Friends of Gaya
Gaya Ceramic

Made Wianta
Dec.20th, 2007-Jan.20th, 2008
A Solo Exhibition by Made Wianta

The demiurge turns demoniac to rip, slit, and slash the thin veneer of civilized society that dulls us into submission. He?ll stab, shear, cleave, rend, gash, chop, wound, jab, prick and amputate ? slicing and cutting to make us whole again. Alive.

In Sharp, he fucks us with fifty pierced phalluses, he cuts us into strips and eat us. Vomits and bites us again, to pierce our imbecile parents, legal hypocrisies, and slave-morality religions ? all the scaffolding we?ve erected to make ourselves flaccid, drained of strength. This is our safety: a tired vagina, a tired anus, sewed up by our daughter to keep the polluted seed inside. Sent home in tears. Something sharp is necessary.

The demon has a hard on. He has fifty hanging from the wall, each pierced by a cockring. Named, one for each of his friends ? mine will be named Aleko (Alex + kontol) ? because his violence is care. Love in death. Killing, power, strength. These were once life. We grabbed the intestines and sometimes disgorged them onto the floor. Now we have perusal and market analysis.

Like the old kings who sliced themselves to bits in ritualized regicides to revive the land, the demon does to the viewer what his razors and pins and swords do to the canvas. Cut, mangle, destroy, and make, in the end and almost by happenstance, beautiful.

Yes, sharp objects are both life and death. Without a sickle, scythe, and arrow we wouldn?t have eaten. Even forks and chopsticks. Our mind, sharper than any tooth or claw. Then I?ll put a shard of glass in your eyeball, bite chunks from your tongue, rip your testicles off with barbed wire. A meat cleaver to hack at your joints, so that quartered, like Damiens, you might live. Sleep on a bed of shattered bottles in the middle of the gallery. Wake up. Without a knife we neither live nor die. From the first snip of the umbilical cord ? and yes, our daily lives ? axes, saws, hooks, drills, razors to cut the little hairs. The arteries. Needles to patch clothes, to take medicine, to pass around filled with heroin and other people?s blood. A spoon to take out my eyes. Put my eyes in your pussy, the story?s moist ben wa balls. Upside down, hanged woman, smiling, cigarette in you mouth, can you jiggle my eyes from your cunt to your asshole and back? Can you make them dance? I?ll only believe in you if you can make them dance.

It started with a kris. Every man worth his name once had a kris.

When the demon was a demiurge, he created cosmic harmonies. But the balance for a stock portfolio is a nail. For sterile order is ecstatic anarchy. Once a year, who doesn?t need an orgy? Peace of death. Painful penetration of life. Wake up at three AM and fuck, suck, stick a finger in her ass so that she turns wondering what you want of her. As the Kama Sutra shows us how to bite and claw, describes the marks of love, so the demon turns manic. Maniac. To kill. To rape. To love.

We are hungry. Made Wianta won?t feed us. But he?ll show us how to eat and fill the body. First you take something sharp.

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