It is like something is trying to be hidden, like being under the blanket with only our legs exposed to the outside world. But what is the inside world in such a model? Is it the smell of our sweating body? Or is it our mind being separated from the outside, meaning to be inside -therefore feels safe? Well, no, let us go back. Our legs are exposed, and from the outside, it looks like just the legs define the whole system. So the media of this particular setting is the legs. At that moment, you have to ask: is the inside system considering legs as the useful part of the art model or not?

The whole question about overlapping of medias is therefore the question of the perspective and the position of the observer. And it has nothing to do with the advantage of richness, or influence, or inspiration or exchange of the ideas, or mutual respect, or investigation of the media relationships, or… How it could even be such a case when everything in art is only the internal authentic moment of existence?

It is like trying to solve the problem if consciousness precedes being or being consciousness. Here you can see clearly the overlapping nonsense of such analysis. But let us go back under the blanket of creativity and work a little bit more. What is not seen (dark) we can preconceive as inferior, and what is in the sun, (light) superior? The naked legs are superior to the rest of our body which is being heated by the dark blanket. But some cultures prefer to feel comfortable and safe to be covered and separated from the weather changes.

So, do they prefer inferiority and slavery of the mind? And can you actually cut the legs from a body? How would the legless body move around any more, how would it go hunting for food, running down the hill to see the river of “the dead”, or running up the hill to see the rising sun and falling stars over the meadows of the world, or running from the tanks and guns of those hidden under the olive trees in the world valleys. How naive are those who are trying not to be overlapped and transparently clean, those who are trying to create and live their own personalized medium of art.

In other words, those who celebrate the division of the whole body but ignore that it is breathing in and out. Actually try to breathe now, try it please! Come on, breathe in, and slowly and then breathe out slowly my friends of non-unity and segregation. What is in must go out and vise versa. The ball of air inside your mouth is pushing out words and not hiding anything inside, leaving the mind empty and ready to accept the new breath of thoughts, to be filled by fresh air of words reflecting reality of the non real world, being and disappearing while keeping our blanket overlapping over our flesh, over our belly and showing our legs as the symbol of the escape from the moment of rest and immobility.

And again let us go back to the oppressed and not oppressed medias. Maybe at this moment we feel the urge to pull the blanket more in order to expose the breast and face so that we can forget about running, and we can anchor ourselves into the illusion of the self controlled and secure shelter. And during the rain we are asking, is the water better than the soil it is running on? Moments later, the water penetrates soil and our exposed naked nose can smell the fragrance of the fresh rotten and decomposed world. What was above is under and old man smoking his cigar and watching the colorful walls of Cuban houses, met me and other guests from Roxbury Community College. And when I touch his shoe with my tongue, and leach the old leather, I can taste the dust of centuries. Dust from the soil, dust from the trees transformed into the coal, dust from the rubber of tires of Skoda cars which drove from Europe on the water surface, dust from chewing gum glued on the surface of the New York subway floors being millions of times pressed by the shoes of dead- the shoes of the people running to their work every day and night, screaming and killing each other, crying in the moments of terrorist darkness when the electricity goes out, stealing the food hidden under the dark blanket of the homeless man sleeping with covered face under the stairs leading to the sun. And can I see if this old man has socks or not? Can I smell his socks or not? Can I know the color of his socks or not? Can I touch his sock in order to determine if it is cotton or wool? Can I listen to the harp extension of the threads of the sock fabric while he is walking?

But let us go back to the lying body and dirty blanket. In about one hundred years, the eyes are opened and art initiates the social change. The little finger moves from point a to point b, the paper flies in the nearby street not knowing where to settle, and wind is the exchange of the temperature of what is above and what is under. And, you fool, you are covering your face not to be frozen and dried so that water would escape to the atmosphere.

You say yourself that face is only the elevated detector of the self-preservation of the body, and walls make artificial blankets over our unreasonable desires for the survival of our legs when they need to rest. And we hang mirrors on our walls, and we watch ourselves pushing penises in to the vaginas and vaginas on the penises of our desires and dreams. We can listen to the better tones so high and sweet that only our neighbors can hear them, using the empty buckets resonating in the wind and waves, and the soup is spilled on their canvases and the statues of their heroes are pulled over and cowered by the collapsed blankets of sound, images, words, movements and smell.

And again another overlapping; hand on the buttock in the anticipation of the falling feathers. Back; there is no overlapping of the art medias. There is only art as it is. Fuck the problem of media overlapping and just live your art.

Milan Kohout
performer / The New England Institute of Art, Massachusetts College of Art, Boston, USA/