8 paver OF THE ARTS | FEBRUARY - MARCH 1996 i write to you with anger. i write to you with anger because i seek revenge. iam cynical but empowered by my ability to speak. it is you who ultimately suffers. i witness your suffering with the absence of any remorse. i become numb. you have one glass eye. i imagine you in a bar at least fifteen years prior to this time. you are drunk and you are alone, and your good friend has his arms around an equally vulnerable woman. in your eyes, and you have two at the time, she is just a cheap and flim- sy whore. (define the term whore.) you lean over and whisper something obscene into her ear. obscene not meaning sensual or titillating. your obscenities are brash, crude, unpleasant and insulting. this is where obscene crosses some sort of threshold, past the notion of pleasure, and into sacrificial terain. your friend grabs you by the collar. liquored sweat excretes through your pours. you are afraid because you are a small drunk man. you are afraid because you suddenly realise that you are about to be punished. there is blood on the floor blood on the wall and blood saturating you dirty sweat ‘stained shirt. your pain has reached a level of grotesque insanity. you vomit on the pavement just outside of the bar. sirens clear the already dearthed streets. you are taken away like the sewer, filtered through hospital customs and poured back into the sea of poverty and oppression. for a moment i pity you. it has been quite some time since i began to question our fascination with the other world. the appropriation of bleak pain into the realm of artististc percep- tion. your reality is glamorised by means of our fortune. this is not a true or fair statement. this will always be denied and questioned. (define pain, define whore, define artist, define my ignorance.) it is a wednesday morning in january. the grey and cement vancouver winter is damp. this is a very usual day. seemingly, about forty percent of the population is subdued by their apathy, this impassivity is caused by an absence of light. i am on a mission. research for a story which i am in the midst of translating into a film. my story is the farthest thing from the reality which exists in and around the grounds which i am walking on. i am in east vancouver on powell street. 10:26 am. nina simone is singing the blues. a gentle hum in the back of my mind. iam spaced out and at peace. i have almost forgotten where i am. momentarily silent though, are the voices of doubt which live in my head. these voices have been slowly creeping in, somehow finding residence within my sub- conscious state. i feel releif and am absorbed by my own enchantment. you sense this and seek to destroy. the world rumbles with bitter insurgence; class distinctions are detrimental. | curl back my tongue, and seal my lips. your greeting is profound. “hey pretty lady ... can i get in your cunt. can i put my cock in your fucking cunt. can i put my cock in your fucking cunt. can i put my cock in your fucking cunt. can i put my cock in your fucking cunt.” you are in my face now. your ugly porous nose is pushed against my cheek. your breath is.as foul as a dead fish, your posture dilapidated, and your soiled clothing reeks of years of tabaco and whiskey. “i'm goin to the corner to talk to my old lady in the store. can i put my cock in your cunt. can i put my fucking cock in your cunt." i look you in the eye. my gaze shifts and i notice your glass plug. i give a side- ways stare while you rant into my ear, at my face. are you aiming at my soul? i won't let you in. i turn away from you, and move on. -C pollard, january 10/96 <@s — _ War and Memory March 20 to June 2, 1996 VANCOUVER ART GALLERY 750 Hornby Street, Vancouver, B.C. V6Z 2H7 Tel (604) 662 4700 Organized by the MIT List Visual Arts Center in Cambridge, Massachusetts for the American Center, Paris, France. = B rover oF me aes | FeomAny-nAROH 1996 ‘write to you with ange. i write to you with anger because i seek revenge. iam cynical but empowered by my ability to speak. itis you who ultimately suffers. witness your suffering with the absence of any emorse. i become numb. you have one glas eye, i imagine you ina bar at least fifteen years prior to this time. you are drunk and you are alone, and your good frend has his arms around an equaly vulnerable woman. in your eyes, nd you have two at the time, she i just a cheap and fim= sy wore. (define the term whore.) you lean over and whisper something obscene into her ea. obscene not meaning sensual or tiillating. your obscenities are brash, crude, unpleasant and insulting this is where obscene crosses some sot of threshold, past the notion of pleasure, and: into sacrificial train your fiend gras you bythe collar. iquored sweat excretes through your ours You ae afraid because you area small drunk man. you ae afaid because you Suddenly realise that you are about to be punished, there is blood onthe floor blood on the wall and blood saturating you dirty sweat stained shit. your pain has reached a level of grotesque insaity. you vomit on the pavement just outside of the bar. sirens clear the already earthed streets. You are taken away like the sewer, filtered through hospital customs and poured back into the sea of poverty and oppression, fora moment i pity you ‘thas been quite some time since i began to question our fascination with the ‘ther world. the appropriation of bleak pain into the realm of atstist percep- tion. your reality i lamorised by means of our fortune. this is nota true or fa statement. ths will always be denied and questioned (Gefine pai, define whore, define arts, define my ignorance) itis wednesday moring in january. the grey and cement vancouver winters ‘damp. this i a very usual day. seemingly, abou forty percent ofthe population is subdued by their apathy, tis impassivty is caused by an absence of light. i am ‘ona mission. research fr a story which i am inthe mids of transatng into 2 film, my storys the farthest thing from the reality which exists in and around the grounds which iam walking on. i am in east vancouver on powell treet. 10:26 am. nina simone is singing the blues. a gentle hum in the back of my ‘mind. iam spaced out and at peace. i have almost forgotten where iam. ‘momentarily sient though are the voices of doubt which lve in my head. these voices have been slowly creeping in, somehow finding residence within my Sub- conscious state. i feel releif and am absorbed by my own enchantment you sense this and seek to destroy the world rumbles with bitter insurgence; cass distinctions are detrimental. | cut ‘back my tongue, and seal my lips. Your greeting is profound. “hey prety lady can i get in your cunt. can i put my cock in your fucking cunt. can i put my cock in your fucking cunt. can i put my cock in your fucking cunt. can i put my cock in your fucking cunt You are in my face now. your ualy porous nose is pushed against my cheek. your breath is 2s foul as a dead fish, your posture dapidated, and your soiled clothing reeks of years of tabaco and whiskey. “iim goin tothe comer to talk to my od lady in the store. can i put my cock in ‘your cunt. ean i put my fucking cock in your cunt” ilook you inthe eye. my gaze shifts andi notice your glass plug, i give @ side ‘ays stare while you rant into my ear, at my face. are you aiming at my soul? i won't let you in. i turn away from you, and move on. pollard, january 10/96 ~®.