“I blame society. Society made me what I am.”
– Repo Man
“It will be too late by the time we learn / what these cryptic symbols mean”
– The Mountain Goats, “Palmcorder Yajna”
The “Information Superhighway,” they called it. The Hive Mind. The Encyclopedia. The Borg. The Borgesian Library of Babel — the repository not just of all human knowledge but of every conceivable thought looking both ways along time’s arrow. A shattered dictionary, smashed and rearranged and repeated ad infinitum with no loss of quality despite limitless reproduction.
A “copy” of a digital “object” is not a copy–it is a clone.
This was the promise of “teh interwebs,” the Internet. This is how they sold it to us, over modem tones </bleep bloop blip> more bid under-tomes. Instead it has become a sprawling strip mall, outlet mall, where amateurs strip all and consumers snip all coups ‘pon the Hinternet Exlorer to scarf down scarves I’ll click click snip snip save rename resize file reopen copy cut paste print BY THE POWER OF GRAYSCALE ///
If Chris Cascio tied all his scarves together and scarfed them all he could do a magic trick pulling them back out his mouth that would go on so long that you’d have to watch it in shifts. Paper cuts mean nothing to Chris Cascio. Chris Cascio doesn’t play rock/paper/scissors because Chris Cascio rocks the scissors on the paper. Chris Cascio might be huffing the glue while he’s pasting. Might be. Chris Cascio hoards things — scarves, images, manipulated copies of those images, printouts of those images in various sizes, and even the paper that’s left behind when the images are cut out. Chris Cascio is unsane.
Chris Cascio attains abstraction through repetition. Given a large enough a sample-size with a broad-enough perspective, if the viewer is able to step back and zoom out and take it all in at once, patterns emerge. Forest for the trees like. Patterns are telling. Chris Cascio is Everyman.
If what I’m saying doesn’t make any sense / That’s because sense cannot be made/ It’s something that must be sensed // And I, for one, am incensed…
– King Missile, “It’s Saturday”