Andrew Hibbard

Eggplant, Banana, Super Glue

In my current course of NHS-furnished Cognitive Behavioural Therapy, I have been told to filter out my negative thoughts, to become aware of building a mountain out of a molehill.

I don’t particularly believe in Cognitive Behavioural Therapy (in my undergraduate psychoanalysis seminar, I became convinced I was a Lacanian hysteric). CBT feels like a lot of clichés inching toward the worst form of mindfulness. But I increasingly feel like the cliché might be the most important form of knowledge. It’s probably wrong to summon Audre Lorde in this context, but I do believe she is right. “[T]here are no new ideas. There are only new ways of making them felt, of examining what our ideas really mean (feel like) on Sunday morning at 7 AM.” That even holds for the most trite of ideas.

I bring this up because I’ve recently been thinking a lot about my relationship to art. Something that has always plagued me is the necessity to fit into a taxonomicstructure of the art world: artist, collector, critic, curator, dealer. My education in critical theory made me uncomfortable with all of these labels, despite being trained as a curator (or so my degree says). My CBT toolkit would suggest that I should bemore confident, that instead of focusing on how I have failed to fulfill some idea of these taxonomic structures, in some regards, I should focus on my successes, what I have done. I do curate and write things sometimes, ergo, those are my places in the taxonomy.

This presents the problem to me of what to contribute to this context. What have I written that hasn’t made it’s way into the world. Or photographed? I take a lot of pictures of dogs, but those always make it out into the world somehow. But in fact, so much of the writing I do, we all do, is enclosed to Post It notes and emails and other private channels. This is the way I am most a writer. And the thing I write about most is food. I’m constantly worried about what to eat. My dear friend Janique loves to ask me “what are you having for dinner?” “What should I make for lunch?” As we like to say, this is a question of great intimacy.

My interest in food might come across as some millennial cliché, but I do see that food has been an indelible aspect of my identity and cultural expression. My grandmother immigrated to the Boston area from Newfoundland in the 1940s, and my aunts and uncle would always tell me how they had to schlep to Wilson Farms to get the produce and dairy and meats. As my mom would say, “we were poor” [more accurately, upwardly mobile lower middle class] “but we always ate well.” My grandmother believed that preservatives were going to be the death of America. She was probably right.

I realized recently that the thing I write the most is grocery lists. I have a document of my pantry essentials. I have a master grocery list. And then I have the list “Grocery TODAY.” I don’t much believe in the Hans Ulrich urgency model, but the capitalization of that list suggests that while the exhibition model might lack urgency, my groceries have it deeply. My list, and its completed items, are my own Sapphic fragments to my sustenance and luxuries. It is a deeply personal text, less personal than my receipts or a stool sample, but autobiographical nonetheless. Like my mother and grandmother before me, I insist on eating well.

This list is also full of shame for all my purchase of carbonated water in plastic bottles.  And its ellipses are many – chocolate likely doesn’t appear because I dare not not have it. I wish this list could be time-stamped so it could show the changing seasons, and also to show how some things linger constantly unchecked, not as necessities, but signifiers of what I hope to eat and never do, horizons of a better life. But I should remind myself that, like poetry, ricotta is not a luxury.

Andy Graydon

Schnitzeljagd [Scavenger Hunt] 2013/19

Schnitzeljagd was taken on my hunt to retrieve the results of an art fabrication process that was part of my film and installation work “The Findings.” I asked a fabricator in Berlin to create a work based on a short piece of text from the film, a description of a mysterious object. Their response was to put me on a ’scavenger hunt’ for a box hidden in a locker somewhere in Berlin, which contained a map, and a spinning top that drew a line for walking on the map. I then found the site marked by the map and took the walks that the top drew for me. I took photos all along this hunt, and this is a selection of those photos.
Schnitzeljagd, 2013/2019

Angela Washko and Jesse Stiles
A-SIDE: Machine Learning Elegy for Christine Margaret Blasey Ford from Her Written Testimony to the Senate Judiciary Committee
B-SIDE: Machine Learning Hate Poem for Fucking Scumbag Piece-of-Shit Brett Kavanaugh from His Verbal Opening Statement to the Senate Judiciary Committee

A-SIDE: Machine Learning Elegy for Christine Margaret Blasey Ford from Her Written Testimony to the Senate Judiciary Committee

I have been the mark
and I have been the messaged
the sexual assault

I do I do
I decided to
I do I did the decide
I do I decided that

I do I do I decided to do

I do I do I do I do
I had and I do I do

I responded to the sexual, the sexual assault

Exposing Mr. Kavanaugh
Brett  Pounded

the state of the decision of the house of the bed
the most sexual

the bed consideration
the experience of the bed and the heater
workers saved me.

I had to relive the sexual second
confirmed on the media.

Brett is not a person


the sext to the one on top
the rescuing of my family

I had to relay the assault
and the sexual exntnecttinnsn
consider themash

a counter
ashamed to the expression of the experience

I had the bed
I had the bed

I had the consideration of the bed
I had most of the bed

I did not up want that mashrood.
I wt.peeeearea

about the bed
the fear

the possibility
I had to relay the experience of
the experience of the bed

hard down this happened


I had been the mashed
the mashed

I do I do
I decided to drain the masher
and I do

I did not
I do I do I do
I have been the mark

the boy and the beer
Mr. Kavanaugh

in a couple of his messages
the details of the beer  
the letter

it was the bed friends of the sexual house
in a counter that you caused, Brett

with my life

so abhorred
the assault
the weight
the behavior
the bathroom

on the bathroom
to the ground

the assault that I did not understand
without consideration

because I file the assault,
you came out of the bed

the fascist moment
rips from the bed
Meat without a house

privacy bears into home
in the name of the bedroom

my boys of the bed
the sense of the Senate
the bedroom of the Senate
the bed

the presence
the sexual assault
without time, consequences.

next to speak
the masher

Senator Supreme Confidential
his year of porn

the valve of therapy
the reality of stairs.

Brett with his acting on fire
the beer,

the secure nominee stated constantly

Brett Kavanaugh discussed the bedroom.
I supposedly wailed in the Senate


I thought that I had my own heat
this tremendous insight

July 16, 2018.
Senator, run out my life.
hard to recall Mr. Kavanaugh's drunkman line.
the roles of my same hearing faced off
nominee drink

anxious, I recall

professional personal attacks

I had never never memories
the bed was hard to me to relive

the assault
the thing
the bedroom

the consequences
the trauma

the meds
the information
the experience
the letter

the details
the Senate
the President

the Washington Post violence
the assault in the room
coming forward.

coming forward
make my life.
Use my life.

I tried to describe the house
It was on emails,

and three drying from the bed
that bed post yells,

Brett, enormous drinkator
This tremendous trout

I had never, Brett
I was too afraid

heated by the assault without consent
the serious cut

the bedroom facts Furious

I am the  media,
he is not my boss
but the words,
first fear my boy.

B-SIDE: Machine Learning Hate Poem for Fucking Scumbag Piece-of-Shit Brett Kavanaugh from His Verbal Opening Statement to the Senate Judiciary Committee

Recall any one of the summers.

at the work of the committee
when I was a committee

at the calendars of the committee
and in the works of the committee
and when I was testing a committee

it was beer.
I was some of the reference in committee
at the house

with the littly new years  
the Service CountryCommittee

dead calendar
come in my mom
recall anything

we counted on this calendar
and this committee

in the law
sexually in the country

I’ll have 5 millions from the country
and some of the sexual school
sensitivities at the hearing

and confirmation of the
sensitive sexual sensitivities

The hearing was meant to terrorize the law

a crime of the committee
the confirmation of assault and the country

the man who also rises
i became ever beensidents.
Exposed, grade me.

Augumented Ashbooks
cross out the nation’s Past.

comments and the wind
for the confidence of my dad
for the mere American court senator
All for my own

the Democratic senate shows allegations
I attended and described

any summer of 1999

the judge
always said people judge
at the old high school

this committee on the weekends
they judged my fraught speed take
on the Square Clinton

highest merely stupid days
I attended my former old women by name.

Diseased listening.
And kind of talking too

the committee was the people
the people allegedly

the people’s allegations
at the party of the people
in the summer of 1982

I worked at the party
and worked in the football time
in the summer of these consequences
another point and statement

to the funder with this country.

low points
the people stand still as ever.
Perverts from 2008

Dull her fans
Of the summer of 1982

This government said the house is a committee
the last time of the media

for high school
They said

the preparation of the Democratic Committee
is not for this country.

In the summer of 1982

I will train real hard to do not this.
training the four law country.

back breath,
question of fact on nomination.
In me.

I was a background judge of the woman
on the lawn

and worked for the people
allegedly worked

and came to the committee
With my calendar

and the other  time
with the law calendars.

just a lot of the party of my former and my family.
And a girl
this I never sexually assaulted
there have been women

by some political assault
oh why was this started
this committee

you would clear me
the president is serving me
and my family

and my calendars.
last night,
confirmation for me.

And this is a thing,

your friends.
I think to be judge over the calendars.
I am.

That was 17 year times.

bubblesort is a semi-clandestine collaborative generative music and performance art project by Angela Washko and Jesse Stiles.

Our interdisciplinary project combines Washko’s practice of analyzing, scraping, re-presenting and re-framing found cultural materials for video, video games and performances with Stiles’ practice of making electronic music and generative algorithms to control sound, light, video and robotics.

Using politically charged texts as source material – we train machine learning algorithms on manifestos from a variety of ideological perspectives, speeches by feminist heroes and demagogue villains, books by controversial visionaries and more to produce poetic lyrics which sound like they are coming from a computer’s dreams.

The two texts submitted to this journal are poems produced out of this process. We trained text-generating neural networks on the transcript from Christine Blasey Ford’s testimonial letter outlining her experiences of sexual assault by Supreme Court nominee Brett Kavanaugh, as well as the transcript of Brett Kavanaugh’s verbal testimony to the Supreme Court Judiciary committee arguing against Christine Blasey Ford’s claims. The neural networks create their own new texts, pulling from the patterns and vernacular of the original source material – and we redact them into poems and then later manipulate them even more to produce experimental songs.

Normally these poems would not have a life on their own – but we thought that these two should exist as texts independent of other media.

-Angela Washko and Jesse Stiles (bubblesort)

 back to home ︎