Portrait of the artist as an ornamental abscess on the undead hand of capitalIn 1985, Thatcher crushed the miners’ strike and the Saatchi gallery was opened to the public. Between the settling dust and the spilt vernissage wine, what happened to contemporary art? Perhaps the politics of art died twice: in the neoliberal marketplace, passed between storage vaults and and private auctions, biennial bribes and Guggenheim franchises; and in the neoliberal psyche, of symbolic privatisation: of what Adam Curtis calls ‘emotional realism’, the all-out privilege of private over political, of … thinking smaller? In an era seemingly exempt from political possibility, even political memory, little wonder contemporary art took sanctuary in formalist meanderings, or else are going through the grassroots motions of localist radicalism. Sit back, it’s the end of history, what else to do but eat pad thai with your gallery friends? The conceptualist stand-in of the primetime stand-up, wheeled out for corporate gigs and cultural capital. Today’s artists are the neo-liberals par excellence, the eager grunt workers in that lucrative post-fordist business of immaterial labour. A global industry spinning out luxury investments, where no one really even expects to get paid. Artists and gays, said Richard Florida, send them swarming into the carcass of a decaying industrial town and they’ll leave it prime real estate all bone and ivory shining, and a capital of culture to boot: bring on the gated communities!

Addendum. What actually happened to institutional critique? Did it get paid off, or was it forced out; is it still gagged up in the attic? Or else it married rich, left the studio and collapsed on the poolside; flown in and out for the occasional leathery appearance on the biennial scene. Perhaps it just had its production outsourced like everyone else, to Asia, the Middle East, or South America - revolutions to be televised in white cube HQ when they’re good and ready.

Loosely licking his lips with the tasty treats that are about to be decapitated and sprayed across the page. The guts

and sinew still dangling out of the dripstained splattered corpse that lies beneath. Uttering the doubts and confusion of some simple troubles can often offer that trepidation and uncertainty that many avoid. But the era of outspoken, brash talk is among us. Say it simply with honesty and reverence and heaving spoonfuls of respect come flying into your face like an over-excited parent enthusing at an after-dinner recital. Some people aren’t happy, some people feel restricted, others feel flattered – do they champion change?

The opening of the green giant, ironically falling exactly fifty-five years since the death of Frank Lloyd Wright (who provided Guggenheim no flat walls on which to display art), saw great celebration, cheer, and highlighted a flourishing art school atmosphere upon the long-awaited return to Garnethill. But chisel deeply, we’re not finished. Start engraving the future, we can’t predict it. What students say, shout, exclaim, and indicate will sculpt the future of this independent Glaswegian institution – or at least it should!

The heating up of student politics, with the exit of a cherished president, will bring challenge, accountability, and a need for equal representation across all disciplines and departments. Is it hard to evoke a manner of knowing every grunt and groan from the needle’s pinprick to the jet-sprayed architectural walls? If anything is echoed, it’s that the balance between ideology, academia and experimentation needs to be addressed. Students long for and relish the excitement of doing things differently, but ideas need to flourish, scaling the hierarchy of bureaucratic channels. How do we accommodate the accelerated speed of feedback, improvement, and alteration? Amongst the technological age we can comment, like, share, and discuss within seconds and influence media, publicity, and adversity. Adjustment and amendment, however, takes a while longer. Championing students’ political views is just one piece of the three dimensional, endlessly altering jigsaw. Is it time for change, or has it already begun?

Swingin’ BUSH - ageing to senility in his private pantheon of aspirational mortals, with a tender touch and all. STUMPF - tapdancing in triangles, not just a bag o’ Ciara’s boyfriend! HILL 52 - good

Mingin’ LICK - it’s not spit, it’s from your mouth. yet it’s not sick either. THE FACT THAT the builders werent at the reid opening. LIZ LOCHHEAD - what was that? who are you? what are you for?

The NEXT MEETING will be on MAY 13th, 5pm in the UNION, and the NEXT DEADLINE FOR SUBMISSIONS is MAY 16th. Send us your work! - artschoolmagazine@gmail.com

CRAPULOUS SHAREHOLDERS OF HORIZON ABATTOIR Inc.

Slaughter: The Dealers

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FOLD is printed on recycled paper kindly provided by ARC.

24/0

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the big

big man

walked

in heavy strides

beneath his feet

the creatures

scurried

TAUT YOUNG ARTIST: I do a magazine at the art school, would you be interested in being interviewed for our next issue?

AGING BRITPOP MONOLITH:No, probably not.

all the littledevils

ride bounce on the hot tarmac

screeching

drown mein the loamy earth

eat the black soileat the black soil