On Being Dead / On My Deadwork / My Work is Dead
Deadwork is invisible work; deadwork is virtual work. When there is
nothing but the image and the memory of the image, there is deadwork. When
the producing tribe cannot read, can only reinterpret, there is deadwork.
Deadwork does not enter the cycle of capital; it no longer exists; it
never has existed. Deadwork is deadly work; it is the death of the
producing culture. The culture knows it. The culture is ready for its
death.
My work is dead. It is not spoken. It is invisible in the building at
Eyebeam and disappears as a future anterior online. In the space, it
huddles. In the space it hides in cracks in crevices, in the remains of an
s/m parlor perhaps, in the remains of a parking garage perhaps, in the
remains if a silent film studio perhaps. The building is scarred; my work
devolves, unscars, dissolves. It is a shadow on a scar. It is the huddle
