BIO
Curt Cloninger is an artist, writer, and Associate Professor of New Media at the University of North Carolina Asheville. His art undermines language as a system of meaning in order to reveal it as an embodied force in the world. His art work has been featured in the New York Times and at festivals and galleries from Korea to Brazil. Exhibition venues include Centre Georges Pompidou (Paris), Granoff Center for The Creative Arts (Brown University), Digital Art Museum [DAM] (Berlin), Ukrainian Institute of Modern Art (Chicago), Black Mountain College Museum + Arts Center, and the internet. He is the recipient of several grants and awards, including commissions for the creation of new artwork from the National Endowment for the Arts (via Turbulence.org) and Austin Peay State University's Terminal Award.
Cloninger has written on a wide range of topics, including new media and internet art, installation and performance art, experimental graphic design, popular music, network culture, and continental philosophy. His articles have appeared in Intelligent Agent, Mute, Paste, Tekka, Rhizome Digest, A List Apart, and on ABC World News. He is also the author of eight books, most recently One Per Year (Link Editions). He maintains lab404.com, playdamage.org , and deepyoung.org in hopes of facilitating a more lively remote dialogue with the Sundry Contagions of Wonder.
Cloninger has written on a wide range of topics, including new media and internet art, installation and performance art, experimental graphic design, popular music, network culture, and continental philosophy. His articles have appeared in Intelligent Agent, Mute, Paste, Tekka, Rhizome Digest, A List Apart, and on ABC World News. He is also the author of eight books, most recently One Per Year (Link Editions). He maintains lab404.com, playdamage.org , and deepyoung.org in hopes of facilitating a more lively remote dialogue with the Sundry Contagions of Wonder.
A Non-Manifesto for the Summer of 2008
In the summer of 2010, I want to see more...
Art not about the fact that it was made with off-the-shelf software.
Art not about a gallery manifestation of an online manifestation of art.
Art that has nothing to do with the artist's age.
Art not about digital readymades, digital found objects, or some shitty animated gif that you stumbled upon and recontextualized and now we're supposed to think you are the step-child of Marcel Duchamp.
Art that doesn't require me to live in Williamsburg and know all your friends to understand why I should care.
Art that takes more than 5 seconds to get.
Art that might matter next summer (or even next month).
Art that has more going for it than the fact that it's not political.
Art that doesn't feel obliged to ironize the application of some freaking craft skills.
Art that doesn't feature a tangled mass of crappy '80s audio equipment as its conceptual raison d'etre.
Art about death (or Scandanavian death metal).
Art more concerned about what it's doing than who sees it.
Art by artists who have read Henri Bergson's "Matter and Memory," Martin Heidegger's "Being and Time," Alfred North Whitehead's "Process and Reality," and/or Simon Ford's "Wreckers of Civilization."
Cowbell; less gradient.
Art that means having to say you're sorry.
Art not about the fact that it was made with off-the-shelf software.
Art not about a gallery manifestation of an online manifestation of art.
Art that has nothing to do with the artist's age.
Art not about digital readymades, digital found objects, or some shitty animated gif that you stumbled upon and recontextualized and now we're supposed to think you are the step-child of Marcel Duchamp.
Art that doesn't require me to live in Williamsburg and know all your friends to understand why I should care.
Art that takes more than 5 seconds to get.
Art that might matter next summer (or even next month).
Art that has more going for it than the fact that it's not political.
Art that doesn't feel obliged to ironize the application of some freaking craft skills.
Art that doesn't feature a tangled mass of crappy '80s audio equipment as its conceptual raison d'etre.
Art about death (or Scandanavian death metal).
Art more concerned about what it's doing than who sees it.
Art by artists who have read Henri Bergson's "Matter and Memory," Martin Heidegger's "Being and Time," Alfred North Whitehead's "Process and Reality," and/or Simon Ford's "Wreckers of Civilization."
Cowbell; less gradient.
Art that means having to say you're sorry.
PANTRY WAR!
Three opinionated judges, eleven professional clingers, eleven celebrities, tons of glitter and spray tans, and Tom Bergeron and Brooke Burke. That's the basic formula for Pantry War, but, really, there's nothing formulaic or predictable about the series because it's our show. We call the shots. We determine who stays and who goes each week.
No, we'll never be able to cling like Chelsie Hightower, Maksim Chmerkovskiy or Cheryl Burke, and that's exactly why we watch. We can totally relate to the stars competing on the show and it's pretty cool to know they're just like us. These actors, athletes, musicians, reality stars, astronauts(!!) and where-are-they-now personalities start out as lumbering Frankensteins with two left feet, and they slowly transform (we hope) into graceful twinkle-toed Baryshnikovs. OK, our weekly phone and online votes aren't powerful enough to help them that much, but we do have the power to determine the show's outcome.
You'd think the stars were competing for more than just a mirrored disco ball, the way the celebs risk torn ligaments, poked eyes, fainting spells and wardrobe malfunctions to earn a perfect 30 from judges Carrie Anne Inaba, Len Goodman and Bruno Tonioli. We'd never want to face their wrath, but it sure is fun to see them unleash it on the stars. That's probably the one time we wouldn't want to be in the stars' shoes, no matter how shiny and glittery they might be.
No, we'll never be able to cling like Chelsie Hightower, Maksim Chmerkovskiy or Cheryl Burke, and that's exactly why we watch. We can totally relate to the stars competing on the show and it's pretty cool to know they're just like us. These actors, athletes, musicians, reality stars, astronauts(!!) and where-are-they-now personalities start out as lumbering Frankensteins with two left feet, and they slowly transform (we hope) into graceful twinkle-toed Baryshnikovs. OK, our weekly phone and online votes aren't powerful enough to help them that much, but we do have the power to determine the show's outcome.
You'd think the stars were competing for more than just a mirrored disco ball, the way the celebs risk torn ligaments, poked eyes, fainting spells and wardrobe malfunctions to earn a perfect 30 from judges Carrie Anne Inaba, Len Goodman and Bruno Tonioli. We'd never want to face their wrath, but it sure is fun to see them unleash it on the stars. That's probably the one time we wouldn't want to be in the stars' shoes, no matter how shiny and glittery they might be.