June 12th, 2012 / 11:11 am
Craft Notes

Masha Tupitsyn Do The New Sincerity In Different Voices

Emotions are no longer from people, for people, between people. For real people or real life. For real period. You don’t feel emotion: you look at emotion, you act emotion. You play emotion like another part. Emotions are now for the camera, on camera, between cameras. You don’t need a camera to live on camera. You don’t need to be an actor to be an actor.


PS – When considering a work of art, there is no such thing as sincerity because sincerity implies intention and intention is irrelevant at best and soporific at worst. Every action is a performance. You hurt my feelings. I didn’t intend to hurt your feelings. Nevertheless, my feelings are hurt. You broke my nose! I didn’t intend to break your nose! Nevertheless, my nose is broken. You slaughtered the entire village! I didn’t intend to slaughter the entire village. Nevertheless, the entire village is slaughtered. What matters is not what’s behind the event, what matters is the event. In other words, what matters is not the author’s intention behind the text, but the text itself. Am I being sincere? You will never know, in part because there is no such thing as “I” and there is no such thing as “you,” and in part because there is no such thing as “being” only becoming and this whole idea of sincerity is very unbecoming. We are each many. A swarm. Constantly in flux. Constantly changing. One performance after another. Some parts of what constitute “me” have no sense of humor; other parts vibrate ha, ha, ha, all day long. Some parts of “me” subscribe to every word I write; other parts only subscribe to some things; while other parts don’t subscribe to anything I write. Some parts want only to provoke; some parts want also to engage. Some parts care deeply; other parts could care less. “I am” a monster pretending to be “human.” (Hello Žižek!) How’s that for sincerity? No, I’m only kidding. No, I’m being serious. No, I’m joking. No, wait, I’m both! You see, all of “me” happens simultaneously; there’s no way to discern what is sincere from what is ironic and what is honest from what is bullshit. Every action is a performance. Though my parts may appear to coalesce, it is but an illusion. To believe in the coherent self is tantamount to believing the sun revolves around the earth. Sure, you can believe whatever you like, but just so you know: the egg on your face makes the whole room smelly.

PPS – Is it Mean Week yet? j/k

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