D O C U M E N T - Ricerca sull'intelligenza artificiale specializzata al MIT

D O C U M E N T

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COMMON SPACE AND
INDIVIDUAL SPACE
COMMENTS ON A GROUP TASK

FROM THE FIRST HALF OF 1993

monika Dzik, monika zieli ´nska, anD artur z˙ mijewski

Common space and individual space—a task with a tradition, Quale
we heard about during the meeting with G.K. at the Center for
Contemporary Art. And we were served a corpse . . . but wait! Back
to the beginning: we are waiting in front of the workshop, a certain
tension is in the air, we are conjecturing. We know about the chest,
but what is inside? Who? We enter. G.K. and R.W. are already standing
at both ends of the chest; we place ourselves around it. In previous
tasks of this kind, your place was important and designated to everyone
(a photo of your face, a hole in the table in which you could put your
head); now there is no such thing. The arrangement regarding the
chest and the model is random. I have too hastily anticipated the
events again. We are standing around a wooden, raw pinewood chest,
with handles on top, placed on two trestles. Ta da. Unveiling, the lid
is removed, and inside there is a nice, familiar one could say, modello,
it is M., lying naked with his eyes closed. Death is in the air. I was
shocked. The chest occluded everything for me, ending exactly at the
line of my horizon. When I stood on my tiptoes I saw the genitals, E
I stopped at that. Lesson for next time—I need a form of elevation.
A huge ladder worked perfectly. My solution for the corpse was water-
cress. I wanted to bring life, a green springtime vegetation, at the
same time sanctioning the status of M. He turned from a corpse into
a fertilizer and a ground, a base for a new being. Naturalism? E

https://doi:.org/10.1162/artm_a_00229

105

why plant watercress on the genitals, around the penis? There are
several answers:

• to acknowledge (despite myself) what I had under my very

nose, but which I was so diligently overlooking.

• we were given the chest with M. as a common space (but maybe

it was the eponymous “individual space” – M.’s “individual
spazio,” and we around him were the “common space,” empha-
sized by our constant shifting of places). As the points of depar-
ture for individual spaces were not specified, we were looking
for them in the chest, on M.; G.M’s move is salient here – a “sar-
torial” division of the corpse into parts.1 The genitals then were
in “my zone”;

• due to the erotic-fertile function of this spot;
• and finally, due to the formal similarity between the penis

and the watercress.

The act of offering to the participants sandwiches with watercress,

watercress that had been savagely mowed with big scissors from my
penis-adjacent crop, was a trigger for the beginning of the feast. M. [È]
like roasted pork, and we are exchanging courtesies. Overly conscious
of the religious overtones of the act of distributing bread (even if it’s a
baguette with watercress), I chickened out of serving wine. The simi-
larity of the feast in the task discussed here to “The Supper” from 19912
is strong enough and this similarity came into play time and again (for
example with the lattice cage, which isolated the chest from the work-
shop). The consumption of M.’s pubic wig is a straight continuation of
a cycle of actions beginning with growing the vegetable, eating it (IL
peristaltic work of digestive systems), M.D.’s move (the golden feces),
G.K.’s actions with the jars full of water, and the drowning of the poly-
chromatic excrements.3

M o n i k a Z i e l i ´n s k a

•

This refers to Matusiak’s work. All footnotes are the translator’s, and not part of the origi-
nal document.
“The Supper” was the seventh edition of “Common Space and Individual Space,” under-
taken during the 1991–92 academic year.
This refers to Dzik’s work. Zieli ´nska evidently means to think of it as a natural conclu-
sion of the same “cycle of actions,” not just in the sense that they came sequentially after
the growing and eating of the watercress, but that M.D.’s “feces” represent a bodily conse-
quence of that act.

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I was “dragged” into Prof. Grzegorz Kowalski’s workshop through a
group task from 1989. Joining the “Common Space, Individual Space”
task four years ago was an attempt to find myself among people
focused on a continuous quest. In the current “edition” of the task, IO
took part more as a documenter than as someone who speaks from the
inside. What stays in the memory? A group around the chest with a
naked man lying inside. From my perspective, the center (the lying
modello) determined an unambiguous definition of all the relations
around it. A situation silencing the movement, pushing away from the
impetuosity, causing a slow start to the actions. A strongly determining
start, too strong for the beginning of a cumulative task, which affected
the next moves for a long time. For me it was hard to separate myself
from the feeling that I was participating in a funeral ritual or a nec-
ropsy. This is how I understood the first statements: gallows, a surgical
scission of the body in the chest, the shaving of the deceased. The sec-
ond group of moves is a separation from the center—marking each par-
ticipant’s place around the chest or on it, a subtle accentuation of each
person’s ME.

The first action that disenchanted the situation was the turning of
the coffin into an incubator, a warm light on a naked body, a return to
life. The hex melted away during an action uniting the participants
with the object of the encounter: cultivated and cumulatively con-
sumed, the pubic watercress worked as a catalyst, it was a symptom of
an acceleration and of a growing impatience with slow, stroking move-
menti. What I was waiting for happened: several moves abruptly
changed the character of the event. The coffin turned into an incuba-
tor, Questo, in turn, into a bathtub, a bathtub into a rotating device expos-
ing the model, at the end the placement of a lattice box on the wooden
chest and on the audience. A tram-like/prison-like tin can/an arbor that
contains a black-and-white crowd,4 which is careful so as not to step on
anyone’s foot, in a slow movement from one stop to another. Everything
ended before it really started and gained speed. For a number of rea-
sons. Because the task is an action that is integrative and that quickly
reveals everyone’s individualities against the backdrop of the group, Esso
might have been scheduled for the beginning of the academic year, non

Here Stoykow refers to later moments in the task – a lattice cage put over the chest and
the participants by Niestrój, to which Leczew stuck green leaves, and the conclusion of
the task, during which the faces of the participants were painted black and white.

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the end. It was preceded by a long process of building the nude, from
precisely this same model who was participating as the center of the
meetings by the chest. The second reason for the fading was the propri-
ety of a courteous question addressed to the others, addressing whether
what one intends to do would not by chance destroy someone else’s
barely sprouting idea for the next step. The respect for the work of the
colleagues then dominated in many ways the desire for expression and
expansion. I was surprised by the cumulative coming to terms with the
situation, the lack of rebellion, the lack of attempts to isolate oneself
from this specific situation. Everyone [era] polite and very calm. Only
the preparation for the last “actor” meeting5 brought any sort of sponta-
neity and carelessness, which I have been waiting for since the very
beginning.

What interests me most in a meeting of this sort is not the artistic
effect, not the object, but the energy that can be released by the group.
The energy that can be echoed during this meeting—after it, com-
monly—and in each of the participants individually. I felt tired from
the self-control, despite having engaged [In] some kind of fun, some-
thing like a birthday party organized by the family, [I had wanted] more
than that, a meeting of friends after which I wake up, I don’t know
when or why, on a park bench, full of weird images, full of the will to
return, to explain [E] build something new. This is what I had been
looking for when the previous common action sucked me into the cir-
cle of this workshop. And this is what I am still looking for—rebellion
and speed.

J a n e s toy ko w

•

What is it – a wooden dumpling filled with cold meat?

The situation is “cadaverous,” amazingly, impossibly zealously
cadaverous. 10 people concentrated around a wooden box with a naked
guy lying inside. Prolonged silence, motionless. At that time still noth-
ing, some distraction, a bit of astonishment. Only later the cadaver
came out, crawled out, poured out onto the mind and started to putrefy.
Obviously remotely, in the imagination. The putrescence itself and the
fetor of putrescence were surrogates, and as such unobtrusive, non

Although unclear, “the last ‘actor’ meeting” may refer to the “theatrical” character of the
conclusion of the task.

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much present, but at the same time blunt. First associations (not mine
– overheard) with Stajuda’s “cadavering,” his slow fading and foretold
death.

The first impulse and need—to deny the situation, to do away with
the cadaver (taking care of the carrion). Hence heating lightbulbs, as an
attempt to dry a parchment mummy into powder. Melting the snow in
the box was an image of drying the cadaver out. This attempt to be lib-
erated from the cadaver—was completely unsuccessful.

Monika Zieli ´nska plants watercress on the boy’s genitals. Is it from
her perspective a desire to stand up against the deadness, a suggestion
of a transformation on a biological, even “wormish,” level? The release
of the cycling of matter, living, dead, and so on. All this for nothing, COME
the cadaver was assisted; it can be said that Grzegorz Kowalski a-reani-
mated it, he pushed the cadaver stronger into its “cadaverity.” The con-
tour of the feet, like an uncanny coffin portrait, was hung on the box’s
planks. Contemplation. Trapping the foot in plaster. Ostentatious open-
ing of the last phase of the cycle.

It is like waiting for liver spots to appear on the back of the hand.
Who knows, maybe even digging in the mouth with the tongue, touch-
ing the gums, now softer than they once were, looking for the traces of
an elderly periodontitis, for the first slackenings in the tongue pores,
for the buccal mush.

Roman Wo ´zniak’s private box. A private coffinnette? Forse,
if it wasn’t for this playful peeking in from the bottom, poking the head
in and out, a spine exercise of some sort, flirting maybe. With the
corpse?

The watercress is growing, fresh green. In this instance it is an
ambiguous green—the color of spring, but also kitchen mold on an old
piece of lunch meat.

But it is in a genital place, nurtured, watered by the girl’s delicate

hand. . . . How it tastes in this box. Like a necrophiliac flower bed.

Mita´s shaves the guy in the box. He is wearing white gloves, he
scrapes his face, cutting his facial hair imprecisely. An apotheosis of
the disgust of the cadaver. Apogee. We are pressed into an open grave,
alive.

Grzegorz Kowalski sits on a little chair. Shoulders stooped, feet
dipped in a slowly stiffening plaster. Felt skullcap on his head. An almost
cadaverous stillness, a rehash. A seated cadaver, as if it were Incan.
Jane Stoykow drives huge nails in the box, on each side. Lui

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climbed on the lid and by driving the last nail in the coffin he has con-
verted it into a tool for a circus magician, a box of a charlatan who
thrusts swords through a bearded woman.

Time for water. The box, overspread with foil, fills with water. IL
boy floats in it, moistening. Nothing else but “the womb opening and
the dark,”6 the cadaver soaked in putrid juice, but also a fetus dunked
in a mother’s juice. So we are piercing the foil in the box’s walls with
skewers. The fluid squirts on the clothes of crouching people, on white
folded sheets in which they are wrapped. Some are putting their heads
under the streams. An assimilation of the corpse, an inclusion of it
within oneself, an anointment with the dead, and at the same time a
revitalization, a release from the placenta’s moistness. What else? Lui,
this boy, has dissolved in the water – his sweat, his spit, the grease of
his skin, his smell. And we drank it, swallowed, sucked it into our-
selves, absorbed, we have all copulated with this water. His nakedness,
his wet corporeality, we savored.
(Je¸drzej Niestrój’s action)
Grzegorz Kowalski sits rapt in a precious delusion of death, Quale
penetrates the proceeding spans of reality. In the slowly stiffening plas-
ter an invisible movement takes place, hidden like an internal transfor-
mation of the congealing matter of a numbing body. A hollow footprint
equal to the obtrusiveness of a died-out body/thing, and at the same
time equal to a void space.

We are eating the genital watercress plantation. Monika in white
gloves and with the help of weird, quasi-tailor’s scissors cuts the exu-
berant, intensive-green stems. The blade operates near the baby-like
vulnerable penis. Slices of fresh bread sprinkled densely with pubic
grass are lying on a tray. Helping oneself. And it tasted good, this offal-
turned-green, especially good, given that, BENE (though it was second-
hand and through a middleman) we took it in the mouth.

The mourning voice from the speaker speeds up the decay of the
meat. It simply stinks from the box, the cadaveric poison settles with
moisture on the planks. I am going away from the coffinnette, slayed
by the cadaver’s stench and funeral obscurity that materializes itself
with the plaintive whining.

(Monika Leczew’s action)

A reference to Dylan Thomas’s poem “Vision and Prayer” and the title of an interview
with Krzysztof Bednarski published in Czereja 3 (1993).

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The sound of the hammer, poignant and unpleasant, dully blend-

ing into gray brain matter, turns out to be substantial.

I hear it abruptly and post-factum. It is reenacted in the mind with
its dull intrusiveness. Its mechanical lasting, clocklike fluidity, releases
it from the dead actuality, from a human repeated but cold. The knock-
ing has something from algebra, the sonoristics of metal. It is in
explicit opposition to the fickle interior of the box.
Monika Leczew’s and Mariusz’s action
They dumped the cadaver out. Until now, he was rather hidden,
camouflaged. And they dressed him in a funeral suit, stuck him into
the box and served him like potatoes are served, adorned with a funeral
mourner’s weeping. They turned out to be a couple of secret inform-
ers—they denounced the situation. They picked out its flimsy, unde-
fined metaphor and turned it into a tangible, palpable CADAVER. They
replaced the hardly discernable smell, or rather stench, of death, con
the smell of a mating rotten corpse, with a contagious poison of viru-
lent anaerobes. This is the peak of the situation, the hypothetical
cadaver was replaced with a “real” one.

What more is possible here? The ordeal, it was tiresome, vexing
with its bluntness, intrusiveness, and noise, with its deeply morose and
funerary scream. It turned into death, and the cold/corporeal corpse
softened in gray-blue without even a little discretion.

Immediately after, dancing in the box, and from the megaphone,
instead of wailing – jolly music (slightly deviant). Anna Mioduszewska
with Mariusz—figures, thumping. In explicit opposition to the cadaver,
crossing him out, a passionate attempt to turn one’s back on the cof-
finnette, an outburst of dancing aversion to the box. A CORPSE and its
DENIAL, funeral noise and wedding noise, and confetti. A party in a
dissecting room.

Before the above happened, there was a beach, sea and beer.

Monika L. stepped into the box filled with water. Together with
Mariusz she was drinking beer, smoking cigarettes. It was promising,
tasty—she in a blue swimsuit, he naked, and next to her even more
carnal, his nakedness, carnality, came back to life thanks to her, Esso
became insistent, demanded the fulfilment, the consummation. She
retouched this blasé nudity, she emphasized it with her undressing.
And it became autonomic to me, dwelled inside me, so I let it go,
I let the imagination go, and I waited without controlling it. Will it
end only with beach, beer, idle and sweet? She wanted to do so little

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with him! His wetness and her wetness, their common wetness, wet-
ness uniting them, he indolent, somehow swollen, and she soaking in
this water, wet.

And that was the end.
So I—remotely, inside me, in my secret desire, in the abyss of my
own debauchery, in a voyeuristic dissipation—mated the two of them.
And they were copulating for me for a long time, were curling

su . . .

To be honest, I will say that I was guided by a heartfelt aim. IO
wanted to use what they did to crumble the death, to throw it into
debauchery, to turn the box into a pay-by-the-hour motel and, in this
modo, outwit the cadaver. To install a tireless copulator on his gray-blue
carcass.

Caesura. An almost two-hour-long session of the professor’s com-
mentary and conversations. A clear demarcation, a division and expla-
nation occurred. The maelstrom and chaos of the actions were
organized, classified as phases and cycles, series and sequences. Then
the cadaver slipped out of my hands. The cadaver in me could not stand
the strength of the epiphany of others, alien threads. Because of
Grzegorz Kowalski, who divested the participant’s actions of some ele-
ments of chaos and confusion, arranging them in sequences of logical
successions.

What is he looking for? It looks like he is creating a vocabulary,

searching for an alphabet, consecutive actions assigned to letters,
signs. So he favors language, sequences of interrelated forms, he looks
for a coherent, metalogic transformation, result from a result. I was
looking for a sequence in the content, in the meaning of shapes, inter-
pretations of the actions. What kind of knowledge did he and Roman
Woz´niak want to squeeze out of it? Maybe the knowledge regarding to
what extent the relations are reciprocally dictated within the group,
about how aggressive the members of the group are to each other in the
signs evinced, about how a mutual understanding emerges from the
chaos, how it is created from brain junk, from the mess of conscious-
ness. Then the content would be only an illusion, and the essence of
the things would be the philological observation. Watching how we are
mutually shoving in each other’s faces our own different realities, how
we are poking each other with them, how the reality is piling up for us,
the matter is organizing—itself.

How do we make this matter real to ourselves, providing for it the

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continuity of being in subsequent moves/answers, how the elusive,
ephemeral actions are slowly turning into a hard, tight billow, into the
perpetually affirmed “THERE IS.”

But I will get back to the corpse. I wanted to deny the cadaver, A
take it out of the box carrying it on a welded, metal bed, and then rotate
by 225 degrees and place it perpendicularly to the box’s axis. I wanted
to weaken the cadaver with a swing ride, to treat it with a fairground,
with a funfair, and then to elevate it into some kind of a halfway,
dwarfed Assumption, “entering heaven” straight from childish halluci-
nazioni, from “heaven-inflated” imaginations. By this action I wanted
to cross the box out with the axis of the body hanging perpendicularly,
to elevate it and lift my own brain from the box. To excrete the dead
from the box and excrete it from my body, to defecate.

Jane Stoykow turns the device upside down. The steel bed lies on

the floor and the bottom of the box stands in front of us like a table, IL
platform of our community. This table, seized by Stoykow’s chess-like
move, reanimated the attendees as a group, who were concentrated
around it. And this smells like lunch, like a nap after lunch, like weak-
ening, like the announcement of the end. We’ll have to bend hard now,
so that the whole thing doesn’t get too deflated. But this little table is
somehow not very table-like, more than anything it’s a suddenly
exposed heel, a sole devoid of the cadaver like of a shoe, Inoltre, UN
flat, flatfooted one.

During the comments session mentioned above I said that in this

entire situation (arranged by Kowalski and Wo ´zniak) I had seen a
CADAVER, I noticed a dead body lying in the coffinnette and the
cadaverous character of the participants’ actions. Roman Wo ´zniak
responded, how so[?], responded that he didn’t see a cadaver, Ovviamente
non, no cadaver, maybe at most various individual actions of the partici-
pants. Therefore also for him a new thread got revealed, a thread that
he wasn’t aware of before. So he was a virgin, and I popped his cherry
with a corpse, with a CORPSE I took his virginity from him. Just like I
got deflowered by Kowalski with ALGEBRA. And somehow brainwise
we were DEFLORATED.

Before Stoykow played chess with the box, Anna Mioduszewska

poured dough made from flour and water on the lattice of the steel
bed elevated above the box, on its entire length. And it leaked through
like icicles, poured through broad wire openings, swelling with slowly
softening stalactites, with extending white excrescences. The entire

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bed got adorned with moist, wobbling fringes. A little pastry shop
with a runny, undercooked cake. The return of taste as a sense.
Human/cake association. Flavor rather sweet and sour. Tempting?
And at the same time the cadaver started to wane, slowly, and drop
by drop it was soaking in, completely decayed, being eaten up . . .

At last Je˛ drzej Niestrój enclosed the box and the participants in a

wire mesh cube. He limited the situation, isolated it. Maybe he did it
because Stoykow deprived the situation of vectors, of references in the
forms of the naked boy, the open box, the bed. It all started to slither,
pour out like dough, it threatened with some insubordination, con
unexpectedness, with the possibility that it would sprawl on the entire
workshop, or even further, by some peristaltic movement, with an
impetus. So he wrapped it, protected it, so it wouldn’t get spoiled,
squandered.

The task ought to be strongly eye-opening, in a pedagogical sense

Ovviamente. Indeed we gave birth, this delicate plant, a brain creature,
sprouted in between us. Unwittingly, a lump of matter was formed –
straight from the pulp. Thoughts emerged, or rather we, like shep-
herds, corralled those woolen rams from the wildernesses of
associations, from leavened personalities, to one pasture. And there
they turned into matter, they grew satiated with gravity, they started
to weigh down. IT already is, so only the importunity is left, to pack
something in, to push into it, to add, to write in. The LANGUAGE is
being born, on an artificial ground, like bacteria on a culture
medium. Real.

Anna Mioduszewska cuts 12 round openings of around 5 cm diam-

eter in a box turned upside down. Each one is a kind of peephole, UN
viewer for heartfelt peeking. And it was something you could do: peek
into the suddenly ambiguous interior of the box, glance at it bashfully,
in passing. It is possible to control them in an amazingly wary way.
Those openings like slivers in changing room walls, give access to the
unforeseen revelations of the inside.

In the openings 8 lightbulbs, lighting up the space isolated by the

wire mesh, appear. It is a zone of life, a human zone, a zone of a sen-
tient being. A light blue light from a blue vacuum bubble hung above
their heads, it is an ejaculation of a phantasmagoria directly from the
gyruses into an emerging metaphorical reality. This is simply a naïve
heaven, pure immortality on which we clung with tram handles made
from steel, from a thick wire. And this is how we were lasting in a vac-

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uum and the idiocy of a trolleybus journey, hanging above the zone of
hell, the red light at the feet which emanated from a red lightbulb lying
on the floor. This tripartition of the world into hope, existence, E
dying clamped our hands tightly and with a peristaltic twirl was
squeezing furious transcendence out of the guts.

Stoykow smashes 5 out of 8 white lightbulbs. He does it vulgarly—

with a hammer. His actions are accompanied by a clamor and the fall-
ing of broken glass. The gesture is dramatic, it has something of a
fierce elimination of being. It is an impulsive fucking-up of the order,
of the symmetrical arrangement that resides at the table. Stoykow vio-
lated the prettiness by destroying it with the smashes of a hammer. It
was an action demolishing the harmony of a staged interior, dictated by
the unstoppable desire to RUIN. Satiated with a vibe of sexual dissolu-
zione, when each erotic spasm increasingly fractures the inviolability of
the bitchy beauty.

From the two sizable round openings in the top of the box, paper

ribbons come out radially, hung further on the wire walls. On the
paper bands are photos of Mariusz, who left the box in this simple way,
he creeped out of it in a spiritual/steam-like, paper way. There are pho-
tos, meanwhile he is not there. It reeks of mess and prattle. Grzegorz
Kowalski sets fire to the ribbons and the flames cleanse more than half
of the interior occupied by paper. A radical division of the interior in
two parts emerges, the one charred with a pile of black ashes, black,
and the one untouched by fire, virginally white.

Monika Leczew’s arbor, as in, it had green leaves stuck on the out-
side wall of the cage. [Suddenly] it all felt garden-like, almost like at an
allotment garden. Surely the steel of the cage was softened, let’s say
familiarized. The cage was turned into an arbor. Mita´s’s attempt, based
on festooning the interior with inflated balloons, was similar. He was
dissolving steel with rubber, while Leczew [did so] with chlorophyll.
It is a sign that the wire mesh was a painful insult for the peripatetic
inclinations of their brains. It is at the same time a desire to “warm up”
the cage’s interior, to make it homely. The cold prison transforms itself
into a hospitable place. Coldness into warmness.

And finally the end, conceptualized and directed by Grzegorz

Kowalski. The participants, dressed in black and white with painted
faces + G.K.’s red nails, were placed in the interior on their selected
sides: white and untouched, or black and burned out. The drinking of
the champagne from disposable cups. This is what it looked like on the

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two sides of the box— R. Wo ´zniak in lilywhite among paper sashes and
G. Kowalski with radiant red nails against a black suede background,
and the students freshly subjected to brain disembowelment by a two-
some of procreators. An almost operatic finale, subjected to artificiality,
contrasts with the impulsive, intuitive character of the previous actions.
For sure it is a spectacular end to the task. D'altra parte, it is a
pedagogical product, an amputation of an unfolding chain of reality in
creation, a kind of consensual inside-the-brain abortion.