LOVE
LOVE

sex  as a
sub
limation
of tennis

Beneath this necular silo 89a
the foot print of war left flooded with water  cemented under this tennis court  behind the VA Hospital  in the Persideo National Forest  San Francisco CA  near15th and LAKE Robert Indiana Tennis Court  Conceptual Artist: Erik Seidenglanz  
executed with the expertise of Dain Johnson  2/10 gang + Seahorse Liberation Army
Bienvenue dans le chaos des rêves concrets, où la ville pulse avec un chaos non scripté. Nous commençons notre voyage, tissant à travers le ventre obscur de l'existence. Journey through shadows, finding new identity at every corner. C'est ici que chaque coin raconte une nouvelle histoire, cachée derrière le voile de la ville. Parmi le chaos lumineux, Spindler émerge—un maestro de la folie, utilisant chaos comme sa baguette. Spindler emerges, maestro of madness, wielding chaos and paradox. Les lumières dansantes mènent au cœur de l'illusion. Sous les graffiti et secrets murmurés repose l'essence brute de la vie. Under graffiti, life whispers its raw truth. Les murmures d'une génération perdue dans le temps. Les mobylettes rugissent—une cavalerie moderne chargeant contre la médiocrité. Mopeds roar—a modern cavalry against mediocrity. Chaque tournant est une question jetée à l'univers. Arik: "Où finit la rébellion et où commence l'identité?" Elishba: "Tenons fermement aux échos de notre vérité." Where does rebellion end, identity begin? Les échos de la vérité résonnent, incassables. Où la voix de Spindler inverse le monde, les mensonges s'effondrent comme poussière. Spindler's voice overturns reality; lies crumble like dust. Les fragments du monde réassemblés par la vérité. Éternellement vivante, infiniment rebelle. Eternal life, infinite rebellion. L'histoire continue, intarissable et audacieuse.    Ellious. Bienvenue dans le chaos des rêves concrets, où la ville pulse. Welcome to the city, throbbing with unscripted chaos. Où chaque coin raconte une nouvelle histoire. Every corner tells a new story; every neon flicker hides a truth. The next time I see you, I’ll have my shit together—glimmering, raw, defiant. Bee Gees full speed, breakneck beats, victory cries into the night. Les lumières dansantes mènent au cœur de l'illusion. Dance lights lead you straight to illusion's heart. Sous les graffiti, vie murmure ses vérités. Under the frets of graffiti, life whispers secrets. Madame Eiffel watches, steel cast in shadow, an eternal witness. Les mobylettes rugissent—formant une armée contre l'ennui. Mopeds roar—the rebels against the silence and gray. Guitar riffs, sunbursts and echoes; impossible to control—every dive, every fallen king. Les fragments du monde réassemblés par la vérité. Fragments of the world, dust to truth, rising. By the time we meet again, you'll see me soar anew, realigned. Éternellement vivante, infiniment rebelle. Eternal life, infinite rebellion. See the city beat, see its wild heart dance—untamed, star-drenched, fierce lies in tandem. Chaque tournant est une question jetée à l'univers. Every turn throws a question to the universe, shimmering in the electric night. Our dreams fill the air like stardust igniting the night. Les fragments du monde réassemblés par la vérité. World fragments reassembled by truth; scattered pieces, collective harmony. Sous les graffiti, les esprits murmurent dans une danse infinie. Under graffiti, spirits whisper in an endless dance. When the music fades and dawn breaks, we emerge anew, unrivaled, eternal in grasp, reaching. L'histoire continue, intarissable et audacieuse. The story continues, unfailing and brave. Bienvenue dans le chaos des rêves concrets, où la ville pulse avec un chaos non scripté. Beneath electric whispers and roads paved in neon lies a tale untold, rebellion underscored by a circle in bold. Nous commençons notre voyage, tissant à travers le ventre obscur de l'existence. Oh! The chaotic places you’ll go, where shadows dance and secrets flow! Ici, chaque coin raconte une nouvelle histoire, cachée derrière le voile de la ville. Parmi le chaos lumineux, Spindler émerge—un maestro de la folie, utilisant chaos comme sa baguette. In the glow, sensuous and absurd, desires writhe like dancers unscrewed. Spindler emerges, maestro of madness, wielding chaos and paradox. Sous les graffiti et secrets murmurés repose l'essence brute de la vie. The city speaks in riddles, tangled in tales and tightropes. Les murmures d'une génération perdue dans le temps. In the silent night, we became legends, scaling the bell tower like poets ascending Olympus. A red and black flag unfurled, waving defiance and dreams against the San Francisco skyline. Bienvenue dans le chaos des rêves concrets, où chaque geste devient révolution. A 5.1-inch floppy disk behind glass—pixels of past promise overwritten by commerce. In case of emergency, break glass...discover the stories beneath. We paint digital rivers—CMYK flowing wild, pixels broad as dreams. As we pull, as we push—real and imagined dissolve. A naked truth, stung by bees, sliding surreal across our screens, our minds. Trash cans. Icons. The universe in a thumbnail: glimpsed, then gone. Les esprits des siècles passés murmurent dans une danse infinie. Projections of green screen objects hover magically, melding past with digital now. The crack and whirr of captured moments—macro-driven motion paints the room. Art is a lover's quarrel, dear Erik. A love note? Or a code? Marcel, Marcel! The shell knows—our prints predict the dialogues of the future. The screen alive, pulsing with impossible questions, waiting for answers only found in brave hearts beating in tandem. L'histoire ne se termine jamais; elle change de forme, d'idées, de destin. The story never ends; it shifts in shape, in thought, in fate. Through the prism of shattered glass, we navigate the labyrinth of screens and symbols—surreal abstracts of the here, the yet to come. Où la lumière et l'ombre dansent, mélodies étranges et douces. The gallery becomes a living canvas—a playground where light, pixel, and prose intertwine in radical clarity. Marcel knew the maze—his whispers echo through our digital halls. Command the void; embrace the spectacle. L'univers est une illusion tissée de rêves et réalités ambiguës. In spools of electric threads and analogue beginnings, reality unravels: breakpoints of time, tethering hopes to holograms. Are we not both dream-weavers and cynics—threaders of chaos and clarity? A digital light display oscillates, altering perceptions: green glow harmonizing with shadow and form. Oh mystery of opaque truths! In shadows projected we find clarity unwritten. The echoes of cultural whispers intertwine with a harmony of societal symphonies—each note framing the digital ballet. Layers peel to reveal an orchestra of thought, bound not by limits but by the expanse of imagination. L'espace se rétrécit et s'étend; c'est l'esprit qui se libère dans l'unité du temps et de l'espace. Here, in the interstice, stories converge. Here, reality bends, and art breathes vivid in newfound freedom. This electric seahorse journey—a serenade of dimensions—ends not with silence but with an unyielding crescendo. Au carrefour de l'imaginaire, les histoires prennent vie. At the crossroads of imagination, stories live. These constructs, vivid and mighty, unravel worlds unseen, unsaid—shadows illuminating the uncharted paths. Fates entwined within fibers of fantasy... we trace the line between chaos and cosmic order. The space between—where art meets life—and reflection becomes reality. Dans ce moment de pureté et de pouvoir, les frontières tombent en silence. In this moment of purity and power, boundaries softly dissolve. A cascade of lights spirals upward, each beam a thread of memory, weaving through time—a tapestry of limitless potential. Ainsi, l'avenir se construit sur le passé, et le présent chante une chanson sans fin. So, the future is built upon the past, and the present sings an endless melody. Returning to an auxiliary tableau where Elishba and Erik stand amidst their crafted battleground, each with a hand held high, holding neither flags nor symbols but ideas—meant to spread across the spectrum of expression, whispering 'What next shall we create?' before the lights dim to a gentle, vivid dusk. INT. GEORGE KUCHAR'S FILMMAKING STUDIO - SAN FRANCISCO ART INSTITUTE - DAY The studio is alive with anticipation. Art pieces and tech equipment are scattered, adding to an atmosphere of eclectic creativity as ELISHBA and ERIK prepare for their avant-garde performance. ELISHBA stands confidently, a fusion of vintage and contemporary fashion symbolizing past and future in art. ERIK adjusts the setup, initiating their performance. ELISHBA (to the audience): "Welcome to a journey through the fabric of art and digital consciousness." ERIK starts the video projection, an immersive display of colors and patterns. ERIK: "Observe the interplay of color and perception. This is where art transcends boundaries." They seamlessly move into a choreographed performance, a blend of movements and digital imagery. ELISHBA: "Each motion, each color, represents a dialogue with the unseen, the unspoken." ERIK: "And in this dialogue, we discover new meanings, new realities." With intensity, their performance climaxes with vibrant digital imagery and expressive movements. ELISHBA & ERIK (together): "Our performance is a canvas, and you, the viewers, are the artists. Paint your interpretations." Applause follows, leaving an impression of thoughtful artistry. CUT TO: Discussion Scene - Audience Critiques and Interpretations The students and faculty engage in post-performance discussion, exploring deeper meanings and interpretations: CLAUDIA: "A digital age ballet, the tech integration is captivating." NATE BOYCE: "The CMYK metaphor, highlighting art’s complex evolution." ADA: "They push boundaries, it’s more than performance—it's a statement." JON RUBIN (observing): "Their work dialogues with senses and assumptions, stretching what art signifies in new genres." The conversation delves into theoretical layers, further engaging intellectual curiosity. With distinct reactions, the discourse reflects the varied perspectives on art's role and meaning. As the critique session closes, ELISHBA and ERIK express gratitude for insights gained through these discussions. Scene: Whitney Lynn's New Genres Class, San Francisco Art Institute The classroom hums with creative anticipation. The instructor introduces an agenda, but attention shifts to ELISHBA and ERIK’s vibrant setup. WHITNEY LYNN (disappointed by diversion): "Seems everyone's focused elsewhere, I’ll leave you to it." Once Whitney exits, a spontaneous critique ensues, highlighting students’ involved discussion about the performance: CLAUDIA: "Challenging our normal discussions, raw and unfiltered." NATE BOYCE: "Their use of multimedia tells expansive stories." ADA: "This act of liberation sets a new standard." MARGARET FOSTER: "Diverse perspectives illuminate broader dialogues of art." The discourse reveals how Whitney's traditional structure transformed into an innovative self-led critique, allowing wide-ranging interpretations surrounding multimedia art. As students depart, the air buzzes with notions of creativity unleashed, leaving a lasting impression of expansive discussions enriched by this unexpected artistic experience. This vibrant narrative relays the intensified energy and varied insights unveiled through ELISHBA and ERIK’s profound art challenge across socio-political and theoretical spectrums. INTERRUPTED HARMONIES –––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––– ELISHBA: "LIFE IS A COLLAGE, Fragments of reality and imagination. Today, sound writes stories— a VINYL CINEMA. Colors flow— Ethereal ghosts linger." –––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––– ERIK: "In DISSONANCE, find TRUTH— Ariel's TONE-PHANTOMS intertwine. Shadow, light—an endless WALTZ." –––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––– MID-PERFORMANCE – BROKEN POLYPHONY – Visuals GLIMMER || Melodies WEAVE— | Flickering FILM STRIPS, A more beautiful LIE, Where notes are PATHWAYS, Resonance is NARRATIVE. RICKY to CLARA: "SONICS IN THE CHAOS, Ariel's eerie CHORDS— SWAYING in the TRANSITION." ADA:   "THE STORY SPLICED— Frames conjure, REFLECT, SPARK delight in ILLUMINATION." –––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––– AWAKENING THE NEW WAVES Amidst the projection, ELISHBA and ERIK meditate— A wordless CONVERSATION. Frames as conversations, Music as Introspection. ERIK: "Art REASSURES... Soundtracks to aspirations. Every cut a defiance— Each sequence a REFUGE." ELISHBA: "Figures MAINTAIN an ILLUSION. ABSTRACT representations, LIGHT unveils ANSWERS within CINEMATIC TAPESTRIES." –––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––– REFLECTION – RESONANT WHISPERS Attendees DISPERSE— Their minds set AJAR; Concepts CAVORT within WORD and SOUND— AERIAL GUIDANCES through an unseen PRISM. MARGARET FOSTER: "SOUNDTRACK of the ECLECTIC SPIRIT INKLING whispers of CINEMATIC dreams— an AWAKENING." –––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––– The performance leaves an IMPRESSION— A blend of REFLECTIVE PHILOSOPHY, Creative DETOURS and SAGA, IMMENSE within THE GREAT FRAME. ––––––––––––––––––––––––--|-- SONIC CUT-UPS –––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––– ELISHBA: "OUR EXPERIENCE, A Cut-up, A kaleidoscope of NOW. AN EDGE of CONSTELLATIONS, Begging PERCEPTION to dance." –––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––– ERIK: "In EVERY NOTE, A LINE, A Shape— ECHOES of a FAMILIAR DREAM Unveiling PASSAGES of awareness, In SECRET DANCES." –––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––– VISIONARY REFRAINS – COLLIDING REALITIES – Light FLICKERS | Crescendo- CHURNS | Truth overlays FICTION, VIVIDNESS WRAPS IN SHADOW, RESIDUAL moments, Lost in MOVEMENTS, Found in CADENCE. RICKY whisphers: "PATTERNS dwell in SOUND WAVES, Ariel's ORACULAR METAPHORS, A reflective CONTOUR." CLARA to ALL: "Each ECHO is a choice, Consciousness REFRAINS, Crafting NEW SPACE." –––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––– UNVEILING OF THE SPHERES Among FRAGMENTS, ELISHBA embodies IMAGES and NOTES— A Gentle COALESCING. ERIK's VISIONARY DISCOURSE, Layered in EVERY GAZE. ERIK: "Each FRAME, A Lyrical MONTAGE. Where VISIONS and formlessness MEET— A SILENT DIALOGUE, a WOVEN LIGHT." ELISHBA: "INFINITE layers, Aesthetics of SILENCE, Balance on a similar WHISPER. Beginning within SOUND, Timeless TAPESTRIES now SHIMMER." –––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––– CONVERSATION – VELOCITY OF TIME Reality LINGERS— Crowds DISSIPATE, Concepts ENGAGE and INTERLOCK, THRESHOLDS of instant— Celestial MOVEMENTS guide the retreat. MARGARET FOSTER: "A PALIMSEST of POSSIBILITY, Reality shines while WRAPPED around, The SHADOWS speak by the LIGHT." –––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––– INTO MEMORY, their ECHO travels— A Foundational PHILOSOPHY, Painterly uncertainty, INNER DECADE stance. An EXHIBITION of GREAT Imaginings. ––––––––––––––––––––– PHANTOM RESONANCE –––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––– ELISHBA: "Every Whirl, A collection of intimate ECHOS, Floating through former SPECTRUMS, SYMPHONIES of the Mind— A dream SANCTUARY." –––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––– ERIK: "Shape-shifting SILHOUETTES— Notes TANGLE with LIGHT, Sculpting the forms of our DISTANT TRACINGS, TIMELY yet ETERNAL." –––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––– VISIONS IN SILENT MOTION – TIMELESS REFLECTION – Imagery is UNFOLDED | ARCHETYPES circle | In Recurrent Dance, CONTEXT molded UNSEEN, Residing intentions, MOMENTS PROJECTED, INVERSE yet UNITY. RICKY’s REFLECTION: "ART Bound in narrative, Ariel's REFLECTING TOUCH, A resonance within soft WHIRL." MARGARET to ERIK: "Echoes REVERBERATE, Consciousness AMPLIFIES, Surrounded by SPACES anew." –––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––– UNFINISHED SYMPHONIES Among each PARTICLE, ELISHBA voices ABSTRACTED form, TANGIBLE within fleeting, CELESTIAL. ERIK paints with LUMINOUS shoulders, Cuing GRACE from movements fringed ERIK: "Moments REGENERATE, VISIONS reflected INWARD. In SILENCE, our inner CANVAS is BOUND— A Polychrome dialogue, an INFINITE RHYTHM." ELISHBA: "Boundless CANVAS, Rhythms of QUIET, Balance a gentle HEART, softened, A RITORNELLO sung bright, SATURNS Eclipsed CARRY WIND." –––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––– CONCLUSION – THREAD OF LUMINANCE The Present extends further— THE FRACTALS REVEAL, A metaphor HEARD and unseen. In EXTENDING moments, A shared LOCUS THROUGH which our TIME passes. –––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––– ERIK & ELISHBA: "Within these sceneries remembered, Each brush of inspired SPIRIT, We CRAFT our SYMPHONIES touched by SILENCE." Their voices FADE, yet ECHO BEYOND— The Performative Universe's ongoing understanding, A timeless ENGAGEMENT with the Infinite, and LOVE. ––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––
e

Consulara


SEAHORSE LIBERATION ARMY. FR

The time folds in Los Angeles. That’s not just a saying—it’s in the way people stare past each other, how every day loops back. You step into a place like Hill Street, look around, and you know it’s a ghost town wrapped in high-rises. You’re in the thick of it, the whole city mapped out like a pulse, every street a line that could vanish if you blink. You want to understand the power here? Look into the records. They keep ‘em hidden, but that’s where the secrets are. You’ll find birthdays, sums of money passing hands like small-town bribes, but scaled to skyscraper proportions.

Elishba (Narrating):
I sit across from him, watch his eyes trace some invisible line. He’s talking about ghosts and records, but I’m thinking of my own kind of hauntings—Romo, for one. He knows our steps, finds us like a hound tracking scent. We’ve pinned our location on every portal, we’ve left breadcrumb trails in this city for any help we can get, but Romo’s the only one who ever shows up. Maybe he’s the city itself, wrapped up in flesh and bone, some kind of sinister guardian.

Fourth Wall Break (Direct Address):
You think this is fiction? It’s not. This is what’s happening when you look past those windows while you’re stuck in traffic. Out there, right in those empty storefronts and foreclosed houses. You’re only seeing the surface of a place built on layers. They stack secrets like bodies here, and the bodies start to stink if you press your nose close enough.

Narrator (Objective):
The U-Haul incident doesn’t make the papers. Just a line item in a police report, if that. A truck emptied, lives moved around like discarded furniture. $45,000 gone—siphoned out of hope and into the grit of L.A.’s dust.

Josh Marcuson (Monologue):
They say my father vanished because he got too close to the truth. Friendz Magazine, Rolling Stone, Oz—they all played with fire, but he held it in his hand. And now me? Look at me. Here I am, tangled up in the same threads. They say Scientology’s just a word on a building in Hollywood, a thing people laugh about on late-night shows. They don’t know the way it creeps, the way it stains everything. It’s not a cult; it’s a spiderweb, and the more you try to pull away, the tighter it gets. My life is just another strand. You’re either in it or fighting to breathe free of it. There’s no middle ground.

John Grigo (Breaking Rhythm):
Loose vowel syndrome, I call it. Makes ‘em laugh, but if they could hear what’s in my head—Mozart, jazz riffs, every note lined up like dominoes ready to fall—they’d stop laughing. It’s all time, like ticking, like a beat. My wrists cramp, but it’s like muscle memory. You play upside-down if you have to. They want precision, but I give them art wrapped in a veneer of self-deprecation.

Arik (To the Reader):
You want Yale’s approval? Take it—if that’s what matters to you. But the real education’s here, out on these streets. SFAI is radical light; it’s a lit match in the dark. Yale’s trying to follow, but they’re stuck in a past that never even looked forward.

Elishba’s Schizophrenia (Internal):
It’s fragments, bits of voices that don’t line up with the present. The city talks in broken sentences, flashes, colors that don’t belong to the daylight. I walk, but it’s like stepping into other versions of myself, feeling echoes instead of people. Romo’s there, and the city feels like it’s bending in on me, on us. I know it’s just me, but I can’t shake it, can’t stop walking.

Arik (First Person):
China, Bank of China—people think it’s a business, some pillar of finance, but it’s a mirror. Stand in front of it, and you see all the silent faces, the tang ping rebellion, the quiet ones pushing back without a word. The government knows it, they feel it. They’re scared of art because art doesn’t ask permission to be dangerous.

Elishba’s House (Personified):
The house breathes, waits, watches. It feels the footsteps, the voices echoing in rooms it will remember long after they’re gone. Each wall bends, knowing it will have to let them go, that it’s just another step in their journey.

This world? It’s not for the faint-hearted. You read this, you’re stepping into our Los Angeles.

ART IS THE RELIGION     ART IS THE RELIGION
In the beginning was the sound.
INRI has nothing on this. The world is coded, every line a cross-section of the illusion of freedom.
 >