DDDG: Extended Caption
A collection of items originally shown in the magazine

Saturday 25 April – Saturday 27 June, 2009
Opening Saturday 25 April

Mário Moura and Stuart Bailey in conversation at the University of Porto, Thursday 23 April

Culturgest Porto
Edifício Caixa Geral de Dépósitos
Av. dos Aliados 104
4000-065 Porto
Tel: 22 209 81 16
See http://www.culturgest.pt




The Polish polymath Stefan Themerson once wrote:
The Greek males thought geometry was the thing. Dr Zamenhof thought Esperanto was the thing. Jesus-Christ thought the dialectical loaf of bread was the thing. And geometry produced bazookas. And polyglotism produced more quarrels. And love produced hatred. And none of these great things has proved to be more (what is the right word) efficacious (?) than what I, in my female way would like to call ‘good manners’.

This is the seventh occasion of my showing a group of artifacts whose only objective connection is that they have appeared in the pages of Dot Dot Dot, a magazine I edit, at some point since its conception in 2000. In 2004 I first assembled an exhibition of source material — by which I mean the original items represented in print by screened images. In the regular hierarchy of the magazine, texts are generally primary and images secondary, and the fundamental idea of these exhibitions was to invert these roles, as a kind of parallel operation.

Our contributors rarely write directly about the formal attributes of this kind of cultural residue, but draw on it rather to trigger, illustrate, or reference broader sociological, art historical, or philosophical ideas. Take the cover of Scritti Politti’s 1982 ‘Jacques Derrida’ double A-side 12-inch, for example. This illustrates a short text by Diedrich Diederichsen which, rather than discussing either the music, lyrics, or sleeve design, more broadly recounts a certain moment in the 1980s when French philosophy mirrored the cultural currency of a certain strain of British post punk. Or below and to the left, the upside down photograph of an early sketch of Harry Beck’s 1931 London Underground map. This refers to the occasion of the diagram having been hung the wrong way up when first shown at London’s V&A museum, an accident which innocuously prioritises its abstract over representational qualities. Paul Elliman introduces this anecdote to frame some thoughts around the idea that abstraction — and by implication, modernism — was only acceptable to the British public when grounded in function.

Another sense in which images are secondary in the magazine is that they’re often second-rate — poor quality, black and white, and printed on uncoated paper which reduces definition. This is partly practical (as we’ve never really been able to afford decent photography or colour printing) but also in deliberate reaction to how graphics were typically reproduced in the 1980s and 1990s — as seductive, miniature, full-colour surfaces, only nominally related to the depths of the objects they contrived to represent. Our intention was to downplay the surface and get at the depth through the writing. The ‘Money’ spread from the 1969 Whole Earth Catalog — the torn-out pages showing an antique cash register, dinosaur and bar chart — is a good example. This has appeared twice in the magazine, first as an illustration to David Reinfurt’s three-page single sentence biography of Stewart Brand, who founded the Catalog, a kind of 1970s counterculture Yellow Pages; then accompanying a short piece on the cover of the subsequent issue about candid design and the economic oxymoron of independent publishing. This particular spread of the Catalog relates the financial mechanics of the publication — by presenting its own accounts — as a gesture towards editorial transparency in line with its general DIY ethos.

The mediocre scans of such spreads which accompany both pieces are included foremost as a kind of evidence, at best offering a first impression of the publication’s unique scrappiness. In the physical exhibition, however, actual pages are ripped from an original copy, and here it is plain to see how its pages were assembled on the fly according to a distinctly west coast marijuana logic, with hole-plugging idiosyncracies such as the piece of fiction running across the bottom right-hand corner of each page, all set on thin newsprint, cheap and low-bulk, now faded and browning. Stripped of its explanatory text in this way the object is left to speak for itself, and as part of the bigger group is forced to interact with the other objects, like a bunch of strange kids in a playground.

What you’re looking at here (or what you can’t look at while reading this) is, at its most allusive, a claim against representation. This is founded on a certain etiquette, a trust in objects rather than pictures of objects; an idea which can be transposed to a trust in experience rather than convenience, conversation rather than monologue, community rather than individual, etc. — all of which amounts to Dot Dot Dot’s particular conception of modernism. For these reasons I’ve previously suggested viewing this collection with that opening quote from Stefan Themerson in mind, which I’ve always considered to be profoundly modernist in both sentiment and construction. In terms of the artifacts here, then, Themerson’s ‘manners’ are manifest in a consistent attention to detail, a symbiosis of content and form, a timelessness outside the concerns of fashion or style — and all manifestly (what is the right word) living (?) They render visible a common way of thinking in line with Themerson’s alacrity and good humour. I’m repeatedly grasping for words and left wanting here, but what I’m getting at is more efficiently summed up by those Wire LPs at bottom right, which run chronologically from right to left from 1977's ‘Pink Flag’ to the 1989 best-of composite ‘On Returning’.


Like ‘modernism’, the term ‘aesthetic’ is continuously debased, its original reference to something approaching ‘the emotional sensation of reaction to the visual’ — or ‘having an experience’ — now diluted to little more than a euphemism for ‘formal’. Here I’ve tried to go after those objects I imagine will combine or curdle to provoke something aesthetic in that original sense.

There are two items rooted in a piece in the magazine called ‘Equation for a Composite Design’ which comprises a pair of images of what I’ll only half-jokingly refer to as ‘ideological buses’. On the left is Ken Kesey and the Merry Pranksters’ notorious mid-1960s hippy van (as immortalised by Tom Wolfe) with its misspelled (misspelt?) destination FURTHUR painted over the front windscreen; and on the right one from a Jamie Reid Sex Pistols collage bound for NOWHERE. When it came to tracking down tangible counterparts of these intangible images, the Pistols' vehicle was easy enough, found on the reverse of the sleeve for ‘Pretty Vacant’ which reached No.6 in the UK charts in 1977, but its acid counterpart was less evident until I came across an image of the Kesey bus printed as LSD blotter artwork, which could still be bought (dry) direct from his son Zane in San Francisco. It arrived ready-perforated into single trips and autographed by old Pranksters, an odd counterpoint to the drab coffee stains on the Pistols’ single. The morning after the first incarnation of the show in Tallinn, Estonia, I found a corner of around ten tabs had been torn off, most probably by the gang of itinerant Russians who had been hanging out, according to locals.

Extra-formal accidents — such as these corollary allusions to psychadelics and stimulants — suggest something of the reason for collecting rather than depicting, setting up the conditions for something other to occur. Other examples of particularly loaded objects include the indigo stencil print of Muriel Cooper (towards the top left corner) or Jason Fulford's C-Print of the Ulrich Roski album cover (in the vicinity of the Underground map), both made in 2007, and both of which depict and embody the various processes of their own production; or further above, Paul Elliman’s 2001 Ouija Board for Josef Albers (constructed for a séance at Yale) which utilises the Bauhäusler’s 1926 stencil typeface on a piece of square hardboard, the same format and medium Albers used for his square colour paintings.

The buses are an example of two objects arriving in reverse, through the excavation of an equivalent item back from an initial image. A similar pair are the juxtaposed versions of what appear to be proportionally-enlarged scans of original pages from Stéphane Mallarmé’s seminal 1897 poem ‘Un coup de dés jamais n’abolira le hasard’ (‘A throw of the dice will never abolish chance’) and Marcel Broodthaers’ 1969 reworking, in which he abstracted and/or censored Mallarmé’s arrangement, subtitling it ‘Image’ in relation to the original ‘Text’. Again these scans have both appeared in juxtaposition twice in Dot Dot Dot, on the first occasion accompanying if not exactly illustrating a text ‘About Nothing’ by Peter Bilak, and more recently alongside Seth Price’s ‘Décor Holes’. The latter is a loose history of sampling as technique, with Mallarmé/Broodthaers as one example of its prehistory.

Broodthaers claims and then augments Mallarmé’s poem to produce a new, third body, a field between the works. The whole is without novelty, save the spacing of one’s reading; the blanks, in effect, assume importance. The madness of the ‘a self-annihilating nothing’ prescription. But this was only to be expected since Broodthaers was an imitation artist. It may be that the supreme triumph of this validity is to cast doubt on its own validity, mixing a deep scandalous laughter with the religious spirit.

Before their inclusion alongside his text, however, Price digitally altered both the Mallarmé and Broodthaers scans, minimally reconfiguring the lines and effectively opening up a fourth field. The pages were labelled ‘Courtesy of Seth Price’ in obscure reference to the conceit, and this particular line of sampling was protracted by translating them into large-format prints for the wall hang. Any blanks, gaps, fields, and grey areas between these various generations of images, formats, mediums and media here are imprecisely where any new work lies.


A couple of items now missing from the wall remain anecdotally conspicuous. One was a rough sketch by Mike Kelley for his 1995 work, ‘Entry Way (Genealogical Chart)’, a bizarre fictional town sign which substitutes the usual emblems of Rotary Clubs and Women's Institutes for a more esoteric, personal collection including the Rainbow People’s Party, Ding Dong School, Optimist International, and the local Goodwill thrift store. This was originally hang next to Alfred Barr’s classic 1936 diagrammatic history of ‘Cubism and Abstract Art’, and both have since been replaced by Barney Bubble's electric-abstract portrait of John Cooper Clarke. As Howard Singerman writes in his ‘Extended Caption’ to the juxtaposition of the Barr and Kelley's work, these two formative histories represent a fundamental shift — from Barr’s neat, linear teleology to Kelley’s messy, lateral association: a switch in social epistemology from Freudian patriarchy to something much looser, more random, self-determined and without obvious hierarchy: a condition where friendship and interest are substituted for family and order. Curiously, like much of the content that lies in the stories behind the items here, this piece was at once ‘about’ the work it describes as well as ‘about’ the nature of the context that frames it here.

A second absence is located in the gap below Dexter Sinister’s 2007 heraldic translation of Lászlo Moholy Nagy’s 1922 telephone paintings, in which the colour is replaced by heraldic cross-hatching, a kind of early greyscale. This lithographic proof print originally hung over Ryan Gander’s 2004 triptych, ‘Georges Remi’s realisation that Alph-Art was conceptually flawed, Hergé’s realisation that Alph-Art was conceptually flawed, and Kuifje’s realisation that Alph-Art was conceptually flawed’ — a tiny cartoon, serially repeated three times in letraset, composed from the lines and stars that render a character dazed and confused in a comic strip. This piece of conceptual melancholy refers to the plot of the last, unfinished Tintin cartoon (about the invention and subsequent theft of a mysterious ‘Alph-Art’) which was interrupted by death of Tintin’s creator Hergé, a pseudonym of Georges Remi, whose real-life nickname was Kuifje.

The triptych was withdrawn after an argument with Ryan about the dubious status of the work in relation to the whole, particularly as articulated through information surrounding the show, i.e. whether the exhibition was presented as a collection of independent pieces, or a single piece comprised of composite parts, as a general group show, or one with an explicit curatorial theme. And by extension, who was being represented, exactly: the individual artists, the group of artists, Dot Dot Dot, its editor, or Dexter Sinister, its publisher. I didn’t really have a good answer, or rather I had a non-answer: that the only intention in this respect was to present something — for better or worse — outside any of those designations.

One immediate effect of this collection is to level regular distinctions anyway — between high and low, expensive and cheap, rare and ubiquitous, limited and mass-produced, old and new, exclusive and available, famous and anonymous, canonical and forgotten. All are reduced or elevated to the same plane. The vertical strip of photographs of science fiction writers from a 1963 group interview in Playboy, ‘On 1984 and Beyond’ is an extension of a work of the same name by Gerard Byrne which has assumed a number of different formats since 2005. Similarly wary of its new status in regard to this odd collection, he emphasized only that I should clearly present it ‘an “illustration” of an aspect of the work, rather then “the work” itself.’ He is summarizing, of course, the potential violence of the whole project: that all that levelling is in danger of ironing out the very particular poetry inherent to each and any individual work in the first place. To recompense, the violence has to be justified by a counter-violent trade-off — or less dramatically, a guarantee that the sum is greater than its parts.


On the face of it, there doesn't seem to be any reason to expect these objects to share formal characteristics, because (a) their umbilical texts have been written by a wide range of contributors with different backgrounds and interests at different times across the past decade, and (b) Dot Dot Dot has no formal/aesthetic mandate; in fact anything approaching an ethos would rather stand against any kind of prescribed or standardised style in favour of drawing unique form from specific content — like David Osbaldeston's 2008 'Diagram for a Search Engine' above the Whole Earth Catalog, which both mocks and affirms the romantic gesture of its medium, the woodcut. And yet it seems disingenuous to deny the blatant formal synchronicities in this collection. The trouble is, those qualities are as profoundly difficult to articulate as they are easy to perceive. They are primarily cerebral not visual, more abstract than concrete, and again most accurately perceived as ‘ways of thinking’ made manifest. This is why definition is so elusive: because abstraction lends itself to opening up spaces rather than delimiting them. One recurring graphic strain here is, of course, abstraction itself — to various ends. A poetic, ‘soft’ form is described by the two transformations in the Mallarmé and Broodthaers works; underneath, Paul Elliman’s handwritten outline of the British coastline through the BBC’s Shipping Forecast’s regional sea areas from 2002; or the spread from Ettoire Sotsass’s statement on ‘Decoration', doctored by Justin Beal in 2007, the book abstracted as photograph, statement as image.

A more applied ‘hard’ abstraction is found in the transformation of statistics to serial graphic information in the Isotype chart which presents the relative numbers of workers’ ‘Strikes and Lockouts’ (symbolised by red fists) in Britain, France and Germany from 1913 to 1928; or in the sister logos by Muriel Cooper for the Massachusetts Institute of Technology in 1963, and Raymond Pettibon for seminal hardcore band Black Flag, circa 1978, drawn together by Mark Owens in his piece ‘Graphics Incognito’ to make an unlikely point — that De Stijl-inspired graphic reduction is intrinsically connected to the community, fluidity and Calvinist work ethic of both MIT and Black Flag praxis; and most succinctly, on their immediate left, in a proof of one of Edward Wadsworth’s 1918 woodcut illustrations of a Dazzle Ship — a war artist recording the eminently practical abstract camouflage used by the British navy in both World Wars to confuse and delay the enemy’s recognition of their target.

Further along this line — over to the right — the Bic logo, or ‘stylized schoolboy’s head’, heralds a whole other collection of symbols and their parallel, shrinking definitions. Originally conceived as a kind of modern type specimen in 2006 for Dot Dot Dot’s house font ‘Mitim Gamma’ (which collects and relates a number of obscure literary, mathematical, scientific and other idiosyncratic symbols), its co-authors Radim Peško and Louis Lüthi reformtted it as an A0 screenprint, where the smaller paragraphs were finally readable. This explains its scale and latitude in relation to the other items. Again the piece contrives to shadow aspects of the whole — the various binaries of image and text, evidence and explanation, form and content, surface and depth ...

The collection has become unexpectedly dominated by pairs, doubles and juxtapositions — as already noted with regard to the buses, the Mallarmé/Broodthaers pages and MIT/Black Flag logos, but which also defines Chris Evans’ dual airbrush portraits of Mark E. Smith and Wyndham Lewis from 2005, originally commissioned to illustrate a couple of interchangeable biographical texts (the newer Lewis one based word-for-word on the older Smith one, as a comparison of apparently kindred spirits); as well as the adjacent portraits of Benjamin Franklin — on the left a classic 1783 engraving which introduced David Reinfurt’s compressed account of Franklin’s wide-ranging activities as ‘Post-Master’, and on the right the same image on a U.S. dollar bill, under scrutiny for forgery in 2006, which accompanied the same writer’s account of fake North Korean ‘Super Dollars’ two issues later.


In Munich, during a public 'Disambiguation' (DDDF) of the previous installment, Jan Verwoert pointed out an apparent contradiction involving transparency and opacity which still feels like a key to making sense of the various forces at play here. To reiterate, both publication and collection stand to perpetuate an independent, self-critical tradition of modernist attitude. Founded on the inclination to understand and relate how things work — including vested interests — this reflexive impulse works towards exposing the mechanics of form. All of which is grounded in social, moral and ethical purpose — or again Themerson’s ‘good manners’. Take the Isotype chart as one of the more obvious canonical (if still marginal) examples of this tradition, originally a panel in one of Otto Neurath’s inter-war travelling exhibitions which propagated social education on an international scale. Or in terms of pop culture, the design by Robert Rauschenberg for the first edition of Talking Heads’ 1983 ‘Speaking in Tongues’ LP — a plastic collage assembled from three acetate circles which combine with clear brown vinyl to form a full-colour image, as a concerted corollary to the album’s mesh of glossolalic references (itemised by Sytze Steenstra in an early Dot Dot Dot piece on ‘Getting the “I” out of design’). And most transparent of all, Hipgnosis’ watershed 1978 album cover for XTC’s ‘Go2’, with its deadpan deconstruction of its own conceit:

This is a RECORD COVER. This writing is the DESIGN upon the record cover. The DESIGN is to help SELL the record. We hope to draw your attention to it and encourage you to pick it up.

But equal to this transparency, Verwoert suggested, is the recurring attraction to the opaque — work which is distinctly obtuse, hermetic or sophisticated. Paulina Ołowska’s 2001 photograph of a performance of her ‘Bauhaus Yoga’, for example, whose accompanying text (a distinct component of the ‘work’ rather than a mere caption) notes the shared utopian ends of both schools; the remarkably considered dust jacket for Richard Hamilton’s 1992 book of writing, ‘Collected Words’ — a compendium of graphic styles, mediums, references and in-jokes, exhaustively compiled by Rob Giampietro in his own ‘Collected Words’ for Dot Dot Dot; Walead Beshty's 2008 folded paper photogram overprinted with 'test' elements from Adobe Photoshop in homage to work by Moholy Nagy that never existed; Chris Evans' 2005 graphic non-sequitir airbrush painting 'Fantasist', with no reason attached; and especially Ryan Gander’s 2005 ‘MITIM’ photograph, one of a number of works he based on the conceit of introducing into the English language a looping, conceptual word mirrored in its form as both a graphic and textual palindrome:

A newly invented word with a mythical etymology, a self descriptive word, idea or object. Deriving from the Greek compound ‘neophutos’ meaning newly planned, along with ‘mytho’ meaning mythical and ‘etymon’ denoting a words history (etymology) the word therefore refers to a word that describes itself: a word newly invented but with a false history that suggests it has always been in existence.

Having pointed out this simultaneous transparency and opacity, Jan wondered both (a) how to resolve this apparent paradox, and (b) whether it was necessary to do so. Here are the beginnings of a reversible answer, which draws heavily from his own ideas.

First, I would propose that Dot Dot Dot is opaque to allow access to the transparent. I have in mind two angles on the notion of exclusivity. One is that secrecy and obliqueness are used to deny certain parties (i.e. readers and audiences) access to information (i.e. art and other cultural detritus). While this is clearly negative, the same qualities could be considered positive if you accept that an understanding of cultural codes allows a form of initiation into a community, or rather a commitment to engage and participate with one. More simply put, this describes the difference between the immature and mature student, and could only reasonably be deemed negative if any interested party were actively refused entry by whatever metaphorical bouncer. The rainbow text that announces the ‘Invisible University’ functions on this principle. Originally a screenprinted poster made in 2005 by John Morgan for an ongoing project by architects David Greene and Samantha Hardingham, it itemizes — in deliberately clipped yet expansive language — a few working principles towards the idea of an independent school freed from the usual confines of institutions. It is a set of open statements around which to set up discussion against received wisdom and conventional practice. The rhetoric is enigmatic but not elitist.

But I would equally propose the opposite, that Dot Dot Dot is transparent to allow access to the opaque. Regardless of the efficacy of distribution, location or promotion, publishing or exhibiting are intrinsically acts of engagement. They are foremost gestures of connection, towards the sharing of ideas. If those ideas transparently articulated or exhibited are then considered opaque I would continue to argue that each individual piece of work (whether text, image or object) has its own specific demands regarding how much or little articulation it requires beyond its basic ‘pure’ state of existence. Any piece of work exists on a sliding scale between the generation and killing of curiosity, between under- and over-explanation, and each case demands fresh consideration, a return to zero. The apparent paradox Jan is describing is often understood as 'heterotopic', a term Michel Foucault borrowed from biology to describe spaces — mental or physical — where contradictions can co-exist. A Heterotopia presupposes a mechanism of opening and closing, which simultaneously allows access to a place and closes it off. According to Foucault the most adequate metaphor to understand this is the sailing ship, which is evidently not a paradox at all.


Dot Dot Dot’s abiding interest — over and above any particular discipline, medium or cause — is in simultaneously documenting and practising work about and through reflexivity, and the closest I've come to working out why is embedded in the following quote, courtesy of Albert Appel Jr. from his introduction to The Annotated Lolita (New York: Random House, 1991)

The vertiginous conclusion of a Vladimir Nabokov novel calls for a complicated response which many readers, after a lifetime of realistic novels, are incapable of making. Children, however, are aware of other possibilities [...] One afternoon my wife and I built a puppet theatre. After propping the theatre on the top edge of the living room couch, I crouched down behind it and began manipulating the two hand puppets in the stage above me. The couch and the theatre’s scenery provided good cover, enabling me to peer over the edge and watch the children immediately become engrossed in the show, and then virtually mesmerized by my improvised little story that ended with a patient father spanking an impossible child. But the puppeteer, carried away by his story’s violent climax, knocked over the entire theatre, which clattered onto the floor, collapsing in a heap of cardboard, wood and cloth — leaving me crouched, peeking out at the room, my head now visible over the couch’s rim, my puppetted hands, with their naked wrists, poised in mid-air. For several moments my children remained in their open-mouthed trance, still in the story, staring at the space where the theatre had been, not seeing me at all. Then they did the kind of double-take that a comedian might take a lifetime to perfect, and began to laugh uncontrollably, in a way I had never seen before — and not so much at my clumsiness, which was nothing new, but rather at those moments of total involvement in a non-existent world, and at what its collapse implied to them about the authenticity of the larger world, and about their daily efforts to order it and their own fabricated illusions. They were laughing, too, over their sense of what the vigorous performance had meant to me; but they saw how easily they could be tricked and their trust belied, and the shrillness of their laughter finally suggested that they recognized the frightening implications of what had happened, and that only laughter could steel them in their new awareness.

I could carry on itemizing here — the recurring censor lines, the monochromes and rainbows, the reversals and mirrors — but I’d rather contrive to tie this up with that inverted text in the purple field below the Black Flag logo. This is an image of a screenprint stencil, conveniently hung by its frame back-to-front. The text is an old Esperanto slogan: ‘Logika, Neutrala, Facila’ (Logical, Neutral, Easy), which originally supplemented Paulina Ołowska’s 2002 billboard campaign ‘Ci vu Parolas Esperanton?’ (Do you speak Esperanto?) in an early Dot Dot Dot. At the time I’d naively assumed such sentiments effectively described the magazine too, but now I’ve come to understand it as being the polar opposite: ‘Mallogika, Partia, Malsimpla’ (Illogical, Biased, Complex).

In all previous incarnations of the collection I’ve tried to find two forms of balance: the first between presenting the group as an overall image and as a set of individual ones — preferably in that order; the second between letting the objects speak for themselves and labelling them — preferably in that order. Rather than a ‘hang’ or ‘exhibition’ or ‘collection’ or ‘print’ perhaps this thing is more accurately described as an ‘attempt’ (which happens to be the original meaning of ‘essay’). This is, then, merely the latest attempt, with the wall of objects playing out the first balance, and an eponymous book of the founding texts playing out the second. On each occasion the items' arrangement can be accounted for by calculus — this version recreates the former leporello magazine insert as a wall, with certain pieces pragmatically added or subtracted, and at this point I consider it simply, or complexly, the seventh provincial arrangement of a very particular graphic esperanto.


Stuart Bailey, Los Angeles 2009



DDDG follows previous incarnations of the idea at Tallinn, Chaumont, Utrecht, Lyon, Munich, and Aberdeen. With thanks to Roger WIllems, Sam de Groot, Mário Valente Almeida, Susana Sameiro, Jan Verwoert, and Frances Stark; the various lenders of the works past and present (Justin Beal, Paul Elliman, Chris Evans, Jason Fulford, Ryan Gander, Katrine Herian, Paulina Ołowska, and Stroom, Den Haag); with due regard to the original courtesies and permissions to reproduce these images in the magazine; and to the contributors who orginally introduced them (Justin Beal, Mark Beasley, Walead Beshty, Michael Bracewell, Gerard Byrne, Diedrich Diederichsen, Paul Elliman, Alice Fisher, Ryan Gander, Rob Giampietro, David Greene, Samantha Hardingham, Will Holder, Andrew Hunt, Louis Kaplan, Alex Klein, Kim Levine, Louis Lüthi, Eugene Menard, John Morgan, Neil Mulholland, Paulina Ołowska, David Osbaldeston, Mark Owens, Emily Pethick, Radim Pesko, Seth Price, David Reinfurt, Steve Rushton, David Senior, Mark E. Smith, Sytze Steenstra, Jan Verwoert, Jon Wilde, and Christopher Wilson).

The many references to articles in the text point to back issues of Dot Dot Dot, on this occasion collected in the book 'Extended Caption', produced and published by ROMA, which forms half of the exhibition with the wall at Culturgest, Porto.

The opening quote is from Stefan Themerson’s ‘General Piesc, or the Case of the Forgotten Mission’ (London: Gaberbocchus, 1976)

Posted 2 April 2009 16:16:42


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