The Execution Protocol (III)

The Execution Protocol (III) - Mutually Assured Production

Installation from May - July 2011 at Monash University Museum of Art.

Slave Pianos, The Execution Protocol (III), Advertisement


The Execution Protocol (III)


Slave Pianos, The Execution Protocol (III), Diagram


Slave Pianos, The Execution Protocol (III), Diagram


Slave Pianos, The Execution Protocol (III), Diagram


Catalogue insert


Installation view


Installation view


Installation view


Installation view


Installation view


Installation view


Installation view


Slave Pianos, The Execution Protocol (III), Review


Slave Pianos, Punkasila and Pipeline to Oblivion at MUMA, by Dan Rule

Slave Pianos, Punkasila and Pipeline to Oblivion at MUMA

AK–47 shaped guitars, lo-fi video works and a performance by an Indonesian punk band are just a few pieces of this collaborative show at MUMA with Japanese artist Midori Mitamura and Danius Kesminas.

By Dan Rule, 13th May 2011

Running alongside Midori Mitamura’s stunning series of shifting domestic installations and breakfast gatherings and a succinct exhibition of works from the Monash University Museum of Art (MUMA) collection, Danius Kesminas’s suite of projects might appear a tad convoluted at first glance.

A vodka still and automated PVC pipe organ that plays the traditional Lithuanian drinking song Gerkit Gerkit, Broliukai (Drink Brothers, Drink); an installation of revolutionary murals; AK–47 shaped guitars; lo-fi video works and the odd performance by an Indonesian concept punk band; and a self-playing grand piano perched on a giant electric chair and controlled via an audience-operated computer console: the uninitiated could hardly be blamed for evacuating the building in a bewildered terror. But there’s a disarming coherence to these incredibly intricate, painstakingly conceptualised and engineered works – a kind of collaborative bind.

Indeed, it’s a sensibility that emanates from Kesminas’s Pipeline to Oblivion project with every blocky note puffed from the PVC pipe organ. It takes its cues from a myriad of narratives surrounding Lithuania’s independence from the former USSR, Eastern Europe’s alcoholism epidemic and an illegal series of underground pipelines pumping black market vodka or “moonshine” across the border to Lithuania from neighbouring Belarus.

Kesminas’s organ effectively snuffs the process. By utilising the vodka distillation process to power the organ’s Lithuanian drinking hymn, he subverts the drink’s devilish effects. The binding power of song – the same social glue that helped facilitate Lithuania’s “singing revolution” and eventuated in the country’s successful pro-democracy movement – is re-enabled and re-activated.

In the adjoining space, a very different kind of collaborative musical creation hammers out its distortion-prone, luridly coloured attack. Punkasila (which translates to “punk principles”) are a Yogyakarta “post-disaster” punk band who play hand-carved AK–47- and M16-shaped guitars. Formed by Kesminas whilst undertaking a residency in the city during 2006, the band represents a mash-up of traditional and post-Suharto Indonesian ideologies, politics and iconography. The space is garnered with giant, revolutionary murals and posters depicting the band in a kind of heroic stance. Their guitar weaponry perch on mechanised tripods, swinging about the room, ready to unleash a wave of distortion on anything that moves. Video works and an interactive music box take the place of fold back monitors; waves of sonic and visual noise pre-empt a diverse, playful, empowered new Indonesia.

In the third space, the latest incarnation of Keminas’s longstanding Slave Pianos project – which sees avant-garde sound works by visual artists reconfigured into the classical form – consists of an automated grand piano positioned atop a gigantic electric chair. Audience members can then control the piano by selecting a composition via an adjoining computer consol. On selecting an artist to be “executed”, a mechanical plotter with video screen moves across a wall-mounted world map, landing on a point of geo-political relevance to the artist. It’s a kind of arcane, hilarious and slightly sinister surveillance process. Artists are selected, tracked and musically executed.

That said, what’s most striking about Kesminas’s selected projects is their very collectivity. Indeed, ultimately, these works seem to preface the power and potential of community. Though inherently complex – even convoluted – in their sprawling forms, justifications and artistic and political logic, these are works that have been built from the ground up.

Be it an Indonesian punk militia or a swathe of artists willing to be executed, the catalyst for each of these projects is a convergence – or at least a consideration – of many heads, hearts and hands.

Slave Pianos | Punkasila | Pipeline to Oblivion runs until July 23 at Monash University Museum of Art.

Punk rocking the old order, by Robert Nelson

Punk rocking the old order

Reviewed by Robert Nelson
June 1, 2011

Indonesian art band Punkasila attacks the pomposity of acronyms at MUMA.

Slave Pianos, Punkasila, Pipeline to oblivion,
MUMA, Monash University, Caulfield Campus, 900 Dandenong Road, Caulfield,
Until July 23

PREPARED for its final chord, a piano has been secured to an electric chair. As visitor to the Monash University Museum of Art, you become a witness to its execution and can participate in its death throes. The chair is huge and of asymmetrical shape to accommodate the grand musical instrument.

How the piano came to merit a death penalty is a long story. The macabre work by Danius Kesminas and an art collective called Slave Pianos sums up the avant-garde history of stressful relations with the keyboard. Advertisement: Story continues below

Representing melodic music as if it were universal, the piano stands accused of cultural arrogance. On a keyboard, all the chromatic tones for metrical music are laid out with the air of regular and invariable rules, like destiny. With this system, you can substitute for a whole chamber ensemble and still express individual subjectivity as a performer.

As for the piano condemned at MUMA, it doesn’t even need hands to make music, much less subjective interpretation. Along the keyboard there is a register of pistons that press the keys by electronic signals, like a digital pianola. A range of sources can be selected, which will cause the piano to play and testify, in its final moments, to the case against it.

The idea that musical instruments belong to a theatre of destruction is further investigated in the next room. Here Kesminas teams up with an Indonesian art band Punkasila, which he helped to form. In their dress and gestures, the members adopt the language of guerillas, taking music to an extreme of violent hyperbole by crafting their guitars as guns.

The war they wage is political in a funny, deconstructive way. At stake is the status of certain acronyms, which proliferate in Indonesian as much as promises or loan words from other languages. In Bahasa Indonesia, and even our own language, an acronym - no matter how recent - already sounds like an official institution.

Any pretentious idea can be given an acronym and automatic authority is conferred upon it, as if long established, like NATO, which suggests a body originating with the very birth of Western civilisation.

Acronyms give plans, hopes and ideologies a rhetorical mechanism for appearing sturdy and determined, when they may be nothing but a hollow shell for vanity and folly. So Punkasila wages the Acronym Wars.

Kesminas produces a final anarchistic critique of false order in /Pipeline to oblivion/, also with collaborators. A beautiful organ operates by an old-fashioned mechanism - a large drum has intervals recorded on separate tracks and, as it rotates, armatures are shifted to release pressured air to pipes of different lengths, yielding a melody.

This vigorous work sits alongside a more inward installation by Midori Mitamura that also involves sound and chaos.

The artist has collected objects and conversations and assembled the disparate objects to form a narrative. In a sweet gesture, she links the themes by a fragile piece of yarn and also makes breakfast for guests in the gallery.

The installation sums up the thoughtful sense of self-possession that keeps us from vodka.

Critical Mass: Cultural Conduits, Translations and Provocations, by Shelley McSpedden

Critical Mass: Cultural Conduits, Translations and Provocations in the Work of Danius Kesminas and Collaborators

by Shelley McSpedden

Danius Kesminas is an artist who likes to tinker with arcane technologies and semiotic orders. His provocative experimentations with these systems function as a kind of critical mass, sparking creative chain reactions amidst an expanding network of collaborators that course out in seemingly inexhaustible manifestations, mutations and iterations. Slave Pianos, Punkasila, Pipeline to Oblivion: 3 Projects by Danius Kesminas and Collaborators (5 May – 23 July 2011), curated by Monash University Museum of Art’s Director, Max Delany, provides a raucous rendition of three of his major projects to-date.

Pipeline to Oblivion 2011 serves up an explosive blend of folk art, music, dissident production processes and a DYI mentality, all doused in a good soaking of moonshine liquor. In a distillation of a deliciously preposterous instance of backyard ingenuity in which a three kilometre pipeline for smuggling black market vodka in from neighbouring Belarus was discovered by Lithuanian authorities in 2004, Kesminas presents a pipe organ fashioned from PVC water pipes and other repurposed household equipment which also doubles as a fully functioning vodka still. Resembling the Lithuanian folk instrument, the skudučiai, this automated device pumps out the traditional drinking song Gerkit Gerkit, Broliukai (Drink Brothers, Drink) at regular intervals. The high spiritedness of proceedings is hampered somewhat by a cluster of paintings adorning the gallery walls which appropriate 1930s Lithuania posters promoting abstinence. Nearby, a bust of the Bishop Motiejus Valančius – a teetotaller who led the popular temperance movement in Lithuania in the mid 19th century – watches sombrely over proceedings.

As Boris Kremer evocatively attests, “If vodka is culture, and no doubt it is, then Kesminas’ still is the neo-rustic version of the alchemists’ melting pot and the art it spurts out is the panacea against museum fatigue.”1 Kesminas utilises the “social lubricants” of music, drink and subversive humour to grease the wheels of ethnographic encounters and the projects that they engender.2 Mining the crude cultural caricature of the vodka swilling Eastern European, this work reveals some sobering insights into the way the vodka trade flows through the history of Lithuania and its relations with neighbouring Slavic countries.3 The underground pipeline also functions as a potent emblem of economic and political concerns of contemporary Lithuania, as the recent increased demand for black market spirits is just one up-shot of massive inflation linked to the nation’s entry into the European Union in 2004. 4

Each of Kesminas’ projects is anchored by his role as agent provocateur. In a documentary video in Pipeline to Oblivion for example, he and a small film crew scour the streets of Eišiškės, a remote Lithuanian village, approaching locals to help orientate them in relation to a map of the underground network they have. At one point Kesminas even presents this map to Vytautas Landsbergis, Lithuania’s first head of state and later its representative to the European Parliament, asking him what he knows about the fabled network.5 This seemingly earnest attempt to locate and verify the existence of the system is, in fact, based on a ruse as the map is a highly speculative fabrication created by the artist. Here Kesminas’ irreverent cultural incitements come across as an affectionate in-joke in large part because of his own Lithuanian heritage, a lineage made evident to the viewer by his effortless grasp of the language (an old world version inherited from his grandparents) and numerous references to local diasporic manifestations of the culture, such as the inclusion in the installation of a painting borrowed from Melbourne’s iconic Lithuanian Club.

In Punkasila however, Kesminas takes on the role of the cultural interloper. This “high octane” punk band was formed as a kind of contingent structural improvisation – a tactic to penetrate a culture and country he had no real knowledge of whilst on residency in Yogyakarta, Indonesia in 2006.6 In a parodic nod to Malcolm McLaren he set about handpicking a ‘Super Group’ scouted from the vibrant local music scene.7 Their status as an art collective/punk band has seen them play across diverse forums – from official art events such as the Tenth Biennale of Havana in Cuba in 2009 to local music mainstays such as Melbourne’s Ding Dong Lounge.

Punkasila’s moniker riffs off Pancasila– a five prong ideology devised in the Sukarno era (1945–65) as the new order of Indonesian nationhood. The band makes further playful gestures to the state apparatus in Post-reformasi Indonesia through their irreverent embrace of military motifs. In the installation at MUMA we find alongside the obligatory paraphernalia accompanying any self respecting rock group – t-shirts, video clips, promotional posters, comics and even business cards – a sprawling bricolage of objects ripped from Indonesia’s cottage industries – custom-made mahogany guitars carved to resemble M–16s and AK–47s, camouflage fatigues fabricated from batik, hand painted bollywood style banners, and most strikingly a Garuda (Indonesia’s national emblem) plastered with band’s insignia and gripping their iconic gun guitar. These objects attest to a hyper-collaborative effort involving countless Indonesian crafts people and artisans.

Kesminas’ role amidst all this energetic Indo-centric production is slightly perplexing, what is this middle aged Australian man doing thrashing about with all these young Indonesian punks? He is brazen about this cultural disconnect and promotes the fact that he does not speak the language of his fellow band members and has only a rudimentary knowledge of their country’s political history gleaned from a copy of Damien Kingsbury’s The Politics of Indonesia.8 Rather than being “paralysed by taboos”, Punkasila instead embraces the generative potential of this culture clash.9 Kesminas claims there is a certain artistic license afforded to him as the “White Buffoon”, ignorant to Indonesian customs and cultural sensitivities, which allows Punkasila to sidestep political and cultural embargos, such as in their appropriation of the Garuda Pancasila.10

The productive miscommunications, linguistic slippages and chance formulations which occur in the personal intercultural space occupied by the band translates into their broader strategy of “semiotic guerrilla warfare” – with their song titles and lyrics consisting solely of Indonesian acronyms of government, military and religious organisations. These official insignias are recast as rousing new idioms; KORPRI (Civil Servants Corp of the Republic of Indonesia) becomes Korak Pringisan (Smiling Criminals); while RPKAD (Army Para-commando Regiment) is reinterpreted as Rampung Kenthu Anake Duwekmu (Let’s Have Sex! But the child will be yours). In the proud punk tradition, these seemingly juvenile semiotic shifts perform a poignant emptying out of state, religious and moral imperatives. As anthropologist Dick Hebdige suggests we should not underestimate the signifying power of the spectacular subculture, “as an actual mechanism of semantic disorder: a kind of temporary blockage in the system of representation”11.

An assault on the symbolic order is launched on an entirely different front in the remaining section of the exhibition by Slave Pianos – a collective of artists and musicians Rohan Drape, Neil Kelly, Danius Kesminas and Michael Stevenson. Slave Pianos’ central mission is the recuperation of a range of avant-garde works using the protocol of the classical cannon. Archiving and transcribing these works into musical scores, the conversion exchanges the currency of radical singularity for repeatable legibility. This should not be seen as a complete taming of the original materials however for it also offers them the possibility of new and unimagined articulations. This long running project has seen Slave Pianos collaborate with a varied ensemble of musicians, artists, actors and writers in constructing and presenting these scores in a cacophony of operas, concerts and performances across the globe.

In a schlocky rendition of Cold War aesthetics, Slave Pianos presents The Execution Protocol III: Mutually Assured Production (The MAP room) 2007–11 at MUMA, an installation which situates the viewer inside a ‘war room’ containing an oversized computer terminal tracking data on an adjacent wall-map of the globe and connected to large scale electric chair in which a 19th century piano attached to a computer controlled solenoid device sits waiting passively. Viewers are invited to sentence an avant-garde artist to death by selecting them from a list of names on the console – at which point biographical data about the artist appears on the monitor and their movements plotted on the map. In a particularly perverse form of persecution these experimental trailblazers are then sent to their death as the mechanised piano ‘executes’ their work in automated tones.

Whilst an irreverent play on the artistic aura of the avant-garde, the work also functions as a form of homage – an animated archive of a diverse range of conceptual practices. Not only concerned with the artistic itinerary of individuals, the work can be seen to track the topography of complex networks of avant-garde production across the globe. As Max Delany observes, “Cartographic mapping – extending the tradition of Fluxus’ genealogical diagrams and the psycho-geographic cartography of the Situationists – is a feature of Slave Pianos’ methodology”12. In positioning local artists such as John Nixon and Ronnie van Hout alongside international luminaries such as Martin Creed, Nam June Paik and Yoko Ono, Slave Pianos provokes their audience to envisage artistic links, nods and reverberations across time and space. Thus, in each of the projects exhibited Kesminas and his collaborators can be seen to chart the subterranean cultural flows which refuse to be contained by national borders or official channels.

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To come out touching nothing but a piano, or Coding Down, by John C. Welchman

To come out touching nothing but a piano, or Coding Down

by John C. Welchman

He had a perfervidly morbid sense of music and especially of what a piano can do as a co-conspirator in the production of imaginative improvisation: “it was the piano, the instrument of solitary intimacy that was and that in the future would often be his principal confidant.“1 But more than this, his piano improvisations occasioned frenzied, oracular outbursts, and wild hallucinations “conjuring up the underworld,” for example, in the company of Richard Wagner’s capaciously superstitious wife.2 Recalling musical compositions from his early teens, he referred to their dark ethos as”the blackest and most radical things I know in raven-black music." He wrote of the “torturing” of the piano by the despondent possession of youth— “to the point of drawing from it cries of despair“—hands ‘heaving up’”the mire of the most dismal gray-brown harmonies." To what might this give rise? Well, surely, inevitably, the sense of “how one is recognized, as a pessimist."3

More surprisingly, Nietzsche also thought about the redistribution of music in small, corporeal increments (“truly everything good in music should be able to be whistled”); about the specific gravity and sheer mass of the piano (“Germans have never known how to sing and lug their pianos along with them everywhere”);4 about the converting power of re-scoring for piano (“from the moment there was a piano score of Tristan … I was a Wagnerian”);5 about the prophylactic capacity of the piano ward off sexual depredations (of a visit to a brothel in Bonn during his college years he famously remarked that he “came out touching nothing but a piano”);6 and even about the forms of servitude to which, rightly or wrongly, music might be given: “Modern music is just the progressive withering away of the melodic sense. Melody, as the ultimate and most sublime art of art, obeys logical principles that our anarchists would like to decry as slavery."7

Writing somewhat in the gap between the era of the piano and the new age of its mechanical surrogate, the pianola, Nietzsche offers us an almost alarmingly perspicacious critical panorama of the defaults, seductions and dangers of the instrument and of its place in the history of both music and modernity. Almost everything that attaches to or will befall the piano as well as the possible fate of its removal from the sphere of touch is hinted at here—along with a few untimely meditations that venture much further afield such as those referring to sexuality, darkness, pessimism and slavery itself. One of the lessons I want to draw out here concerns the reconfiguration of “originality” that underwrites the philosopher’s relationship to a musical “master,” which he recalibrates as a form of incorporation. Prompted by the piano redaction of Parsifal in July 1882, Nietzsche realizes “how deeply under Wagner’s influence he has come, and how difficult it is for him to shake it off”—a realization that gives rise to “true shock” at the extent of the closeness of their musical relation. Nietzsche’s reaction is not to “rid” himself of some unwanted over-determination but to work through and beyond the “incorporation” by digesting it into a form of resistance.8 The lineaments of this move—reduction (or recoding), influence, incorporation, and resistance—provide a model, it seems to me, of the negotiation of Slave Pianos with the double bind of avant-garde mastery and improvisation—with the difference, perhaps, that Nietzsche’s pessimism is replaced by humor and irony (not that they are lacking in Nietzsche elsewhere—or, for that matter, that they aren’t sometimes “dark” in the work of Slave Pianos).

Nietzsche gives us something more urgent and discutable than those who railed against (or more rarely advocated for) the pianola during its popular ascendancy in the first decades of the twentieth century. In the context of his tart lamentation that “The pianola ‘replaces’ Sappho’s barbitos,”9 Ezra Pound, for example, asserted his general distaste for the lack of ‘dignity’ engendered by those forms of art that depend “on too great a mechanical element in [their] execution.” “I think the organ has given way to the piano,” he continued, “largely because the organ is too mechanical. The pianola is worse, and should be relegated to seaside dance halls … .”10 But Pound also notices an important continuity between technique, repetition and mechanical destiny in which the piano is also implicated: for “the more a piano is ‘played,’ and perhaps the better it is played, the more it resembles a railroad train or a pianola.”11

If Pound is a—somewhat exceptionalist—critic of what one commentator referred to as “the pianola’s place in the emerging culture of simulation,”12 the creative annexation of the pianola for avant-garde purposes is a distinctively minoritarian enthusiasm, whose rare proponents in the first three decades of the 20th century include Igor Stravinsky, George Antheil, and Paul Hindemith. Stravinsky’s commitment to mechanically reproduced pianistic effects can be dated to his first attendance at the Aeolian Hall in London in 1914, which was followed by his composition in 1917 of a study for pianola for the Aeolian Company in the same city, performed in October 1921 at the Aeolian Hall and “subsequently published as roll #T–967B.” As Thomas Y Levin notes, “in 1923 … he signed a six-year contract with Pleyel in Paris to record his entire opus on pianola rolls.” Stravinsky’s essay, “My Position on the Phonograph Record” (1930) “calls not only for recording practices that take advantage of the plastic capabilities of phonographic reproduction, as the composer claims to have done in his records for the Columbia label … [but] also insists that ‘it would be a of the greatest interest to produce music specifically for photographic reproduction, a music which would only attain its true image—its original sound—through mechanical reproduction. This is probably the ultimate goal for the gramophonic composer of the future’”13 Another method of experimental mechanical composition involved direct marking on the pianola scrolls and was “demonstrated as early as 1926 at a ‘Festival of Mechnical Music’ in Donaueschingen where Ernst Toch and Gerhard Münch had composed pieces in this manner for a Welte-Mignon pianola. These works were ‘performed’ by Paul Hindemith (who serviced the machine) together with a similarly generated work by Hindemith that served as an accompaniment to Oskar Schlemmer’s ‘Triadic Ballet.’”14

Nietzsche’s thought burrows right under the bookends of disavowal and appropriation—and the popular approbation between them—that mark out the signifying territory of the pianola in the first half of the 20th century. When it surfaces, if, in fact, it does, it has the uncanny capacity to undermine what is probably the only other profound philosophical engagement with these coordinates—in the writings of Theodor Adorno. One dimension of Adorno’s thought departs, conceptually, from where Stravinsky and others left off—in practices that committed themselves to the materiality of reproduction. Slave Pianos, of course, would add the conceptual to the material, and in this sense stand on Adorno’s shoulders. What he argues offers to redefine the very conditions of music: “Anyone who has ever recognized the steadily growing compulsion that, at least during the last fifty years, both musical notation and the configuration of the musical score have imposed on compositions (the pejorative expression ‘paper music’ betrays this dramatically) will not be surprised if one day a reversal of the following sort occurs: music, previously conveyed by writing, suddenly itself turns into writing.” There are costs associated with this move, of course, the most evident of which is music’s vaunted “immediacy”; but there is also “the hope that, once fixed in this way, it will some day become readable as the ‘last remaining universal language since the construction of the tower,’ a language whose determined yet encrypted expressions are contained in each of its ‘phrases’ [satz].”15 Adorno’s misplaced musico-linguistic utopianism, notwithstanding, the encrypted expression that resounds from each of the associative units of a re-encoded music offers a new mode for the ‘standing-in’ of sound, which in its way revolutionizes the whole process of ‘sounding-out.’

This innovative place can redescribed as the antithesis of a competitive musical universalism—based in fact on the overlay of multiple immediacies—that also reached fever pitch around the same time as the pianola: synaesthesia. The cross-over between color and sound (grapheme-color and tone-color synaesthesia are the dominant couplets in the literature on synaesthetic experience) negotiated by Wassily Kandinsky, the Lithuanian Mikalojus Konstantinas Čiurlionis and others is dependent on a deeply internalized reinflection of perceptual information that recent research has related to connective re-sequencing at the neural level.16 The operational scene of synaesthesia is, therefore, paralinguistic in the sense that its switching system is activated prior to the subject’s eventuation through socially coded expressions such as language. The work of Slave Pianos reverses this apparent order, so that their recouplings of sound and image are staged in the coded spaces of language and its traditions, thus deflecting, even parodying, the experiential short-circuiting, and psychological innatism of modernist (or clinical) synaesthesia. To the legacy, then, of iconographic and compositional interaction, and the inheritance of synaesthetic re-envisioning, Slavepianos helps to create a new formation for the system of exchanges between the visual, the musical and linguistic based on the scrambling, repetition, and spacing of their collision as codification.17

It has to be said that Adorno sometimes turns back on himself—perhaps so far back that he risks morphing into the alter persona of Pound—when he impugns the depersonalization or dehumanization of mechanical and later electronic music in the genealogy that reaches from Stravinsky to Stockhausen. But, yes, Slave Pianos is an apparatus of capture in the guise of a tintinnabulating Trojan Horse. Its captivity narrative is literal in multiple dimensions—in the sense that the pianos are enslaved, transported, condemned and hung; in the sense that pianos are made up of plural lengths of lethal wire, that they are both highly strung and strung up; and in the sense that the slave piano is defined by its taking, or being taken: by the capacity of the project to produce capacity through appropriation or archival redistribution or nomadic replay.


Slave Pianos, The Execution Protocol (III), Work (Credits)

  1. Installation photographs: Christian Capurro