Here was our art exhibition that set out to realize itself in advance of commodity reform. It was another moment where we had decided to risk the tenuous existence of our project so much more by attempting some sort of absurd material reality for it, wagering the results against the nothingness. This was especially true in comparison to the glory of our ideas and imaginings, which in this instance at least had nothing to do with any 'reclamation of cultural space' or whatever else, and which seemingly could have only been realized in the form of a certain lonely, unsung exodus, itself only being able to exist precisely because it was not celebrated, not recognized anywhere, not a threat to the necessarily ineffable avant-garde of it's own escape route; in sum a pseudo-exhibition instead of another moment of the reproduction in approbation of everything we had already abandoned in contemplation.

We exhibited a single book, the title and content of which, of course, being of no importance at this point to those who weren't in attendance. In fact, since it was not scheduled, nobody attended our art exhibition. It contained an utter absence of talent and great works, but it was a moment of distribution nevertheless. It sprouted up suddenly and vanished just as quickly, evading capture — a stone on the Go board, it knew in advance that it could never set itself up to be in atari, and thus with a decisive motion of the hand all playing pieces were swept off the table, sent scattering before pattern could congeal once more, and the chair was kicked in, the playing area overturned and the board ripped in two. It was simultaneously the most innocuous and revolutionary gesture that we had ever lived through.

There is an impossible situation, no exit, a sense of stillness and perhaps a total non-appearance of social dissonance, so we place ourselves in extraneous space — we will make ourselves and the irrelevance of our gesture the object at issue, we will do something, many things even, and we will not be registered.