, but it's like all the distinctions are starting to melt away

The forms the resemblances the symmetries the repetitions the patterns

patterns that we know we have always had, that have always been there, and

we're not sure why.

And now, the outside looks more and more like the images that were contained

in us since the beginning.

Hi.

Thank you for waiting.

We've been running a little bit behind today.

Right.

As you know, we've taken a few readings, and these get sent away. We have a look

at them.

We meet a group of us with many years of experience, and we have a look, and we

see what we can see.

Does that make sense?

If you just have a look here, really, the

system's really slow, so it's a case of monitoring, and you monitoring, and you

just letting us know if you notice anything unusual.

Would you be able to do this?

Hmm? You have any questions?

Double.

Double-sided.

Minds. Different paths.

One runs after sunlight.

One follows the rising moon.

They either congregate, connect, intersect, touch.

unite at sunset for eclipses, play and then separate for long interstices,

later reenacting past meetings forever lost in repetition.

Ebb and flow, edging closer, expanding warmth,

that point just before the pressure bursts, capillary rush,

tension,

Resisting. Each muscle, each limb, each breath.

Under control for now.

Questions of limitations dissolve into the blur.

Eyes open but horizons fall away.

The burn increases now.

The pain centers.

One of you escapes but I pull you back.

Duality.

Existing. Only as a whole.

Weakened by quivering joints.

Lungs pushed for release.

A struggle to hold on.

Control surrendered.

Suspended in dullness.

Eyes closed.

Now numb.

Running, reaching.

Falling, skipping, turning, sliding, walking, these are all words that

describe ways of moving.

Each action is packed with many micro movements.

It's hard for us to recognize these small movements individually.

When describing how to walk, we use the simplest terms possible and struggle to

explain all the mechanics of a simple movement.

Understanding body movement in the terms of everyday language should be simple.

However, our muscle memory takes over for our brain and our body becomes a

strange system of levers and pulleys that maneuver by our command.

She sits.

I squirt toothpaste in my mouth.

I start to brush.

She's looking at me. I look at her. I keep brushing whilst looking.

Whilst I look at her, she looks at me, and I continue to brush, getting faster,

getting harder.

I start to gag.

My eyes leak, and I still look at her.

She looks at me, and I keep brushing, gagging.

I feel like I'm going to be sick.

Am I going to be sick?

Gagging.

Paste down my face, my hair, on my shirt.

Dripping.

And I still look at her, and she looks at me.

Enough.

The sculptor, the painter, the video maker, the figure of the artist has been

as fetishized in the Western culture as the Hollywood actor,

the town drunk, or the messiah himself.

Michael Peters' Tate Shots attempts to reconfigure the concept of creator or

creatrix by placing himself in the position of artist as mean.

Watch, enjoy, and be at one.

We are all children of the universe.

I fear the absolute.

I fear my absence and the absence of all things.

Belief in living has been contorted into this shortened life of contempt and

predetermined imprisonment.

And I... I feel it all

collapsing.

I can't fucking embrace that!

It's near.

And here I stand.

Wasting my last moments.

Cursing thee who have oppressed me to this ill fate.

You give me nothing.

No mercy.

No empathy.

Only self-hate. To you, I'm just a fucking plaything. An amusement

replicating the cries of man. You replay the last moments of my life over and

over and over.

I'm just a fucking charade suspended at the core of ridicule.

And I pity for those...

Whose end mirrors mine, and I pity myself.

I'm helpless.

Thank you.

I'm tormented by the inescapable, rewinding

collapse.

Don't let them see me like this.

A man is under surveillance.

Where's he going?

Almost into a state of euphoria, of relief, as though he's happy about it.

He has to act as a looking glass rather than a mirror of social conventions.

He disintegrated perfectly, but never reappeared.

He became translucent to reveal his reality.

It's impossible unless he is or was insane.

He changed his mind.

You know how men are.

Perhaps it symbolizes something deep in his subconscious.

Feeling genuinely upset.

Tears level.

Hmm.

Shame on me.

My face is receptacle and surface.

Surface that's throwing up what's already there.

Wet wear and hard world stuff.

Confrontation is post.

Preferably.

Living in lilts like over and under.

with grapple hearers approaching confrontation or surface lump rolled

out.

You go through the dump to form a projectile semi-bound like protest song

collapsed.

Needs filled for no other.

Forced partly forever as long as I leave you together.

Art hits.

Whatever I point at is big.

snap leg snap leg snap leg snap leg

snap leg snap leg snap leg snap leg

snap leg snap leg snap leg snap leg snap leg snap leg snap leg snap leg

Snap leg.

Snap leg.

Snap leg. Snap leg. Snap leg. Snap leg.

Snap leg.

Snap leg.

Snap leg.

Chalk circle.

Another one of those days where you think, shit, I've done nothing today.

This London underground journey needs no excessive mental activity to perform.

I'm stuck in a strange modern day meditation.

This space asks for an interruption. When it happens, it's a moment of pure

panic and confusion.

All previous expectations are obliterated. There's a second of

elation. The rules are being broken here.

Quickly, it passes.

I'm back in routine.

There's an expansion of discovery and limitation, even if I'm thinking, fuck,

this is boring, as I scribble repetitively onto the floor.

Between the visible and invisible lies a glistening, rectangular pane, a

transparent veil.

This thin, glossy sheet of glass, so innocent-looking, is the frontier

between the physicality of toil and the ignorance of immateriality.

Liquid crystals oscillating between a seamless fluid and solid state produce a

viscous reality that's almost palpable, almost attainable, but succeeds only in

abstracting.

The heightened artifice perpetuates anonymity, outsourced and far away.

Dead labor turns to capital, and power relations dissolve.

All that is solid melts into the air.

These light installations do not provide an original experience.

Instead, the audience will witness occurrences they have previously

encountered in their everyday lives, on bedroom walls, floors, and through bus

windows.

but may have never noticed.

Observing, recording, and recreating studies of light, this series of events

are light occurrences that have been captured and digitally recreated using

projectors as the technology to stage them into space, to either go noticed or

unnoticed.

What you are about to witness is quite definitely harrowing.

British artist Jack Evans, who was raised in Mansfield, the heart of the

Midlands, is now at one of the most southern parts of the UK,

Brighton Beach, in the hellish winter cold, laid out in nothing but Ray-Bans,

his favourite pair of Speedos, and a fucking tacky shit gold watch, eating

what I believe those Brits call a 99 flake.

His body looks glorious as it shivers in the wind, and I do have to remind you,

especially the ladies,

It was fucking cold.

Enjoy.

Hold your breath.

Count to two.

Come with us in a world of pure imagination.

Take a look and you'll see into our imagination.

We'll begin traveling in the world of our creation.

What you'll see will have no explanation.

Look around.

There's no life to compare with living with no pixelation.

Joe Moss was Shia LaBeouf before Shia LaBeouf was Joe Moss.

We only got 30 seconds, so I'll try his voice.

I don't know, man.

Who makes that choice? Who's pretending to be who?

We're pretending to talk to a you that doesn't exist yet, but what's really

going on here?

Fuck, I don't think any of us understand. Maybe you do.

There's always reflections of you in the screen, but I can't speak. I'm dumb.

I'm the dumbest. Bishaya talks.

Fuck, 30 seconds. All right, pressure, whatever.

Hey, Mom, it's really Joe. Bet you never thought this would fucking happen, huh?

Work number 24 oscillates somewhere between a durational performance and

live sculpture.

The work seeks to act both as a social and institutional critique of what is an

art school.

Presented then in the form of a bookshop as opposed to a library, arguably a

democratic equivalent, the work seeks to explore the currency of ideas, how trade

and exchange is not only commoditized, but perhaps how conversation is perhaps

a vital component in the flow and disruption of how culture manifests.

My practice revolves around questions of fact and fiction and the blurred line

that lies between.

I'm interested in how surveillance images can be manipulated and

orchestrated in order to create a particular narrative, creating an

unreliable narrator.

There are three parts to the work.

Footage of a factual space whereby a sequence of events has occurred, a

digital drawing of the space, and a stripped-back stage to its crude,

simplest skeletal form where the sequence of events is reenacted.

The stage is a factual representation of a real-life space whereby every property

is identical in dimensions.

57,910,000 108,200,000

149,600,000 227,940,000

778,330,000 1,429,400

,000. 2,970,990,000.

4,504,005,913,520,000.

I can't stop looking at my phone and computer.

Separate, connected entity making me lose time-space awareness.

Where's my phone? I need to make this sunset digital.

Stone preserved in binary code till the server breaks and the national grid runs

out of gas.

I can't find my money.

That left the physical sphere long ago.

All I see remind me of things online or in a video game.

They are so real in the moment.

I climbed that mountain with my mind and fingers.

My body didn't even get close.

All my experiences turned into light and pixels.