Rehearsal for a New Objects 

A conversation between Madison Bycroft & Mikala Dwyer


The objectX is a single point prone to dissemination. Its surface blurs at the

edges and has infinite tails, like those of a tadpole or comet that trail in

every direction and gradually fade into phosphorescence, then




Our trailing utterance could begin to take shape


I would tell you its diameter (when positioned at vanishing

point, it appears spherical), but it mostly expresses outside properties

obedient to outside laws. ObjectX is coloured beyond the spectrum of

black, and when experienced without time shines gold. ObjectX is

populated with rhizomatic rivulets of hot, ever-decaying Francium,

rendering it uselessly fragile.


Shape shuffles around object x insisting on engaged disorganisation.

No fucking tigers here just a small white pig and it glows as it breathes in.


From a human perspective, its body is

terrestrially differentiated, but the dark side, the back side is celestially

mattered. X viewed from the front at breakfast is a different X to that in


profile at lunch.


You mentioned the celestial dark side or was that dark mattered celestial back side,

Arse end of the stars?

Back to of on in by under object x.  


It demands redescription, eternally, an entanglement only

fixed for an attosecond through our optical fixedness.

I want to hear the colours


of course, but the brown is muted with confusion as to who it really is and was. It (but the kind of it that is not limited by expectations) wants to make itself heard,

a self referencing kind of brown. But it struggles to shape any sound of itself because it is always already more than itself. A body of malleable others, permeable foreskin, that are at once the shade and the mud.


Yes, yes ! crystallising brown fecal sounds revelling behind the stars

igniting the shushing slush, brown becomes blue shimmer into yellow gold and the shadowless creatures burn.


mud cooled by shade, and evaded by tidy muck less pigs, shadowless, no matter

which time of day.


As they burn and their sooty shadows are born back and blackness.

And its really really quiet now. 

Not a humming colour seen. 


glows as its breathes. 

glowas itbreathes. 

glosasi tibreathes. 

glossai dibreath. 

glossali debrea. 

glossolalia debri. glossolalia debri. glossolalia debri, crystalizing brown fecal sounds revelling behind the stars. The spirit is in the rhythm. the spirit is in the rhythm, and footholes in the hum. 


Not a humming colour seen.


Join us. I don’t want to exclude. 

and all the X’s in the texts margins must be affirmative, whilst the tigers fuck beyond meridians to a sublime vocabulullaby.


Soft soot sucking up all the colours and swallowing light into fatness of dense solid spook.

 spookness is being cut and cutting - performing separations , making sounds out of shapes that might be words.


The tongue licks itself.  

Out of holes come the sound shapes , stinking thoughtforms that cool into lines and underlines and dots...



and then tonight i couldn’t remember what the underlines meant anyway.  

totally scatty right now with no end to that insight. Or completely remove words or estrange them.  

Or completely pavement remove or estrange them.


the word is its object is its word is what its talking about is its name is to what the name refers to (repeat sign) 

And so x is all language underlined. Harvest. Consume. Trickery and mischief prance, and napoleon falls off his horse. Coded drool.


abstract forms arbitrarily attributed to sounds

I wonder, Mikala, how to access with thought, that which is not governed by thought. Signs seep up, the body might know. The way through the mountains is guided, slipped things reciprocate from the shadows without announcing it. The mountains collaborate.


Mountains puddle into pavements, freeways and cloud memories rise in heat and tar. 


But we mustn't forget the back leg with the sooty foot always on the other side, the mountainous hole and the hole in the mountain, it's big toe, masturbatory and twinkling.


spookness is being cut and cutting - performing separations , making sounds out of shapes that might be words. 


You're right, No incision is without gristle. Cut, cutting and the cutter too.

 And those the sounds can not content any form, wild growls beyond the letter Z, Y or X. Diagonals, forks and crossroads are only provisional. What marks can we turn to can we turn to any marks? Draw an unseen symbol here ____________, And then In the lowest voice u can muster, say "the anthropological machine is broke, it swallowed my money!" and then the parliament is in uproar because there can't be something more beyond inclusions and exclusion.

Madison Bycroft,  Synonym for Savages  (detail), 2014, Australian Experimental Art Foundation, courtesy of the artist

Madison Bycroft, Synonym for Savages (detail), 2014, Australian Experimental Art Foundation, courtesy of the artist


Marks scratching, clicking, swishing, some wet some electric. That electricity crackled in space hovering from the bed of the dead one. She could make no marks other than blowing up the speakers.


Give me an edge only so that I know when I cross it. And who knows what is being communicated there in the free fall. It's not a free for all.


And that shifting edge only for the purposes of crossing is that need also for pleasure in fear. To play in change.


Tea leaves and the wind and sap, lightning intuition and love when your nerves freak out a bit and oily recesses of the earth and silt that moves to its own rhythm, Shapes and triangular vibrations, And the poppleki and tikolantern, the klud and the kuttlethi.


The speakers sat dumb in fear but a pleasuring of fear

The tikolantern could it be used at this threshold?

Perhaps illuminating into a bath of immense kuttlethi, where gravity presses like mercury


It's like this:

Next time u are in a bath or similar large body of water, listen to that moment of sound as your ears go under. now imagine that the sound inscribes itself for aeons.

2. Entirely submerge your ears so that they might be like water in water. Slowly, softly, rub the top of the ears.


But the vapours are becoming popplekies , solid little things that vomit vowels


And even as exchanged sounds muted to light, becoming sans serif as their serifs trail, wet, in the retching marshes. Dead mud sucking on all index of thought,

Calling for a boycott. Close your eyes, don't think, but after the end allow thoughts.




Mikala Dwyer,  Garden of Half Life , 2014, Sydney University Gallery, photo: Alejandra Canales, courtesy of the artist

Mikala Dwyer, Garden of Half Life, 2014, Sydney University Gallery, photo: Alejandra Canales, courtesy of the artist


Madison Bycroft a multidisciplinary artist from Adelaide, South Australia living and working in Rotterdam, the Netherlands.

Mikala Dwyer is an installation, sculpture and performance artist in Sydney, New South Wales.

Issue 2: ANIMISM, May 2015.