It's time:

,

like you know it,,, don't even try. 

So,

I was

+

and that was


 

Jasiek Mischke:
You can not see my work by looking at my studio. It is just not there. 
The imperfection of the hand creates the wave.
This personal and time-specific action makes the work the work and is therefore interesting. 
I think by now I’m every curators worse nightmare.
When work is as volatile as performance it’s very easy to forget it ever existed, even for the maker. 
I like to slightly disrupt whatever is in front of me
The show itself, not the retrospect or the documentation is the work.
The work is not present it the object or text. The work is present in the moment of presentation. 
The problem with viewing static objects is that people still only want to see what is there and resist the possibility of a static object evolving in the mind
I always make things that stick in my head and need to get out. 
I have never before done an art perfromance. I have some experience in theatre, but that’s different. 
I don’t think he got it. I’m still not sure if anyone got it. I found it quite funny. But maybe it was childish. 

The man who tasted shapes

160 x 70 cm
Archival ink on HaneMuhle paper
(edition of 5 +1 AP)

Commissioned for the exhibition The Man who Tasted Shapes, 6 October - 5 November, 2010 at the Made in Goldsmiths Gallery(https://madeingoldsmiths.wordpress.com/), by curators Anca Rujoiu, Colleen Grennan, and Manuela Schulmpf from The Goldsmith Curating program. The first number of the edition is in the Artist Pension Trust Collection (http://www.aptglobal.org/en/Artwork/9986/The-Man-Who-Tasted-Shapes/Jasiek-Mischke).

The work is made with the help of Photographer Michael Heilgemeir (http://heilgemeir.com/)

Exposition at East Gallery, London
(2013)

Patrick - Performance at Rokeby Gallery from Jasiek Mischke on Vimeo.

There are all sorts of objects surrounding me. I might be at the point, already, that I have nothing more (left to say). I’m drunk. I wish I was drunk. I wish I had started drinking earlier. My name is Patrick (bateman). I’m an inconsiderate little fuck. Apparently I murder (people). Not for a living. Hell no. It costs me most of my hard earned cash. I work in some sort of (financial institution). I do mess with people. On a more abstract scale. I like my clothes. I love my furniture. Some of it does not make sense but it looks fucking great. I have the feeling that I have worked for so long. And still it is as if I have not really achieved anything. We had this talk lately. People were questioning the void. Fucking hell. Don’t you guys have better things to do. Stop being so freakin cute. Can’t you see the struggle. Not really, to be honest. I think it’s all.. I think stuff all the time. Fucking making things do. I’m wondering if you can relate to the stuff I want to share. I mostly want to share. I don’t really want to share. I want to make things come true. I want this state of … all the time. I want to elevate myself. I want you to fucking step out of my way. You numb me down. You make me sick. You are such a waste of space. Apparently my truth reveals nothing. Apparently things are pretty. Things repeat themselves. Keep doing so. Keep on. I never in my life have had such a problem pulling shit out. Opening up. Fucking exploding. Believing. I think I’ve seen you here before. You might even have affected me in some way. I know I might seem as if I’m made of concrete. You did affect me. You might have influenced me. How do I relate to that? How do you relate to that? Do you even know who I am? Do you even know my fucking name? What fucking grinds my gears? I sell stuff. I sell it to you. You take it. I’m your provider. You’re a taker. … I just decided not to continue on that line. I decided that I enjoy you laying on the floor. Only doing so for my pleasure. I decided that I don’t really know why I’m here. And I’m not talking in the bloody metaphysical kinda way. Just the pure physical here and now. In these shoes. On this floor. In this space. I told you my name. I also established my presence. I’ve established yours. I’ve decided I didn’t really want you here. I’m as fucking paradoxical as any woman can get. Have you heard the news? The latest events? Are you up to date? Then please tell me. I might not understand. I might not respect it. I probably just forget. I’ll probably muse about being somewhere else. Not that that does change the situation. Not that it will affect the way things go. Not here. Not now. 

Exposition at East Gallery, London
(2013)

parental guidance

failure to launch - sketchbook scans

Suhail Malik:
First of all the immediacy of your work is your strong point.
Your studio practice is a performance of a studio practice.
Your drawings talk about the act of drawing.
Your performances wonder whether they are a performance.
Your work reacts to its direct surroundings. 


Michelle Williams: 
Emphasize the futility and eradicate the apology. 
Your work is very honest, but that is in a way problematic, Since honesty in art is not common practice.
It might accidentaly be seen as a cynical joke, or quickly be discarded as not real.


Simon Bedwell:
It seems as if his biggest subject is the meaninglessness of art. 
All these little riddle’esque interventions make me think of Alice in wonderland.


Tal R
Once you achieve success in a work you have to repeat repeat repeat the successful element until it becomes your own, only then will you master the work. All else is a lucky mistake that anyone could have made. 


Hayley Newman:
(on the wavey lines) Those lines are like sentences without words. It’s your handwriting when you have nothing to say.
(on Patrick) This is a very good work, it is exciting to watch. 
I perceive a deep humanity in your work. 


Gail Pickering:
It strikes me as being a bit much, a bit of everything, loosely relating with each other, but never really getting into a real discussion.  A lot of works looks underdeveloped, not researched enough, it almost looks like he performs his research openly in the work (naked)


Jochem Hendricks:
You have it all together, you can talk about your work confidently, you’re very exhibitionistic. You will make it in the art world. 

Jasiek and the cute dog

130 x 120 cm
Archival ink on HaneMuhle paper
(edition of 5 +1 AP)

This picture of Jasiek and the cute dog was taken somewhere around London in 2012. Look at the cute dog and the posing Jasiek is doing — simply marvelous. 

The work is made with the help of Photographer Michael Heilgemeir (http://heilgemeir.com/)

Signing my book


Performed on June 10 2011
At 176 Zabludowicz collection, London

Jasiek Mischke - Signing my Book  on Vimeo.


Less than 24 hrs from now I'm going to read this piece of paper to you.

I'm in the most generic fucking place I could be. There's pretty guys, hopefully gay, sitting around with portable computers of all sorts. We're all drinking coffee. Some cinema goers or hopeless enthusiasts sit sprung amongst us. Enjoying the bohemian atmosphere of all these writing young men. For a long time I sat across a white T-shirt, short dark hair, healthy skin-colour with actual muscles. I bet it's film, TV or advertising he's writing for.

I'm writing for you. Hung-over with pen in Moleskin. How authentic. I must be good. You know I'm good. I'm nasty good. I'm as good as they come after a long and painful night. I feel better than white T-shirtman. He's writing for a pitch. His writing is commercial. His writing equally important as the vacant expression on his generic face. I'm not angry. I'm just sitting. Being distracted by the couple. Middle-aged – the worse age – the desperately naïve and un-ambitious age. They talk rubbish and drink English Breakfast. Maybe Earl Grey for him. He did a delivery on Regent street. She listens and calls out the names of a few shops on that street. To prove she does remember something. To prove her vocal cords still work. She's writing something on a piece of paper. Imitating me. You can't beat me you Bitch. I'm better. No-one will listen to you, in a converted church through a wireless microphone sitting on hard old wood. They simply won't. You won't. I won't let you. He's laughing, and he should. It's the only way to make this situation bearable. They left. Woman with sunglasses and woollen hat takes their place. I don't think writer. I think ex-wife of actor. Hat to conceal her breast-cancer. Wanting to connect culturally again. Since sitting at home only makes you want to slit some veins, where-ever they are situated, or watch whatever t-shirt man has written. There's still 7 of us. The writers. Slowly being taken over by people eating macaroons. By people finishing their working day, People making noise and keeping pretty waiter boy from me. Making noise and resonating. Woman talks about inheritance. Loudly. Now we all know she's wealthy. Now we all know that her facial skin didn't re-strech itself.

I wanted to write this in the train, I'm writing this in a park. I'm inhaling the smoke of my neighbour. I'm struggling to allow my brain to complete this narration. I don't know where this is going. I should've asked for directions. I really want this. I want to seduce you badly.

I started to inhale my own smoke now. It's only 5 hours till I will read this text aloud. Builders are working on 1-2 bedroom flats next door. The kind of flats that have been forcing me out of my habitat for the last 10 years. The kind of flats regent-street-delivery-guy went bankrupt on. The kind that people rent imaging themselves jumping off the roof. Flats that are meant to lock you in. I'm the only writer here now. Started to type this text out. Since it's difficult to flip through my notebook and hold a mic at the same time. Difficulties that obstruct my creativity. Tapping on buttons, attached to my fingers. Unable to put emotion to the font. Being forced to reshuffle alphabets to create the scene I want you to see. It's pointless really. I'm like a circus dog. Doing tricks and hoping I'll get my treat. I can't do it. Times new roman. I'm imagining this text published on my blog. I'm imagining your mind wandering off. There's nothing here to make me wonder. I've entered a K-hole. Is there any writer left? I've managed to tear down everything I thought I was building. Replacing it with 1-2 bed's. Nice double mattresses. Duck feather duvet. 5 or 6 pillows a place to hide away. Sunshine slowly sipping through the curtains. Your aching back finally at rest. From this position the belly is hardly noticeable. Your legs ache slightly from the day before. Your hair sticks together and to your forehead. Your skin stretched around the few muscles you've got left. It's quiet and it's good. It's slightly sexual. It's where you want to be. Slowly caressing and holding firmly your pores erupting sweat. Your eyes are closed and your mind inverted. It's 10 hours since I've read this text to you and you don't remember who I am. 

x

“I really want this. I really want to seduce you.“

(from “signing my book” performed at 176)

I’m not an artist with a gallery, neither am I in the position to work towards a certain show. I do however have a constant art-production that not always needs to find its proverbial wall to hang on. I’m very honest, there is nothing more important to me than honesty. I think the strongest moments when this honesty and (sorry to be using this word) urgency come to light is during my spoken word performances. This is a medium that allows me the most immediacy, it allows me to react directly to what happens in front of me. My practice consists of drawings, sculptures, writings, textiles,,, All these works are connected. Maybe not on the formalist surface, internally they are all the same work. My drawings talk about the act of drawing, my studio practice is a performance of a studio practice, I approach my “dayjob” with the same methodology I think about a song-lyric or write a monologue. You can not see my work by looking at my studio. It is just not there.

Many years ago as a screen-print colour separator my job was reducing a very deep field of different hues and shades into as little colours as possible; to create the illusion of a deep colour range. This disconnecting of layers has been key to my understanding of how things are interwoven, merged. It’s a technique I now apply in reverse. I try to interweave as much as possible, layer a drawing or a text and let all elements intermingle, not to allow this process of separation. The weaving is continuous, it cannot really be finished, solely the paper can be full, the time can be over or the spotlights can dim. 

I am constantly researching, thinking, training and trying to connect to other artists and artistic media to learn as much as I can. This has been a path that has led me in very interesting situations. Over the last year I have been on the path to refocus and maybe even dare to go towards finding a careful definition of what it is that I see as being art. That I make art has never been a question. I believe that my interaction with customers in the bookshop I worked at was a performance. That it was a work. I believe a waiter bringing a plate from the kitchen to the table is doing a choreography. I’m tired of the justification processes and value judgements we push ourselves through. I think I’m working on a solution, I don’t know if it’s a question I’m posing or trying to create a critical mass situation that can instigate change. 

I allow my audience to choose their engagement, but I do ask to engage. At first I will always present myself or the work as quite naive. harmless... for it not to be too demanding. At this point you can still easily scroll past. Once I have started however, by using small nudges, socially acceptable cues and simple social techniques you are locked in. I've asked you to sit, to close your eyes, to accept that the sound of the outside world is now part of your auditive experience. For the next 10-15 min I am in control... 

x