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Sub-Chase is a new limited edition screen print from Shanghai-based German artist and IdleBeats' co-founder Gregor Koerting. It's the 4th piece of his art print series named "Real Big City”.
-Words from the Aritst-
"Similar to "Hashpipe" this is another piece which is rather seen as some sort of subversive propaganda. Beside of it's practical function I sense the subway as THE epic allegory on urban life as a man made prison. People are forced to keep on a Real Big City pace ruled by a automized system. This print is supposed to be a ironic call for getting united breaking through the system not for destruction but for manifesting our individuality."
For keeping on with the mode of having this print release alongside with a bit of contemporary poetry this post features a fantastic poem of Shanghai-based lyricist Tom Mangione called "Rimbaud Rides the Subway". It gives the subject a pretty fatalistic and gloomy twist.
Title: <Sub-Chase> (RBC series No.4)
Artist: Gregor Koerting
Paper Size: 38x57 cm
Silk Screen on 300gsm Somerset Paper
Signed and numbered by the artist
Rimbaud Rides the Subway
Written by Tom Mangione
Veins tunnel through the house of Hades
Pulsing with the hum of automated machines
Glass vibrates with rushing metal on concrete
Subways, fucking subways
And I'm on one. I'm on this metal carriage ride through hell. I'm pulling a half-hearted smile trying to excoriate the feeling of dread that sits in my heart, but it's goddamned near impossible. All around me are sallow husks of men and women, kernels of fire and vim shredded up long ago and shat out on the train tracks, flowing into the cesspits of the darkness.
Everyone around me doesn't speak. They hear nothing of this shrieking silence. They're all earplugged and eyegagged. I'm forced to watch the closed circuit TV projecting Arcadian scenes where men and women still stalk like satyrs and dryads through the forest and the loam, singing songs from their hearts. It's disgusting. My earphones are fucking broken. Earphones, fucking earphones.
I'm trying to get them fixed. There's a shop in the dark corner of some station three line changes away. I have to get there. I'm corraled up escalators, by acidic eateries, through long corridors where men and women are passed out on trashbag mattresses, masturbating with their backs turned to the swishing throng, and only I can hear their pathetic moaning. And I start to imagine what all these people would say if they could talk, if they could whisper, if they could sing.
Soon I get to the repair shop and the lowly shopkeep is greened over his counter in cardiac arrest, and the fucking ambulance archangels are making ready to start him up again or bear his body to one of the crematoriums at the end of the lines. And now I hear the coughs and moans and sniffles and sighs and murmurs of the endless people, wan waifs of human entrails eternally rejected in the house of Hades, and I need to flee. But the escalators are more escalators and the elevators are more elevators spiraling down into the darkness. And it's only then that I know what they would say if they could speak because I'm doing it.
I'm fucking screaming
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