MENTAL DISCHARGE, The Diaries of Anonymous Boh part 2


Photo: Courtesy of Non Grata

In anticipation of Non Grata’s visit to the United States, here is an excerpt from Al Paldrok’s newest book, MENTAL DISCHARGE, Diaries of Anonymous Boh II. Paldrok will be giving a reading of his book on April 14th at Torus__porta on 113 Stockholm Street Storefront 1A in Brooklyn, New York. Non Grata will also be attending the Anarchist Book Fair on April 16th, as well as performing at The Paper Box on April 21st with Wild Torus, Jon Konkol and more.

It is nighttime, we are somewhere near the Mexican borderline. Ten is driving under his medication and we are too tired to notice he had made it 16 hours already. In the dark I wearily can open my eyes hearing the howling of police cars – we have four flashing machines chasing after us. “What the fuck, I thought this is roadwork” – Ten has driven right through the border control, and keeps on racing. “Pull over, man, pull over noooowwww!” We get the windows open and four shotguns are pointed to our faces, together with blinding flashlights. Ten´s driving license is invalid, expired, the vehicle has got no insurance and our passports are in California.

In the border guard point we all are separated, the fingerprints are taken. After every 5 minutes we are asked, have you got any drugs in the car? No, there are not. The virtual communication has even reached US, our identities are recovered in a couple of hours and then we could see, through their bullet-proof window, a shouting and gesticulating policeman coming in, waving Tom´s tobacco bag. This is the end, I think. But the door is opened and we are told: “Everything fine, you can go now…”

We move back to our car. “Whose tobacco is this?”

“Mine,” Tom says. “What are you smoking man? It smells soooo good, our dogs got crazy on that stink!” I must hold my feelings back hard, not to tell those officers, I can share you this cigarette for each, for free, get home and try it…


Photo: Courtesy of Non Grata

All our things have been taken out on the street, unpacked, all the macadam in this tropical darkness under floodlights full of our soggy performance stuff, cameras, clothes. The uniforms stand around us, hands folded on chests and under their surveillance we start to pack again. Ten, who seems to be like in paradise because of our happy salvation, begins to explain them what we are doing here at all and so on and so on, we give lectures in Universities… “Do you have working licenses, guys?”

Haaaaaaa. “Shut the fuck up, man!” I hiss to him, in effort to get the last heavy bag in. As for the last move, I take silver paper from the roof, where the magic chocolates, all melted, are hidden. No documents, no insurance, no driving license, all that strange stuff – and we get away with this! Do not come to talk to me how rude is the American police, especially Texan. In Europe, one of these things would be enough to take the car, make thousands of euros fee, and be arrested after all that.



Taje Tross (Devil Girl) and Al Paldrok (Anonymous Boh)
Photo: Courtesy of Non Grata

Estonian Independence Day Feb 24th – THIS IS THE DAY” We join forces with Non Gratas residing in New York – Barbie, Mermaid, Hoke, Alice Wonderland, BJ Dealer and others. The performance would start with solemn speech about Estonia as the tiniest nation on mainland, which has its own government, national television and written language. Three ambassadors are there. During the speech the go-go girls rush onstage, who perform burlesque in the honor of the birthday. At the same time, the real essence of the speech emerges – why talk about Estonia – this is a perfect place for experiment – how to give birth to the new model of mankind, new race – Storm Generation.

For this, everything existing must be annihilated – already religion, real and fictional gods, the military are set in flames, the police machine park goes in puffs of fumes. The room is full of fume. The world of entertainment has reached its violent roots – The Simpson family gone crazy batters the floor with knives, this tandem of Homer-Bart-Maggie are crawling on all fours and make the audience peep around frightfully, sometimes all the mass must escape them. There are no audience and performers anymore, all in one mass, which must make way to birth of storm generation – development of fetus can be observed step-by-step in colorless world ball, that is filling with breath of ideal man Ten. All the old must go – a gang of robots go mad in euphoria, cacophonia.


Photo: Courtesy of Non Grata

Who is now set on fire? – White, yellow and black races, feminists and machos, poets and writers, eggheads and idiots. We are the open nerve of God! Techno-animal sounds get wilder and louder. Mother of Harlots – mother of all the whores and shit drives in on a chariot, the amazons, brutalized, twist in apocalyptic agony, sucking blood from veins of each other, blood of gods Dionysian, delivering it to the doomed. The preacher defends the puffing uterus, its dimensions are superhuman already, the little body is clearly seen. A little dwarf signs the roaming people with black circles, his father is counting days left, backwards, a gorilla wheels the globe like a toy. Umbilical cord won´t snap yet, the uterus does not open yet…

The Storm Generation

we tip our hats to the lost and the beat

we go our own way

we are the storm generation

we are the fucking storm

we are a new generation of artists

we are poets writers painters sculptors composers musicians singers dancers playwrights filmmakers

we are creative expression

we blow away lies and injustice

we are graphic

we are honest

we tell it like it is

we are fierce

we are brutal

we are compassionate

we are gentle

we are kind

we have soft hearts

we are free

we are spirit

we are sex

we dwell in the realms of the creative imagination

we are the creative imagination

we know that the shortest distance between two points is creative distance

we pay attention to the long forgotten wisdomed voices of the forest

we vanquish the overtly materialistic greedy who intentionally destroy mountains

we honor mountains and oceans and eagles and wolves

we cherish mother earth and all her terrible beauty

we are non-violent spiritual warriors

we are lightning

we are thunder

we are songed poems

we are fearless visionary poets

we have wolf eyes

we are more than the eye of the storm

we are the fucking storm

we refuse

we will not bow down

we will never give up

we are God’s open nerve

we are The Storm Generation


INCIDENT Magazine Spring Performance Preview


Cover of our first print edition featuring artist Heeran Lee.
Photo and design by David LaGaccia

By David LaGaccia

Like all things created, INCIDENT Magazine started as a concept that grew into a conversation and was shared as an idea between friends. Patience, however, is necessary when handling a project this ambitious, so the idea lay dormant for about a year after its conception. Time passed, events passed—the Brooklyn International Performance Art Festival closed out the summer in 2013, and eventually schedules began to clear up in the winter…

As an aside, there are two principles worth considering when making any decision: 1. There is never going to be a perfect time to do anything, but finding the “right” time is crucial. 2. Thought without action is just as dangerous as action without thought.

…and so work on the project officially began in January 2014, and in four months’ time, the concept became a reality.


Interior of our first print edition featuring the essay SITE by Poppy Jackson.
Photo: David LaGaccia

It’s been two years since then. After two years of hard work, and several months of receiving feedback on test printings, INCIDENT Magazine is producing its first print edition for publication later this May.

A lot goes into planning a print edition. Everything from paper stock, color, design, font, length, photo caption placement and the simple demand for a print magazine has gone into consideration. We aim to give the kind of quality the art form deserves and the kind of quality readers desire. And there is a desire for a print edition; when the second printing was distributed at a local Brooklyn show, all copies were taken in a matter of hours.

We’re now accepting essay and documentation submissions to be considered for publication with a hard deadline of Sunday May 8th. Refer to our Facebook event for further details, and our submissions page for exact details on how to submit.


Interior of the second edition featuring the essay Even the palms, dem bow by Joiri Minaya and Ian Deleón. The issue was distributed publicly on February 12 during PULSAR’s first event, 7 Minutes in Heaven at Catland Books in Brooklyn, New York.
Photo: David LaGccia. Magazine design: Laura Blüer

Along with the print edition, in the following weeks you’ll read excerpts from Estonian artist Al Paldrok’s new book of the performance art collective, Non Grata; an interview with Martha Wilson, a legendary artist and supporter in the performance art community; social ethics and boundaries in performance; an artist who literately sold all of his belongings and traveled to find his cultural identity; monthly podcasts featuring conversations with a spectrum of performance art thinkers in the community; a personal essay of an a artist who left their home country to escape censorship and find expression in the United States; the female body, and how it relates to nature, myth, and performance; music, and expanding the idea of what is live performance, and more.

I hope you enjoy the stories as they are told, and I hope you share your stories with us in the near future…


Martha Wilson speaking at Pratt Institute in November 2015.
Photo: David LaGaccia

As a preview of what’s to come, the following is an excerpt of an interview conducted by performance artist Angeli with Martha Wilson, a performance art pioneer and founder of the Franklin Furnace arts foundation. The interview will be published in its entirety in the coming weeks.

Angeli Sion: Having encountered your work around various points in time in different contexts, I was most interested in talking to you about the transformation of the body, and what that could mean in your practice. I’m thinking of your most early embodied performative acts and photo/text works before moving to New York in 1974, if you could start there. How did it start?

Martha Wilson: How did this start? …  Art school environment. I was technically not in the art school. My boyfriend was in the art school. I was technically in the university across the street. But the art school environment was full of visiting artists who were conceptual artists of the day, Richard Serra, Lawrence Weiner, Joseph Beuys, and Vito Acconci. They were coming through and doing projects with students, so we not only got to see what the end results looked like, but how you got to the end results.

It was pretty cold stuff. Not related to what was going on in the real world. Except for Vito. Vito was using his own sexuality as his own art medium, and was, you know, masturbating under a platform, following people in the street, or waiting at the bottom of the stairs with a pipe to bash whoever came in.

These were works that took sexuality as a subject, so that opened the door to me to take my sexuality as a subject, and my body is female. So I was coming from the embodied female perspective, and he was coming from the embodied male perspective.

Now in those early days, I didn’t know the term ‘feminism.’ I didn’t know what that was. It was never used. The art school environment was male-dominated and hostile basically towards women. (Laughs)

I think I tell this story about my mentor, who taught painting in college and then went to the Nova Scotia College of Art and Design and became a professor— he told my boyfriend, Richards, “You have to come up here. It’s the coolest art school in North America.’

So I said, ‘I wanted to be an artist too.’

And he said, ‘Women don’t make it in the art world.’ “