This text should support the series of autistic profiles of the art TV čok. This time about Jan Turner. I wanted to write a text which would be as aimless as intentions of audiovisual materials’ authors. The text will have neither end nor beginning and I will arrange my thoughts so that you will have to read it at least three times only to find out I simply wanted to say what I had already said. The film is great. When I was watching it aloud behind the wall, working people from the other side of the wall would come in amazement asking me what I was watching and what the gentleman was saying. When I was watching something else, they just went on working without any sense.
Jan Turner is a member of the Maxistry of Culture of a state failing on the axis of evil, a moonlighter, musician, artist of today and he is also friends with Sláva Sobotovičová. This information is crucial for the film. Because they both agreed they would appear in their profiles so that the viewers would suspect they have no idea about art and they had to make up excuses about their work at the very last moment. They try to appear as impractical lubbers even when carrying out their own hobbies. Turner presents his bulb masssage practice as a bruise making torture chamber and the gardener Sobotovičová spades a seebed wearing a shining white shirt and designer jeans after she was able to recognize on camera just radish. (I recommend you watch it) It’s a game they are both good at. The are both pretty aware of what they’re doing and they discuss their genuine intentions secretly in pothouses.
Jan Turner is the only Czech conceptual artist who knows how to create contemporary artwork. It’s necessary to make it worse and not to aim to create something bettter. The work has to be ridiculous at first sight to both experts and amateurs. But it has to make them chill when leaving the gallery and appear in their dreams. Pomp and demanding characters don’t exist anymore. It used to work for sometime but it doesn’t anymore. Today’s production of Irwin, late German post modernism, antemortem Nitsch and all the series of Rudolfinum decadences, if we are to stay at home, is ridiculous today, because it has all tried to chill us by this hardening mud of decaying temple stupidity.
Above all, don’t ruin your life by art. There are many other things you have to take seriously and art is there just for joy and pastime. It has to please the author as well. A desperate author is primarily a bad author. The thing is to convince the curator and gallery owner that everything you found in the street or took to you kids belongs to the gallery. If it comes off, you are home and dry because it will always look better than anything Humhal has ever racked his brains with, David has gone over for months with his students, Kolíbal has used up half of a forest on and four Díaz assistants have polished in vacuum.

It looks like that:
JT: We can put it there as well.
KG: It looks like a bin liner. And there are plastic cups.
JT: Yeah.
KG: Is it for litter? Can people throw litter in it?
JT: No, they mustn’t.
KG: But what if they throw cup from beer in it? It looks exactly like a bin liner full of litter.
JT: Well it sometimes happens but it shouldn’t.
KG: Then we have to put it there so that they won’t throw it in. On the plinth?
JT: Yes, that’s a good idea. On a huge plinth.

Lets confront for example Kotík’s technically demanding and impressive audio installation Hail to the Chief compiled from three amplifiers and nine loudspeakers „horns“ Marshall with a brightly done symbol of the American president on each of them with Turner’s silent turquoise noname combo, an amplifier as a matter of fact, and a badly hacked wooden lump placed on it, a skull, originally made for kids for playing pirates. An intelligently beautiful thing next to something which is simple-mindedly ugly. And yet Kotík’s expended energy on the installation hasn’t made good use. Today it’s just a demonstration of a good political activism and Turner’s pile is simply nicer. It’s not any activism. It’s art.

A stick swinging among forest trunks is a challenge for film makers. It will soon appear in Twin Peaks and filthy horrors taking place in countryside. But yet it’s nothing for wealhy men with a ceramic cat on their terrace. Dalík, a boss of all lubricated lobbyists or Badalec, a leader of all broke and homeless people may swing it in the forest. But it’s brilliant. Turner came up with it and it can’t be denied. Ceramic cats are everywhere.
Jan Turner is together with Aleš Havlíček also an author of the Brown Book which is prohibited. You can get it under-the-counter and only in brown polythene so that the filth doesn’t leak out which means you will be often taken in and Jan Saudek will be there as well. Turner’s friend Sobotovičová promotes the book saying: „Nothing can be dumber then the Brown Book which is a feat, but it can’t be sufficient of course. Important is, that in the mass of pus and vomit, when you abandon your distaste, you will have a great fun and (I found helpful to lean back slightly when shocked) you may gain even more from it.“

I append an extract for revelation as it’s difficult to get the book „Halík is reading Koran: „this is such dogshit, Upík must have written it with Jandak’s cock“ he says. Suddenly Allah appears to him and he says: „You incredulous fucker, read your puked Bible of queer Apostles and fuck my mohammed Upík, you crusade twat“ and he disappears. This happened on September 11th ,Tomík has written down. They found tachecí, cikrt and muf the God. Muf says he will show his cock. Cikrt tries to stop him, but it’s too late. Muf is standing in front of the God with all the trimmings and his cock sticks out like a fir. I like it, you little lecher, says the God. And now wank it. And you cikrt show your ass and let mee look in it. And what about me? asks tachecí. You just wait, you whore, says the God – the Creator.
Cikrt builds a rocket from dung and wants to fly from Vatycan to africa. But first he has to puzzle out how many cunts pius II. has got. He guesstimates two. Right, says pius, you can fly. Cikrt flies, flies and meets halík’s potty in the heaven. Hi Cikrt, screams the pot his head off and dumps minced meat balls right on his speedometer. Now you fly as fast as shit, he laughs. You are more fun than a barrel of monkeys, says Cikrt. Cikrt moves Bartošová’s wardrobe, but he closed his nuts into the door. But there is Artík closed in the wardrobe and he gives him a blow job. „no wonder you want the wardrobe jirka, it’s super.“ says Cikrt to Pomeje who’s getting into another wardrobe and waiting for Cikrt to move it away.”

but you can buy it here

Ivan Mečl

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