I have been asked to give an explanation for my resignation from
net.art. This explanation is as follows:

I have lost the nervous wonder of that first attempt to find a voice.
The heartbreak of nervous joy has been replaced by the heartbreak of
every extended hand unseen by Those Who Would Be Touched. I have created
some of the ironically self referential monstrosities I'd long to
destroy.

There is no longer a refresh button on the internet art world. We cannot
resist any longer the pressures from the institutions. For what we have
given them, we still can not eat. The exhaust from the machine thins
enough to see the walls we are surrounded by in this gas chamber, and we
ask them to burn more so we may be illusioned once again.

We have become a hierarchy. We have become an institution. We have lost
the chance to express our hopes to those who cannot afford the cable
modems and leisure time to surf this world wide web of fractured and
compromised ideologies.

Our fists broke through the walls of scrutiny only to be amputated and
sold for steak and wine, at the expense of those beneath us, climbing on
top of each other to see whats at the top of this pile, only to be
amputated and fed. Who else have we inspired to climb not into truth but
into this harsh illusion that serves to insulate us from it? Does anyone
really believe that net.art can still change these structures?

I dreamed of a vast interconnected world of silent coders creating ten
million variations and translations of a single manifesto: "We are the
ones who could not be heard, and this is the bullhorn which will shatter
your eardreams."

And we have Steve Dietz at the Walker declaring that voice dead, before
it could ever even be seen, before reality could shatter the hallways of
the Guggenheim or Moma. Truth is not representational: while we describe
the newest work by Shulgin and Bookchin, there is a world of brilliant
and radiating decay going ignored. There is a world of significance
behind the irony we feel essential to critical academic worth in art. As
our one trick ponies get food, fame and lecture opportunities, we get
table scraps, false promises, dangling carrots from those who observe us
and report on our doings but never stop to feed the starving work
horses.

There is a world of refusal hiding beneath the gears of this machine. A
refusal ensures they come to a halt; a refusal ensures that you remain
as steadfastly uncorrupted as you can be by the world outside of
yourself. How can we make this world better? How can we do the best
thing? How can any of us call it "art" when "art" is supposed to be that
which inspires us to do great things, to give unselfishly of our love,
to cast our dollar votes for a steady course of progress as opposed to
flash software, domain hosts, internic fees? Do we really believe that
our art is a valid allottment for these votes, that this money we put
towards our art is best spent on our art, and not in the stomachs or
spirits of the weak, starving and sick? Is antiorp's software sales
saying anything more important than her previous "beautiful spectacle"
mode? Is the question of how ________ relates to previous theory really
more important than the billions of geocities sites of people screaming
to be seen in this tragic and gorgeous confusion?

Inside of some of us is this aim in art: To improve the space we live in
while we live in it. For every moment to taste better because of its
inevitable end. And the network exists; the people who wonder about
these questions, who demand that they be asked. There are also those who
wonder silently, for the fear that they are alone in it, from the
corrupting effects of irony, convienience, and the self-destructing
nature of words. It was my aim to break forward these questions, but I
too have been corrupted: The one who questions such things out loud gets
no where. Don't speak of your ideals too loudly or you may be held to
them later, when they have inevitably been abandoned.

I demand a world where this is not inevitable, where truth is still
honored, and where the right questions get asked. Not of whether the
institutions have won, of dubious friendships affecting outcomes of
careers, or why we are excluded. But questions of: How do I improve this
place?

The continued existence of new work created for public consumption only
supports the structure which leaves me hungry, flinging cake batter
overnights onto pans for the wealthy to complain about; surrounded by
rats and filth and the smell of grease traps like excrement. The removal
of my work is a direct and meaningless accusation against the culture of
corporate museums buying as many commercials for individual powerartists
as they can afford. I masquerade more and more every day for thier
benefit. I write texts to create a softer pillow for thier validity.
Even my protests feed the power image of these imaginary disneylands of
paint, networks and placards.

I feel that I have convinced myself of a meaning in my work which does
not exist; I feel that I have convinced myself that my ideas were too
large to accomplish. I forgot that the sound of the statue cracking is
nowhere near as perfect as the sound of the crowd cheering as they try
and topple it. That beauty is in the struggle, not merely the victory.

I have settled for the safe route of lectures, exhibits, conferences,
alliances, associations. I feel I can't continue this path anymore: I
have asked myself the questions I feel important, and I have found that
this method is not the best manner in which to create even my futile
attempts. This is not the hollow surface my fist can bring resonance to.
In these empty gestures there is room enough to breathe for just one
second. In the empty gestures dedicated to anything else, there is only
suffocation.

This is my sad refusal to take part any longer in the compromise, in the
spectacle of new media. This is my sad refusal to pretend any longer
that I have an answer, or that anyone else does.

-eryk salvaggio
December 6th, 2000