Alexi Kukuljevic

<   BIRDWAR   >

                         BIRDWAR is the obliteration of metaphor for which a Hitchcock stands: an utterly

                         ridiculous creature of the adrenal type. All body, only vestigial legs, resistant to

                         running, loathe to dance, and fond of a tipple of brandy poured over a dollop of ice

                         cream in the morning. Pudgy and innocuous, its unchiseled frame possesses a

                         sharp beak that is always peckish, but hates eggs and the hole they lack, not to

                         mention pregnancy too … no love for the tots. Various means to understate the

                         void’s singular vacancy.

                         Not fond of messages, certainly not those fit for Western Union. So no message per

                         se, but only a dogged insistence on a certain formality in excess. Here form is

                         delivered with pins and pricks, bite marks, tiny punctures that wheeze, and pecks

                         that slowly excavate the eye, leaving an empty socket, where birds can nest. This is

                         what one might call a hollow vision. Gouache drool and ink dribble: some other

                         materials better suited to taxidermy. One more effort to plug up some holes and

                         make new ones. Ample use was made of the cravat of the building trade.

                         So the show drags along its body as it must with all its leaking pores. Make-up

                         caked over acne sore, teeth out of sorts. No bother. There is no mending this

                         discontent – this Unbehagen – this eye that is out of place.

                         The Birds was advertised cleverly with a purposeful blunder: The Birds is Coming.

                         All who read must stumble over its awkwardness. When we trip we are left to hang

                         suspended in the interval of a meaning waylaid. Finally something for the

                         grammatically impaired. And this is what one can expect: a crooked entry into

                         language, words hobbled like the things they stain. Always a nuisance, the lumpen

                         of the skies know best. At odds with the humanity of the human, they enjoy our

                         scraps, knowing that they have already unseated us.

                         Let the trautonium then sound with all the artifice of the absent future it contains.


                                                                                                                                                                                              Alexi Kukuljevic

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