Three graces in cakey makeup emerge from the lake. Their true colours shine through the mélange of twitching pixels. Rainbow eye wash, glitch glitter, data shockwaves sent down the spine, RGB and D&G, and KKW BB, medium coverage, effectively protects skin from harmful UVA and UVB rays. He smiles and receives a bottle to his head, a milkshake jizz into the face. Coverage from the purgatory of an influencer’s retreat, a puppy parlour scoop, a mall transmission. If you’re not currently exploding online, you’re pretty much non-existent — you can keep your nondescript integrity. So many angels waiting in the heavens to be sent down to Earth, pre-big-bang.
ZAP!* We gathered here today to celebrate the work of Jake Brush, a beloved artist and performer. His videos and installations are characterised by a zany* blend of glitz and trash — visual, linguistic, and material. They both feed and are fed by the underlying drive that animates the media industry: voyeurism — along with its twin affects, cringe and schadenfreude, which represent a masochistic and sadistic pleasure, respectively, drawn from witnessing others’ failure. Hate-watching kills time. Brush does not pretend to know all the answers or hold the right morals, unapologetically smashing together different values and POVs. He is interested in everything that’s ‘problematic’ — a word we use when we’re afraid to say something is ‘predatory’, ‘exploitative’, or just ‘fucking dumb’ — and in the ‘ugly’ side we rarely want to look at or admit to looking at, the side responsible for low instincts and low entertainment. The shame economy of taste is lubricated by those guilty pleasures no one acknowledges enjoying. Here, desire and self-image live in an uneasy truce. But also, so much socialisation occurs through mockery and shaming. There is a sense of togetherness to trashing someone — gathering in front of the TV, a new episode of ‘Idol’, microwave toasts, watching delusional wannabes getting smashed by a performatively critical jury, and chewing on the gummy amalgam of white bread, cheese, and ketchup. In Hasselt, which takes pride in calling itself the capital of taste, Brush’s work brings in something of a different, soapy flavour.
ZAP! In his videos, Brush summons a recurring cast of characters and props: detergents and degenerates. Less performing, more enacting, he channels early aughts TV personalities and micro-celebrities from his hometown to whom he has a tangential connection: a former child star, a pet store owner turned TV host, a dietician-cult-leader, and other surface-active agents. A digital archive of personalities from the golden era of television, a Long Island pantheon of stars, people on the verge of breakthrough or breakdown.
Manias, tantrums, backbiting — vibe swings as fast as editing, split screen and split personalities. Casually slipping in references to conspiracy theories. Cable to cabal. Those who know, know. Did they have any issues growing up? Just anorexia. Who is worthy of empathy? Whom is it socially acceptable to hate?
Things that are tacky and tasteless to some are edgy to others. One woman’s trash is another woman’s treasure. Trash with thrush. Candidiasis on candid camera. Let’s not go there. Some are afraid of sexually active postmenopausal women. What comes after post-irony? What’s the era-appropriate age-appropriateness of today? Are you an Adult Child of Emotionally Immature Parents? Self-Discovery Questions for Personal Growth. Question 2: What’s my purpose in life?
ZAP! The problem with parafiction, autofiction, and other semi-fictional artistic strategies in the era of fake news is that they tend to deploy the same logic as the phenomena they criticise. In that context, paradoxically, explicit hyper-artificiality might be seen as more authentic, even honest. ‘Birds aren’t real’ becoming real. Caricature-to-conspiracy pipeline. I mean — why not? Each advance in image-making technology is bound to a military advancement, and carrier pigeons were used for surveillance during the Cold War. Details of pigeon missions are still classified. Whatever subversive potential culture had it’s been pacified, co-opted by capital and turned into merch. EVERYTHING MUST GO. Time waits for no one. YOLO.
ZAP! Slipping in and out of characters, Brush combines the scripted with the unscripted — the appropriated, chewed-up lingo of confessionals, business seminars and life coaching, therapy talk and YouTube apologies with his vibe-sensing and improvisation. Besides prosthetics, wigs, make-up, and carefully crafted fits, language becomes another suit to slip into. Corpse linguistics.
The collapse of language unfolded alongside the retail apocalypse. Correlation does not imply causation — except when it does. Junkspace has moved online, that ‘fuzzy empire of blur, fusing high and low, public and private, straight and bent, bloated and starved’ (Rem Koolhaas). Brush picks up on different idiolects and linguistic codes, stock language from social media and TV, and he flarfs* and vocal fries his way through this material.
ZAP!Video is such a potent medium because it devours all other media. Everything’s image, everything’s surface. Brush’s videos bring together different aspects of his artistic practice: installation, sculptures, costumes, makeup, text, and performance. He is involved on every production level — as a writer, actor, scenographer, director, and editor. It’s filmmaking as freak fighting — a spectacle of struggle with low budget, limited expertise, and idea overload. DIY aesthetics combined with digital effects added in post like glue sticking disparate parts together, or like colorful bandages (his words). There is a certain honesty to leaning into the cheap, the staged, foregrounding the contemporary economy of image making.
Video devours and through it, we devour everything. Here is a brief disambiguation of contemporary expressions related to media consumption: ‘I heard somewhere’ — ‘I saw on TikTok’; ‘a great documentary’ — ‘a YouTube video essay’; ‘I read’ — ‘reels infographics’.
ZAP! Humour is the area exempted from the usual social norms and moral constraints. And sure, at times even court jesters faced the axe, but overall, ‘just kidding’ is a good excuse to avoid a beating. Comedy and parody operate with generic codes that serve as a container for whatever it is that needs to be said — whatever shocking, confessional, or uncomfortable things need to be expelled. It may feel cathartic.
I had to think of that guy on YouTube hand-crafting an insanely meticulous diorama of the moment Mel Gibson was arrested for drunk driving. So many hours devoted to this laborious medium — traditionally reserved for museum models. This totally absurd, tiny moment in the history of pop-cultural gossip, suddenly took on so many potent layers of signification. Then he put it in a box, buried it, and organised a treasure hunt for his followers. Gold.
Humour is a great equaliser: it makes it possible to relativise difficult issues; but it also does the reverse: irony, a specific flavour of humour, is the fig leaf we wear to make unserious pleasure appear serious — like ironically enjoying something or hate-watching a bad series. Humour is one of the few known antidotes to the cruel optimism* of the fantasy of the good life, aka the American Dream.
ZAP! Brush tells me his entry into culture, like many of us, was through television. In our lifetime, broadcasting was substituted by streaming. Yet that aura of uniquely televisual formats — game and talent shows, reality TV, para-documentaries, televangelism — operating not on the level of information but of affect, persists and haunts. He is interested in the disintegration and, at the same time, the lasting impact of that culture, its aesthetics, and its economy. Those productions were cheap, exploitative, and abundant. For a shot at fame, many would participate for free (insert an art parallel here? Too cheap?). His work amplifies that legacy, using the tools, tactics, and vernacular of our social media era — drawing from the culture of ubiquitous content creation. Brush calls his work ‘fan art’ for the golden age of television. I call it methadone for scroll addicts.
ZAP! These images are undead, exhumed from the TV cemetery and returned as gifs, reels, and memes. Beyond the original medium and its constraints, the images, once produced under conditions of limited choice — where the golden standard was the ‘Least Objectionable Option’ — return to haunt us in the economy of instant access. Anything, anytime, anywhere — and somehow, everything feels like shit. ‘The Rise of the Creative Class’ always already sounded like the name of a zombie apocalypse film. We should have known better.
Poor images are everywhere. Decapitalised, demonetised, compressed over and over. History teaches us that those disenfranchised eventually rise. History is on their side. Poor images are on a warpath; they’ve learnt to reproduce, self-generate. We live in a paradoxical time of abundance and lack — with countless images without referents and countless people without representation (paraphrasing Hito Steyerl). They’re flooding the zone. No beeldenstorm can stop them. This is image accelerationism par excellence. The only way to survive is as an image — to become iconic, lossless, non-fungible.
– Alicja Melzacka
*cruel optimism: according to Laurent Berlant names ‘a relation of attachment to compromised conditions of possibility.’
flarf (noun): ‘A quality of intentional or unintentional “flarfiness.” A kind of corrosive, cute, or cloying, awfulness. Wrong. Un‑P.C. Out of control’ (see: flarf poetry).
zaniness: according to Sianne Ngai, is one of the dominant contemporary aesthetic categories, ‘one highlighting the affect, libido, physicality; evoking the production of affects and social relationship as it comes to increasingly trouble the distinction between work and play. A laborious involvement from which ironic detachment is not an option.’
zap (verb): ‘to rapidly change from one channel to another using a remote control device; to deliver a blow; to kill someone or something.’