Célines band (ROMAN) (French Edition)

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As if the People suddenly accessed the private quarters of a dictator, Junkspace is best enjoyed in a state of post-revolutionary gawking. Polarities have merged, there is nothing left between desolation and turmoil. Neon signifies both the old and the new, interiors refer to the stone- and the space age at the same time.

Like the deactivated virus in an innoculation, Modern architecture remains essential, but only in its most sterile manifestation, High Tech it seemed so dead only a decade ago! It exposes what previous generations kept under wraps: Transparency only reveals everything in which you cannot partake. At the sound of midnight it all may revert to Taiwanese Gothic, in three years segue into Nigerian Sixties, Norwegian Chalet or default Christian.

Earthlings now live in a kindergarten grotesque. Junkspace thrives on design, but design dies in Junkspace. There is no form, but proliferation Regurgitation is the new creativity; instead of creation, we honor, cherish and embrace manipulation Junkspace is hot or suddenly artic ; fluorescent walls, folded like melting stained glass, generate additional heat to raise the temperature of Junkspace to levels where you could cultivate orchids.

Pretending histories left and right, its contents are dynamic yet stable, recycled or multiplied as in cloning: Junkspace sheds architectures like a reptile sheds skins, is reborn every Monday morning. In previous building, materiality was based on a final state that could only be modified at the expense of partial destruction. At the exact moment that our culture has abandoned repetition and regularity as repressive, building materials have become more and more modular, unitary and standardized; substance now comes predigitized As the module becomes smaller and smaller, its status become that of a crypto-pixel.

With enormous difficulty - budget, argument, negotiation, deformation - irregularity and uniqueness are constructed from identical elements. Instead of trying to wrest order from chaos, the picturesque now is wrested from the homogenized, the singular liberated from the standardized. Architects thought of Junkspace first and named it Megastructure, the final solution to transcend their huge impasse.

Like multiple Babels, huge superstructures would last through eternity, teeming with impermanent infill that would mutate over time, beyond their control. In theory, each megastructure would spawn its own sub-systems, and therefore create a universe of rampant cohesion. In Junkspace, the tables are turned: All materialization is provisional: The joint is no longer a problem, an intellectual issue: Each element performs its task in negotiated isolation.

Where once detailing suggested the coming together, possibly forever, of disparate materials, it is now a transient coupling, waiting to be undone, unscrewed, a temporary embrace with a high probability of separation; no longer the orchestrated encounter of difference, but the abrupt end of a system, a stalemate.

While whole millenia worked in favor of permanence, axialities, relationships and proportion, the program of Junkspace is escalation. Instead of development, it offers entropy. Because it is endless, it always leaks somewhere in Junkspace; in the worst case, monumental ashtrays catch intermittent drops in a grey broth.

When did time stop moving forward Since the introduction of Real Time?

Change has been divorced from the idea of improvement. There is no progress; like a crab on LSD, culture wobbles endlessly sideways Junkspace is draining and is drained in return. Everywhere in Junkspace there are seating arrangements, ranges of modular chairs, even couches, as if the experience Junkspace offers its consumers is significantly more exhausting than any previous spatial sensation; in its most abandoned stretches, you find buffets: Each Junkspace is connected, sooner or later, to bodily functions: Because it is so intensely consumed, Junkspace is fanatically maintained, the night shift undoing the damage of the day shift in an endless Sisyphian replay.

As you recover from Junkspace, Junkspace recovers from you: Junkspace does not inspire loyalty in its cleaners Somewhere, workers sink on their knees to repair faded sections - as if in a prayer - or half-disappear in ceiling voids to negotiate elusive malfunction - as if in confession. Traditionally, typology implies demarcation, the definition of a singular model that excludes other arrangements.

Junkspace represents a reverse typology of cumulative, approximative identity, less about kind than about quantity. But formlessness is still form, the formless also a typology Or the vague crotches of the new generation. Junkspace can either be absolutely chaotic or freighteningly aseptic - like a bestseller - overdetermined and indeterminate at the same time.

There is something strange about ballrooms, for instance: Junkspace is often described as a space of flows, but that is a misnomer; flows depend on disciplined movement, bodies that cohere. Junkspace is a web without spider; although it is an architecture of the masses, each trajectory is strictly unique. Its anarchy is one of the last tangible ways in which we experience freedom. It is a space of collision, a container of atoms, busy, not dense There is a special way of moving in Junkspace, at the same time aimless and purposeful.

It is an acquired culture. Junkspace features the tyranny of the oblivious: Where movement becomes synchronized, it curdles: Flows in Junkspace lead to disaster: Within the meta-playground of Junkspace exist smaller playgrounds, Junkspace for children usually in the least desirable square footage: Like radioactive waste, Junkspace has an invidious half-life. Aging in Junkspace is nonexistent or catastrophic; sometimes an entire Junkspace - a department store, a nightclub, a bachelor pad - turns into a slum overnight without warning: Judging the built presumed a static condition; now each architecture embodies opposite conditions simultaneously: Because Junkspace is endless, it is never closed Say an airport needs more space.

In the past new terminals were added, each more or less characteristic of its own age, leaving the old ones as a readable record, evidence of progress. Since passengers have definitively demonstrated their infinite malleability, the idea of rebuilding on the spot has gained currency. Travelators are thrown in reverse, signs taped, potted palms or very large corpses covered in body bags. Screens of taped sheetrock segregate two populations: Half the population produces new space, the more affluent half consumes old space.

Introduction to Céline's Trifles for a Massacre | Counter-Currents Publishing

To accommodate a nether world of manual labor, the concourse suddenly turns into cashbah: The ceiling is a crumpled plate like the Alps; grids of unstable tiles alternate with monogrammed sheets of black plastic, improbably punctured by grids of crystal chandeliers Metal ducts are replaced by breathing textiles. Gaping joints reveal vast ceiling voids former canyons of asbestos? Impure, tortured and complex, they exist only because they were never consciously plotted. The floor is a patchwork: The ground is no more. There are too many raw needs to be realized on only one plane.

The absolute horizontal has been abandoned. Transparency has disappeared, replaced by a dense crust of provisional occupation: Their tenant life tends to be short: All perspective is gone, as in a rainforest itself disappearing, they keep saying The formerly straight is coiled into ever more complex configurations. Only a perverse modernist choreography can explain the twists and turns, ascents and descents, sudden reversals that comprise the typical path from check-in misleading name to apron of the average contemporary airport.

Because we never reconstruct or question the absurdity of these enforced derives, we meekly submit to grotesque journeys past perfume, asylum seeker, building site, underwear, oysters, pornography, cell phone - incredible adventures for the brain, the eye, the nose, the tongue, the womb, the testicles There was once a polemic about the straight line; now the degree angle has become one among many.

In fact, remnants of former geometries create ever new havoc, offering forlorn nodes of resistance that create unstable eddies in newly opportunistic flows Who would dare claim responsibiliy for this sequence? Instead of design, there is calculation: In this war, graphic designers are the great turncoats: Postmodernism adds a crumple-zone of viral poche that fractures and multiplies the endless frontline of display, a peristaltic shrinkwrap crucial to all commercial exchange.

Trajectories are launched as ramp, turn horizontal without any warning, intersect, fold down, suddenly emerge on a vertiginous balcony above a large void. From the sudden dead-end where you were dropped by a monumental, granite staircase, an escalator takes you to an invisible destination, facing a provisional vista of plaster, inspired by forgettable sources. There is no datum level; you always inhabit a sandwich.

Toilet groups mutate into Disney Store then morph to become meditation center: The plan is a radar screen where individual pulses survive for unpredictable periods of time in a Bachanalian free-for-all In this stand-off between the redundant and the inevitable, a plan would actually make matters worse, drive you to instant despair. Only the diagram gives a bearable version. That is the process that claims ever new sections of history as extensions of Junkspace. History corrupts, absolute history corrupts absolutely.

Color and matter are eliminated from these bloodless grafts: Can the bland be amplified? The featureless be exaggerated? Sometimes not overload but its opposite, an absolute absence of detail, generates Junkspace. A voided condition of frigthening sparseness, shocking proof that so much can be organized by so little. Laughable emptiness infuses the respectful distance or tentative embrace that starchitects maintain in the presence of the past, authentic or not.

Invariably, the primordial decision is to leave the original intact; the formerly residual is declared the new essence, focus of the intervention. As a first step, the substance to be preserved is wrapped in a thick pack of commerce and catering - like a reluctant skier pushed downhill by responsible minders.

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Conditioning is applied; filtered daylight reveals vast, antiseptic expanses of monumental reticence and makes them come alive, vibrant as a computer rendering Junkspace is post-existential; it makes you uncertain where you are, obscures where you go, undoes where you were. Who do you think you are? Who do you want to be?

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Anything stretched - limousines, body parts, planes - turns into Junkspace, its original concept abused. Restore, rearrange, reassemble, revamp, renovate, revise, recover, redesign, return - the Parthenon marbles - redo, respect, rent: Junkspace will be our tomb. Half of mankind pollutes to produce, the other pollutes to consume.

The combined pollution of all Third World cars, motorbikes, trucks, buses, sweatshops, pales into insignificance compared to the heat generated by Junkspace. Politics has become manifesto by Photoshop, seamless blueprints of the mutually exclusive. Rabbit is the new beef. Comfort is the new Justice. Entire miniature states now adopt Junkspace as political program, establish regimes of engineered disorentation, instigate a politics of systematic disarray.

Babel has been misunderstood. Language is not the problem, just the new frontier of Junkspace. Naming has replaced class-struggle, sonorous amalgamations of status, high-concept and history. Through acronym, unusual importation, suppressing letters, or fabrication of non-existent plurals, they aim to shed meaning in return for a spatious new roominess Junkspace knows all your emotions, all your desires. It comes with a soundtrack, smell, captions; it blatantly proclaims how it wants to be read: It sponsors a collective of brooding consumers in surly anticipation of their next spend, a mass of refractory periods caught in a Thousand Year Reign of Razzmataz, a paroxysm of prosperity.

The subject is stripped of privacy in return for access to a credit nirvana. You are complicit in the tracing of the fingerprints each of your transactions leaves; they know everything about you, except who you are. Emissaries of Junkspace pursue you in the formerly impervious privacy of the bedroom: Junkspace pretends to unite, but it actually splinters. It creates communities not of shared interest or free association, but of identical statistics and unavoidable demographics, an oportunistic weave of vested interests.

Each man, woman and child is individually targeted, tracked, split off from the rest.. Just as Junkspace is unstable, its actual ownership is forever being passed on in parallel disloyalty.

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As its scale mushrooms - rivals and even exceeds that of the Public - its economy becomes more inscrutable. Its financing is a deliberate haze, clouding opaque deals, dubious tax breaks, unusual incentives, exemptions, tenuous legalities, transferred air rights, joined properties, special zoning districts, public-private complicities.

Funded by bonds, lottery, subsidy, charity, grant: Because of a structural shortfall, a fundamental deficit, a contingent bankruptcy, each square inch becomes a grasping, needy surface dependent on covert or overt support, discount, compensation and fundraising. Junkspace expands with the economy but its footprint cannot contract Because of its tenuous viability, Junkspace has to swallow more and more program to survive; soon, we will be able to do anything anywhere. We will have conquered place. At the end of Junkspace, the Universal? Through Junkspace old aura is tranfused with new luster to spawn sudden commercial viability: Barcelona amalgamated with the Olympics, Bilbao with Guggenheim, 42nd with Disney.

A shortage of masters has not stopped a proliferation of masterpieces. Masterpiece is no longer an inexplicable fluke, a roll of the dice, but a consistent typology: Junkspace reduces what is urban to urbanity In the third Millenium, Junkspace will assume responsibility for both pleasure and religion, exposure and intimacy, public life and privacy. Inevitably, the death of God and the author has spawned orphaned space; Junkspace is authorless, yet surprisingly authoritarian The chosen theater of megalomania - the dictatorial - is no longer politics, but entertainment.

Through Junkspace, entertainment organizes hermetic regimes of ultimate exclusion and concentration Concentration gambling, concentration golf, concentration convention, concentration movie, concentration culture, concentration holiday. Entertainment is like watching a once hot planet cool off: Except celebrities - of which there is a dramatic shortage - we have added nothing, just reconfigured.

Corpotainment is an gallaxy in contraction, forced to go through the motions by ruthless Copernican laws. The secret of corporate aesthetics was the power of elimination, the celebration of the efficient, the eradication of excess: On popular demand, organized beauty has become warm, humanist, inclusivist, arbitrary, poetic and unthreatening: Not canned laughter, but canned euphoria Color has disappeared to dampen the resulting cacophony, is used only as cue: Junkspace heals, or at least that is the assumption of many hospitals.

We thought hospitals were unique - a universe indentified by its smell - but now that we are used to universal conditioning we recognize it was merely a prototype; all Junkspace is odor-defined. You used to face death in appropriate cells, now your nearest are huddled together in atriums. A bold datum line is established on every vertical surface, dividing the infirmirary in two: Junkspace is space as vacation; there once was a relationship between leisure and work, a biblical dictate that divided our weeks, organized public life.

Now we work harder, marooned in a never-ending casual Friday The office is the next frontier of Junkspace. Now that you can work at home, the office aspires to the domestic; because you still need a life, it simulates the city. Junkspace features the office as the urban home, a meeting-boudoir: Monumental partitioins, kiosks, mini-Starbucks on interior plazas: Globalization turns language into Junkspace. We are stuck in a speech-doldrums. The ubiquity of English is Pyrric: The collective bastardization of English is our most impressive achievement; we have broken its back with ignorance, accent, slang, jargon, tourism and multitasking Through the industrialization of language, there are too few plausible words left; our most creative hypotheses will never be formulated, discoveries remain unmade, concepts unlaunched, philosophies muffled We inhabit sumptuous Potemkin suburbs of weasel terminologies Abberant linguistic ecologies sustain virtual subjects in their claim to legitimacy, help them survive Language is no longer used to explore, define, express, or to confront but to fudge, blur, obfuscate, apologize and comfort Entire professions impose a descent into the linguistic equivalent of hell: Intended for the interior, Junkspace can easily engulf a whole city.

First, it escapes from its containers - linguistic orchids that needed hothouse protection emerging with surprising robustness - then the outdoors itself is converted: Then Junkspace spreads, consuming nature like a forest fire in LA The global spread of Junkspace represents a final Manifest Destiny: All the resurrected emblems and recycled ambers of the formerly public, need new pastures.

A new vegetal is coralled is for its thematic efficiency. The outing of Junkspace has triggered the professionalization of denaturing, a benign ecofacism that positions a rare surviving Siberian tiger in a forest of slot machines, near Armani, amidst an arboreal Baroque Outside, between the casinos, fountains project entire Stalinist buildings of liquid, ejaculated in a split-second, hovering momentarily, then withdrawn with an amnesiac competency Landscape has become Junkspace, foliage as spoilage: Seemingly at the opposite end of Junkspace, the golf course is in fact its conceptual double; empty, serene, free of commercial debris.

The relative evacuation of the golf course is achieved by the further charging of Junkspace. The methods of their design and realization are similar: Junkspace turns into biojunk; ecology into ecospace. Oxygen banks, Fort Knoxes of chlorophyll, ecoreserves as a blank check for further pollution. Junkspace is rewriting the apocalypse; we may die of oxygen poisoning.

The baroque complexities of Junkspace were compensated by the stark rawness of its adjunct infrastructures; parking garages, filling stations, distribution centers that routinely displayed a monumental purity that was the original aim of modernism. Now, massive injections of lyricism have enabled infrastructure - the one domain previously immune to design, taste or the marketplace - to join the world of Junkspace, and for Junkspace to extend its manifestations under the sky. Railway stations unfold like iron butterflies, airports glisten like cyclopic dewdrops, bridges span often neglible banks like grotesquely enlarged versions of the harp.

To each rivulet its own Calatrava. Airports, provisional accommodation for those going elsewhere, inhabited by assemblies united only by the imminence of their dissolution, have turned into consumption gulags, democratically distributed across the globe to give every citizen an equal chance of admission DFW is composed of three elements only, repeated ad infinitum, nothing else: Its drop-off is the seemingly harmless beginning of a journey to the heart of unmitigated nothingness, beyond animation by Pizza Hut, Dairy Queen Valley cultures are the most resistant to Junkspace: Duty free is Junkspace, Junkspace is duty free space.

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Where culture was thinnest, will it be the first to run out? Do wide open spaces demand wide open Junkspace? Public Art distributed across LAX: Memory itself may have turned into Junkspace; only those murdered will be remembered Deprivation can be caused by overdose or shortage of sterility; both conditions happen in Junkspace often at the same time. Minimum is the ultimate ornament, a self-righteous crime, the contemporary Baroque. It does not signify beauty, but guilt.

Its demonstrative earnestness drives whole civilizations in the welcoming arms of camp and kitsch. Ostensibly a relief from constant sensorial onslaught, minimum is maximum in drag, a stealth laundering of luxury: Its role is not to approximate the sublime, but to minimize the shame of consumption, drain embarassment, to lower the higher. Minimum now exists in a state of parasitic co-dependency with overdose: Museums are sanctimonious Junkspace; no sturdier aura than holiness. Monasteries inflated to the scale of department stores: Dedicated to respect mostly the dead, no cemetery would dare to reshuffle corpses as casually in the name of current expediency; curators plot hangings and unexpected encounters in a donor-plate labyrinth with the finesse of the retailer: All paintings based on black grids are herded together, compressed in a single white room.