As of the 26th of January some of the Gate's artwork from Jackie C, Clare, Leonard and some group work was put on display as part of an art exhibition in Basel Switzerland, see below for the press release and pictures from the curator.
Jugend ist Trunkenheit ohne Wein
by Julian-Jakob Kneer at BIKINI
Last night, stepping over empty lotion bottles and syrup stains, spray-painted leather insides sprawled
across the carpet floor, bent down to peel a shred of dignity from the sole of your foot, clawing at your
keds with bitten fingernails, fingertips really, the thing popped. Audibly, inevitably, had it coming, you lazy
sod. Absolute irony, the place was a dream, the house almost a home, musty and sweet-smelling like
yesterday’s fingerbang and face-rubs on the furniture, your favorite song across everyone’s arm hair,
your picture in all the wallets, soft grunts from your violent family like animal lullabies, and clouds of vape
bouncing off the closed windows. Then, like opening a soda can, a single wrong step, didn’t even hurt,
suddenly pus and toxins and god-knows-what leaking from your gut, and the thing agape dangling from
your leg, as if it didn’t know you. And everyone saw, of course they saw, and salt fell dry from the circles
beneath your eyes, ex-tears, and here you are now, stupid and contagious, and all your friends are dead.
Could life right now get any worse? Thinking about it, those spores must have been inside you all along,
must have inhaled them at birth, because pretty sure you could feel it pulsing whenever someone stuck
their tongue down your throat, watching, waiting, commiserating. Bad seeds growing big from deep
inside, reaching up and out, twisted visions, sick diction, until the real world runs from the ceiling all wet
and sticky, and time is a piece of wax, falling on a termite, and you’re choking on the splinters. Problem
is, you’re a consumer, an eater, a sucker, no way you could have starved the thing. Now down by the
playground they bang their moulds together and run their mouths, the rotten little punks. Think they’re
clever with their minds on each others crotches, plainsinging and muttering about their practice, all head
wounds and phone charms, so academia, so sure of themselves, when everyone knows it only counts if
you saw a nipple. Nothing better to do and better not to care, but still, why are bitches ever born? Then of
course, you’re hopelessly in love with them, practically swooning. So you roll up in that uncanney valley,
that sweet space of revulsion, your body hustling to produce antibodies against a viral sadness
spreading, afraid of whom you might meet in the upright, afraid to stumble over your own material
conditions. You think about it all the time now, you think about it very matter of fact, and yet it never
happens, and what to do then but learn to love the leak. The thing keeps oozing, hasn’t stopped really,
the thing will greet you every morning, and maybe all that degeneration begins to smell good and true
and morally right. Truth is, you never fit in. Truth is, you only care about people as long as they’re there.
Imagine, next summer, you’ll snap right back, no braces on your fangs this time, rising from the ashes like
a phoenix, an all-star, an eye-sore, a total fucking loser, leaking, dripping, until end times, a liferuiner. And
maybe, just maybe, you’ll make theirs a living hell.