We will face this space contrast 
Trust our love, our lives to chance 
Side by side two nets are cast. 


Think not of the trials we’ve passed 
How we've burned for this romance— 
Twirling through the ocean vast 

Side by side, we’re w/\o!e at last. 


Ars Gratia Artis 


Art alone makes life possible — this is how radically | 
should like to formulate it. | would say that without art 
man is inconceivable in physiological terms [...] Man is 
only truly alive when he realizes he is a creative, artistic 
being. 


- Joseph Beuys (1921-1986) 


The young artist blinked as the soft distant rustling of maps and 
wineglasses behind him prodded his consciousness. 


Straggling patrons entered his wide room in the gallery as he 
purposefully ignored them, trying to keep his body rigid and erect on 
a tall stool; next to him, an artist's table was laid out chock full of 
supplies - brushes, chisels, cans of spray paint, tubs of traditional 
paint. They silently shuffled in, conversations dying to a hush. 


Still holding himself as if he was a sculpture as well, he kept his 
back rigid and neck straight, staring intently at the sculpture ahead 
of him. He steals a glance at the floor, marred by the streaks of paint 
that signaled previous performances. Purposefully avoiding 
acknowledgement, stray eye contact was still made despite his best 
efforts. 


He faced straight ahead, hoping that he looked as emotionless as 
possible, stealing a glance at the audience and hoping no one saw 
his sliver of doubt. 

He hears the last of the group come in. It's time to begin. 


The artist closed his eyes. 


The young artist today need no longer say "|ama 
painter" or "a dancer". He is simply "an artist". All of life 
will open to him. He will discover out of ordinary things 


the meaning of ordinariness. He will not try to make them 
extraordinary. Only their real meaning will be stated. [...] 
People will be delighted or horrified, critics will be 
amused or confused... 


- Allan Kaprow (1927-2006) 


In his head, the artist visualized the sculpture ahead of him, as he 
ignored the tittering sound of the audience shifting in an attempt to 
get a better view. The misshapen head and roughly carved legs 
designed to communicate rawness - artificial yet natural, refined yet 
unpolished, carefully designed yet carelessly executed. A human 
figure feels exactly halfway between painting and sculpture. Two 
large, unpainted orbs stared blankly at him and the audience behind. 


It was the thirty seventh time he performed this routine already; 
since the opening of the gallery, the colorless concrete mass has 
steadily grown more grotesque with each application, a mockery of 
the human form. 


He silently turned his back to the statue and picked up his supplies. 
Focusing on on both the artist and the sculpture, the audience 
muttered to itself. 


Pretending that he doesn't care about the pairs of eyes that are 
trained on him and the sculpture, the artist started to hum a little 
tune - today is a Brubeck kind of day. Blindly, he felt around the 
table, and picked up a brush that was untainted by paint. He held it 
up to the light, tilted his head as if he was unsure, as if this wasn't 
part of a planned routine. He brushed it gently against his left eyelid, 
the ticklish bristles teasing him to look around him. He put it down on 
the carefully arranged table, and felt around until he found another 
similarly dry brush. He brushed this one against his right eyelid, still 
shut tight. The room was silent except for the rustling of the brush, 
the innocent humming deafening loud. 


Another brush. Hold up to the light. Brush the right palm. 
Another brush. Hold up to the light. Brush the left palm. 


Right cheek. Left cheek. Right ear. Left ear. 


He went through all the brushes - and he felt a can of paint. 
He can't see what color it is. He doesn't care what color it is. 


His back was turned to the sculpture the whole time - a dozen pair of 
eyes trained on them, wanting to look at the artist but also not daring 
to look away from the sculpture. 


Ignoring the row of brushes, he lifted the new tub of paint with both 
hands, the toxic fumes indicating its fresh untainted status. He 
turned back to face the statue, and slowly advanced towards it. 


Theatre is fake ... The knife is not real, the blood is not 
real, and the emotions are not real. Performance is just 
the opposite: the knife is real, the blood is real, and the 
emotions are real. 


- Marina Abramovicé (1946-) 


Walking up to face the tall statue, he dipped his left hand into the tub 
of paint. He smeared it all over the orb-like eyes on the face of the 
structure. His blindness was his guide - his finger guided him 
through the zeniths and nadirs, as he attempted to apply the paint in 
a generous and fair manner. 


The artist took another deep breath, knowing the next step of the 
routine is the easiest but also the most dangerous. 


Without warning, he flung the tub of paint carelessly outwards, 
towards the audience. As usual, a few shrieks are heard, angry 
murmurs are thrown about, disappointed complaint of ruined boots 
were drowned out by rest of the crowd's overwhelming silence. 


Silently thanking the audience, the artist ducked down under the 
outstretched arms of the sculpture, squeezing between the tiny 
space of its body and the wall. 


The artist kneeled down facing the statue, on the polished wooden 
gallery floor, and took a deep breath. The most dangerous parts of 
the performance was over - another success. 


The statue towered over him, the stubby arms blocking his view of 


the ceiling. Eyes still shut, the artist faced upwards, imagining how 
the face of the statue now looks. He embraced the statue, just as 
the statue looks as if he embraced him from above. 


The artist opens his eyes. 
They do not move. 


In art, the only one who really knows whether what 
you've done is honest is the artist. 


- Bruce Nauman (1941-) 


The green eyes looked nice. Training his eyes on the statue, the 
artist got up, and walking backwards slowly, returned to his stool, 
once again, sitting tall and straight as the statue in front of him. 


The museum patrons clap politely, as they silently dispersed into the 
next room. He could hear their murmurs, suggesting that no artist 
would truly put themselves at true risk. Some concerned patrons 
kept their eyes trained on the statue, noticing the unmoving artist still 
seated as if unconcerned about his safety. Their fervent discussion 
grew fainter and fainter, as the crowd walked into the next room to 
experience the performance next door. 


The young artist stared ahead, uncaring. The statue prohibits him 
from reacting, after all. He sits, and waits for a short few minutes as 
the new group of gallery patrons shuffled in so he could begin 
painting anew. 


My works are in constant movement and flux. | don’t 
make art in order to offer an explanation of some 
particular thing. Ultimately, what | want is to be able to 
make art that will hold the interest of the viewer. 


- Izumi Kato (1969-) 


Aryanne’s Tail 


"You have been IP Banned." 


A young man was sitting in front of his computer screen. He donned 
a stained white tee and frayed shorts. His disheveled hair covered 
his face as the fan behind him blew relentlessly. He stroked his 
stubby beard, pondering his fate. He hadn't gone outside for days, 
but that was okay. 


The man glared at his screen. There was no warning. There was no 
explanation. But he knew why. He saw it coming. 


The man sighed. 


Fuck it. They didn't need him. He wondered what they were saying 
about him. 


"What the hell happened to Aryanne?" 
"He probably got doxxed, again." 


Aryanne was a man that craved attention. And attention was 
something he always got. He was revered as a "lord of the 
underworld", a "king of memes", and "The 4th Reich", among other 
things. But now his power and prestige was revoked, all by one 
message. 


"You have been IP Banned." 


The letters on the screen were blood red. The same color he used to 
paint his portraits. 


He contemplated changing his proxy. 
Fuck it. 


Aryanne rose from his chair and approached the blood-soaked 


least 70% of his body. These wounds are believed to be produced 
by SCP-790 itself over the course of several months. 


Thorough examination of the SCP-790-01’s body has revealed that 
SCP-790 systematically attacks the cells of his tissues and skeletal 
system, converting them into fresh blood cells, hence the constant 
flow of blood from his injuries. The infection is currently believed to 
be in its latter stages, as both the circulatory system and the 
digestive system have been consumed, along with significant 
portions of the skeleton. 


Despite being positively identified as human blood, SCP-790's 
activities constantly suggest otherwise: not only is it sapient, but 
exposure to air does not result in clotting and drying. 


Also, during several encounters with personnel it has demonstrated 
intelligence and crude sentience: numerous staff report being 
"touched" and "inspected" by minuscule tendrils emerging from the 
blood that often pools around the host’s feet. However, SCP-790 
does not appear interested in infecting other subjects- at least not at 
this time. Nonetheless, it will react violently should it be handled 
carelessly or harshly; attacks on the host are responded to with 
lethal force. 


Meanwhile, 790-01 appears to interpret his affliction as divine 
providence, claiming to have been contacted by supernatural forces 
that insist he care for and nurture SCP-790 (Or "the blessed one" as 
he calls it) until the day he dies. Whether this behaviour can be 
attributed to the disintegration of SCP-790-01's brain, an unrelated 
psychological breakdown, or some form of communication between 
the two is impossible to determine. 


Addendum 1: Dr speculates that SCP-790 is actually waiting 
until its present host is completely consumed before seeking out 
another in the form of one of the staff. As SCP-790 still merits 
research, it is recommended that another host be found among the 
D-class personnel in the event that the present one dies. — Dr 
Spelter 


Addendum 2: ( / /09) SCP-790-01's left eyeball fell out this 
morning; a brief dissection showed that not only had the optic nerve 


canvas to his left. A beautiful face of intricate detail lay before him. It 
was a portrait of his mother. The color was appropriate for family. He 
picked up his brush and applied it to the canvas. 


But he was out of paint. 


Whois John? 


John was by no means an extraordinary person. He was obedient, 
ignorant, and complacent. John was destined to be a consumer 
sheep. A corporate cow. Like all cattle, John accepted his branding 
with open hooves. Except John had arms. To John, his branding 
would represent the beginning of a loving relationship. 


Aryanne furiously crumpled up a piece of paper in his hand and 
tossed it in the trash. How long has it been? How many years? He 
couldn't tell. Still, he could remember when he first met John. The 
mere thought brought a smile to his face. 


It was a sunny day... 


Wait, no. Aryanne ripped another paper in his hands. Shit, he had to 
start again. He received another piece of paper. 


It was a sunny day, except Aryanne was cooped up in his room, as 
usual. After his untimely ban, he looked elsewhere for his title. Likes, 
comments, subscribers, followers ... anything he could get to prove 
his worth. Social media? No, that was far too tame. His presence in 
the under net wasn't welcome, either. 


John had his own business that day. He glanced at the screen in 
front of him. One hundred and eighty two. His followers. Admittedly, 
most of those members were fluff, but there was a fan base 
underlying. 


NOW RECORDING 


John reached for his knife. It was rusty, with blood caked on the 
surface. It was an old friend of his. John rolled up his sleeve 
carefully positioned the knife on his forearm, gripping the handle 
firmly with his hand. He pressed down, applying just enough 


pressure. Then, with one cut, John slowly drove the blade down his 
arm. John smiled expectantly, though his hooded jacket obscured it. 


To Aryanne, it was beautiful. The precision of the cut. The way the 
blood gushed out of John's arm, like a majestic river. The calm and 
almost professional demeanor. Ideas came flooding into Aryanne's 
head. One hand on his temple, he grabbed a notepad with the other. 


He began to scribble on the pad while John continued to bleed, non- 
stop. John was now looking towards the camera sternly, waiting. 
The air around John and his thirty-two watchers stood still. 


Aryanne would finally have his following. A kingdom. Wait, no. An 
empire. Fuck yeah. He looked back at his pad. A crudely drawn 
castle was staring back at him, while John continued to bleed. 
Aryanne tossed the notepad to the side. How was John still alive? 


At this point, John's forearm was coated in deep red. He glanced at 
his arm, then slowly back towards the camera. He spoke to his 
audience, with a slouched posture and a raspy voice. 


"I'll be back ... tomorrow." 


John swayed back and forth before slouching back in his chair. He 
slowly leaned to the side, hitting the ground with a thud. The camera 
continued to play. It stopped at exactly five minutes. 


He was professional, talented and timely. Aryanne could definitely 
use a man like John. 


It was months later. After deliberation over chat, arguments over 
business, and the fear of being doxxed, Aryanne and John were 
finally living together. Aryanne was sprawled out on the couch, 
watching the news. 


John walked over in a T-shirt and shorts, sporting a bright pink 
apron. He shoved a plate of food in Aryanne's face. 


"Here. Eat it." 


Upon closer inspection, Aryanne's eyes saw pancakes drizzled with 


syrup and blueberries sprinkled on top. The buttery aroma smacked 
him in the face. He slowly sat up before John laid out a table in front 
of him. The clank of the plate being placed on the table rang through 
Aryanne's ears. 


"Whoa." 

"Figure I'd give you something a little special today." 
"Why, is ita special day or something?" Aryanne snorted. 
John gave Aryanne a cold stare. 

"Don't tell me you forgot." 

"Uhh..." 

"One thousand." 

"Huh?" 

"Followers, Aryanne! One thousand followers! 


Aryanne began eating his pancakes. There was a hint of cinnamon 
as the food melted in his mouth. 


"You could show some appreciation every once in a while." John 
stated, his voice rising. "After everything | do for you, not even so 
much as a 'thank you'? That's all | ask for, Aryanne. Would it kill you 
to do such a thing?" 


"I'm sorry." Aryanne mumbled bits of pancake flying out of his 
mouth. 


"Sorry doesn't cut it." John angrily pointed his finger at Aryanne, who 
was still graciously eating pancakes. His eyes narrowed, judging 
Aryanne's complacent satisfaction. Aryanne dropped his fork and 
turned towards John. 


"| mean it." Aryanne whispered. John sighed. His eyebrows furrowed 
as he placed his hand on his forehead. After a few seconds, John 
spoke. 


"Fine. But you're still taking me outside today." 


Aryanne sometimes wondered how it would be to continue his old 
life in the undernet. No, he couldn't. He was contempt. 


John and Aryanne hiked along a rocky path. For once, Aryanne 
could say it was a sunny day. Tall trees lined the sides, while birds 
obnoxiously sang all around them. The two strolled along as a 
familiar mountainous landscape came into their view. Aryanne felt a 
heavy burden on his back. Maybe it was the luggage they took with 
them. Maybe it was not. He broke into a sweat; his knees buckling 
as John triumphantly lead the way. 


"Are ... we ... there ... yet?" Aryanne panted between words. John 
offered no reply.