cross-posted from: https://lemmy.dbzer0.com/post/57650378
20x9.5 inches. This was my favourite sculpture there I'll say.
Can a man not consume human flesh without being judged for once lol
I'm posting some local art by upcoming artists you'll probably never see elsewhere over on !visualarts@lemmy.dbzer0.com
Also hated by modern Indians then
Saves on tax
How can I send you my money??
**What happens when love itself becomes a form of waste management? **
This is a portrait of the failure of distinction between what is wasted and what is “recyclable,” between love as pure gift and love as transaction.
Two armless mannequins kissing in a trashcan, this is not simply “trash art,” no, it is the purest materialization of the contemporary impasse of love under late capitalism.
Let’s begin with the obvious obscenity (yes ive been reading too much zizek): the kiss in the trashcan. It is not just that love here is “trash,” something thrown away — it is that love, when it is genuine, when it gives without expecting return, is structurally trash.
It cannot be recycled, cannot be reinserted into the symbolic economy of exchange. When you love, you lose an arm, because you give without measure. The armless mannequins embody this impossibility of holding, of possessing the Other. Their kiss, confined in a trashcan, is the remainder of a gesture that no longer belongs to the order of usefulness.
Like all true love, it is obscene in its uselessness.
But then — beside it — the recycling bin. With trash and mannequin legs. The legs are crucial — they are the organs of movement. They are what allows the subject to go somewhere AND to return, to complete an exchange. To “give your legs,” in this sense, is to give only a part of yourself and to expect it to 're-enter circulation'. To give you productive value.
The recycling bin is thus the perfect allegory for consumerist love, where love and consumerist products are one and the same, where even intimacy is a system of return: you give in order to receive, you recycle your emotions, hoping they will come back in a purified form just as we expect from our products.
So love has been contaminated by waste — desire itself has become polluted.
Here “authentic giving” and “productive exchange” have disintegratedd. Even our attempts to “recycle love,” to make it sustainable, are revealed as obscene. The leg, detached from the mannequin’s body, is no longer a symbol of movement but a fetishized fragment, a commodity of desire without wholeness.
Thus, the entire scene performs the commodification of the gift. The trashcan kiss — pure, useless love — sits beside its own mirror: a recycling bin that pretends to restore value but only produces dismembered remains.
So in late capitalism, even our trash is asked to be productive, to “come back” as something new. Yet love, real love, cannot be recycled. It must remain a remainder, a waste — the excess that escapes every system.
It is also crucial that they are mannequins because mannequins embody the paradox of the human under capitalism — they are perfect imitations of people, yet utterly empty, subjects reduced to pure form without interiority. Their presence exposes love and desire as already commodified gestures, rehearsed poses of intimacy with no flesh, no vulnerability. When these hollow consumer objects attempt to love — armless, plastic, discarded — the act becomes tragic: even the symbols of consumption try to transcend their function, to feel something real. But precisely because they are mannequins, their kiss is doomed to remain a simulation — a love scene without life, revealing how the machinery of consumer desire has replaced the human capacity to feel with the glossy shell of it.
To love is not to circulate but to cease circulation — to accept loss without return, to dwell in the trashcan. It is there, among the discarded mannequins, that the only authentic intimacy survives.
**What happens when love itself becomes a form of waste management? **
This is a portrait of the failure of distinction between what is wasted and what is “recyclable,” between love as pure gift and love as transaction.
Two armless mannequins kissing in a trashcan, this is not simply “trash art,” no, it is the purest materialization of the contemporary impasse of love under late capitalism.
Let’s begin with the obvious obscenity (yes ive been reading too much zizek): the kiss in the trashcan. It is not just that love here is “trash,” something thrown away — it is that love, when it is genuine, when it gives without expecting return, is structurally trash.
It cannot be recycled, cannot be reinserted into the symbolic economy of exchange. When you love, you lose an arm, because you give without measure. The armless mannequins embody this impossibility of holding, of possessing the Other. Their kiss, confined in a trashcan, is the remainder of a gesture that no longer belongs to the order of usefulness.
Like all true love, it is obscene in its uselessness.
But then — beside it — the recycling bin. With trash and mannequin legs. The legs are crucial — they are the organs of movement. They are what allows the subject to go somewhere AND to return, to complete an exchange. To “give your legs,” in this sense, is to give only a part of yourself and to expect it to 're-enter circulation'. To give you productive value.
The recycling bin is thus the perfect allegory for consumerist love, where love and consumerist products are one and the same, where even intimacy is a system of return: you give in order to receive, you recycle your emotions, hoping they will come back in a purified form just as we expect from our products.
So love has been contaminated by waste — desire itself has become polluted.
Here “authentic giving” and “productive exchange” have disintegratedd. Even our attempts to “recycle love,” to make it sustainable, are revealed as obscene. The leg, detached from the mannequin’s body, is no longer a symbol of movement but a fetishized fragment, a commodity of desire without wholeness.
Thus, the entire scene performs the commodification of the gift. The trashcan kiss — pure, useless love — sits beside its own mirror: a recycling bin that pretends to restore value but only produces dismembered remains.
So in late capitalism, even our trash is asked to be productive, to “come back” as something new. Yet love, real love, cannot be recycled. It must remain a remainder, a waste — the excess that escapes every system.
It is also crucial that they are mannequins because mannequins embody the paradox of the human under capitalism — they are perfect imitations of people, yet utterly empty, subjects reduced to pure form without interiority. Their presence exposes love and desire as already commodified gestures, rehearsed poses of intimacy with no flesh, no vulnerability. When these hollow consumer objects attempt to love — armless, plastic, discarded — the act becomes tragic: even the symbols of consumption try to transcend their function, to feel something real. But precisely because they are mannequins, their kiss is doomed to remain a simulation — a love scene without life, revealing how the machinery of consumer desire has replaced the human capacity to feel with the glossy shell of it.
To love is not to circulate but to cease circulation — to accept loss without return, to dwell in the trashcan. It is there, among the discarded mannequins, that the only authentic intimacy survives.
Oh my god that could be at an art exhibit
Welcome!
Its a nice place to be. Literally 0 drama. Great part of being away from the political and tech instances.
Never had one bad experience here. Very fun place. You'll have a good time I'm sure.
Salman Rushdie is gonna start crying one of these days
The Rim of Morning, Two Tales of Cosmic Horror by William Sloane.
In the 1930s, William Sloane wrote two brilliant novels that gave a whole new meaning to cosmic horror. In To Walk the Night, Bark Jones and his college buddy Jerry Lister, a science whiz, head back to their alma mater to visit a cherished professor of astronomy. They discover his body, consumed by fire, in his laboratory, and an uncannily beautiful young widow in his house—but nothing compares to the revelation that Jerry and Bark encounter in the deserts of Arizona at the end of the book. In The Edge of Running Water, Julian Blair, a brilliant electrophysicist, has retired to a small town in remotest Maine after the death of his wife. His latest experiments threaten to shake up the town, not to mention the universe itself.
This has been a lovely experience here folks.
It's been a wonderful time sharing this space with all of you.
I'd first like to extend my thanks to @gabe@literature.cafe and @Arthur@literature.cafe. I seem to recall it being just Gabe when this all started, and I appreciate your work.
What I've truly cherished is the quiet, easy flow of this community—the fact that everything has run so smoothly without the need for constant formal discussion. It speaks volumes about the democratic and respectful nature of this instance. I don't think I've once talked to the admins here.
I stumbled upon this instance quite by chance, and even though I had an account elsewhere, the concept was so compelling that I felt moved to contribute something of value here, which is why I started this community.
Since then, so many have generously contributed. A special, heartfelt thank you goes out to those who share their own writing and pour their creative energy into this space. I have read and reread every single piece of original writing posted here.
I also deeply appreciate the members who keep the conversation going and look after the community during my absences. (Which I do apologise for, I can leave the place dormant occasionally.)
It’s truly gratifying to see how much this community has grown to become a core part of this instance. Thank you all for making it what it is.
Not that this tiny number means anything, but Lemmy communities actually ha e a special place in my heart.
Love, Lacanoodle.
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Brilliant fucking question that I have no answer for lol