Tuesday, May 30, 2006

hiking up London Road
i am a
rapturous emergency,
i am shouting
at trees
& bus stops
where old men in caps
hang
like rope
over signs
marked for Ditchling Beacon.
and i step
in a puddle of
daylight,
passersby streaking
like Olympic medallists
up the grey lawns.
i am sleepwalking
in the pavement,
or
skating on shiny flat heels
past the fruit
and veg.
my head is
communion -
the last Sunday in
December.
i'm a bat
hidden in its own
straggly wings,
a destiny
already
deflowered, a
nerve
blooming in
every direction,
a poppy
driven to
insanity
and suicide
by the smell of opium,
and withering--car horns,

---- fucking windshields

Monday, May 22, 2006

Karenin's Smile, Milan Kundera



Dogs do not have many advantages over people, but one of them is extremely important: euthanasia is not forbidden by law in their case; animals have the right to a merciful death. Karenin walked on three legs and spent more and more of his time lying in a corner. And whimpering. Both husband and wife agreed that they had no business letting him suffer needlessly. But agree as they might in principle, they still had to face the anguish of determining the time when his suffering was in fact needless, the point at which life was no longer worth living.

If only Tomas hadn't been a doctor! Then they would have been able to hide behind a third party. They would have been able to go back to the vet and ask him to put the dog to sleep with an injection.

Assuming the role of Death is a terrifying thing. Tomas insisted that he would not give the injection himself; he would have the vet come and do it. But then he realised that he could grant Karenin a privilege forbidden to humans: Death would come for him in the guise of his loved ones.

Karenin had whimpered all night. After feeling his leg in the morning, Tomas said to Tereza, "There's no point in waiting."

In a few minutes they would both have to go to work. Tereza went in to see Karenin. Until then, he had lain in his corner completely apathetic (not even acknowledging Tomas when he felt his leg), but when he heard the door open and saw Tereza come in, he raised his head and looked at her.

She could not stand his stare; it almost frightened her. he did not look that way at Tomas, only at her. But never with such intensity. It was not a desperate look, or even sad. No, it was a look of awful, unbearable trust. The look was an eager question. All his life Karenin had waited for answers from Tereza, and he was letting her know (with more urgency than usual, however) that he was still ready to learn the truth from her. (Everything that came from Tereza was the truth. Even when she gave commands like "Sit!" or "Lie down!" he took them as truths to identify with, to give his life meaning.)

His look of awful trust did not last long; he soon laid his head back down on his paws. Tereza knew that no one ever again would look at her like that.

They had never fed him sweets, but recently she had bought him a few chocolate bars. She took them out of the foil, broke them into pieces, and made a circle of them around him. Then she brought over a bowl of water to make sure that he had everythng he needed for the several hours he would spend at home alone. The look he had given her just then seemed to have tired him out. Even surrounded by the chocolate, he did not raise his head.

She lay down on the floor next to him and hugged him. With a slow and laboured turn of his head, he sniffed her and gave her a lick or two. She closed her eyes while the licking went on, as if she wanted to remember it forever. She held out the other cheek to be licked.


Then she had to go and take care of her heifers. She did not return until just before lunch. Tomas had not come home yet. Karenin was still lying on the floor surrounded by the chocolate, and did not even lift his head when he heard her come in. His bad leg was swollen now, and the tumour had burst in another place. She noticed some light red (noy blood-like) drops forming beneath his fur.

Again she lay next to him on the floor. She stretched one arm across his body and closed her eyes. Then she heard someone banging at the door. "Doctor! Doctor! The pig is here! The pig and his master!" She lacked strenth to talk to anyone, and did not move, did not open her eyes. "Doctor! Doctor! The pigs have come!" Then silence.

Tomas did not get back for another half hour. He went straight to the kitchen and prepared the injection without a word. When he entered the room, Tereza was on her feet and Karenin was picking himself up. As soon as he saw Tomas, he gave him a weak wag of his tail.

"Look," said Tereza, "he's still smiling."

She said it beseechingly, trying to win a short reprieve, but did not push for it.

Slowly she spread a sheet out over the couch. It was a white sheet with a pattern of tiny violets. She had everything carefully laid out and thought out, having imagined Karenin's death many days in advance. (Oh, how horrible that we actually dream ahead to the death of those we love!)

He no longer had the strength to jump up on the couch. They picked him up in their arms together. Tereza laid him on his side, and Tomas examined one of his good legs. He was looking for a more or less prominent vein. Then he cut away the fur with a pair of scissors.

Tereza knelt by the couch and held Karenin's head close to her own.

Tomas asked her to squeeze the leg because he was having trouble sticking the needle in. She did as she was told, but did not move her face from his head. She kept talking gently to Karenin, and he thought only of her. He was not afraid. He licked her face two more times. And Tereza kept whispering, "Don't be scared, don't be scared, you won't feel any pain there, you'll dream of squirrels and rabbits, you'll have cows there, and Mefisto will be there, don't be scared..."

Tomas jabbed the needle into the vein and pushed the plunger. Karenin's leg jerked; his breath quickened for a few seconds then stopped. Tereza remained on the floor by the couch and buried her face in his head.

Then they both had to go back to work and leave the dog laid out on the couch, on the white sheet with tiny violets.

They came back towards evening. Tomas went into the garden. He found the lines of the rectangle that Tereza had drawn with her heel between the two apple trees. Then he started digging. He kept precisely to her specifications. He wanted everything to be just as Tereza wished.

She stayed in the house with Karenin. She was afraid of burying him alive. She put her ear to his mouth and thought she heard a weak breathing sound. She stepped back and seemed to see his breast moving slightly.

(No, the breath she heard was her own, and because it set her own body ever so slightly in motion, she had the impression the dog was moving.)

She found a mirror in her bag and held it up to his mouth. The mirror was so smudged she thought she saw drops on it, drops caused by his breath.

"Tomas! He's alive!" she cried, when Tomas came in from the garden in his muddy boots.

Tomas bent over him and shook his head.

They each took an end of the sheet he was lying on, Tereza the lower end, Tomas the upper. Then they lifted him up and carried him out to the garden.

The sheet felt now wet to Tereza's hands. He puddled his way into our lives and now he's puddling his way out, she thought, and she was glad to feel the moisture on her hands, his final greeting.

They carried him to the apple trees and set him down. She leaned over the pit and arranged the sheet so that it covered him entirely. It was unbearable to think of the earth they would soon be throwing over him, raining down on his naked body.

Then she went into the house and came back with his collar, his leash, and a handful of the chocolate that had lain untouched on the floor since morning. She threw it all in after him.

Next to the pit was a pile of freshly dug earth. Tomas picked up the shovel.

Just then Tereza recalled her dream: Karenin giving birth to two rolls and a bee. Suddenly the words sounded like an epitaph. She pictured a monument standing there, between the apple trees, with the inscription Here lies Karenin. He gave birth to two rolls and a bee.

It was twilight in the garden, the time between day and evening. There was a pale moon in the sky, a forgotten lamp in the room of the dead.

Their boots were caked with dirt by the time they took the shovel and spade back to the recess where their tools stood all in a row: rakes, watering cans, hoes.




Wishbone
Richard Siken



You saved my life he says I owe you everything.
You don’t, I say, you don’t owe me squat, let’s just get going, let’s just get gone, but he’s

relentless,

keeps saying I owe you, says Your shoes are filling with your own damn blood,

you must want something, just tell me, and it’s yours.

But I can’t look at him, can hardly speak,

I took the bullet for all the wrong reasons, I’d just as soon kill you myself, I say.

You keep saying I owe you, I owe… but you say the same thing every time.

Let’s not talk about it, let’s just not talk.

Not because I don’t believe it, not because I want it any different, but I’m always saving

and you’re always owing and I’m tired of asking to settle the debt.

Don’t bother.

You never mean it anyway, not really, and it only makes me that much more ashamed.

There’s only one thing I want, don’t make me say it, just get me bandages, I’m bleeding,

I’m not just making conversation.

There’s smashed glass glittering everywhere like stars. It’s a Western, Henry,

it’s a downright shoot-em-up. We’ve made a graveyard out of the bone white afternoon.

It’s another wrong-man-dies scenario

and we keep doing it, Henry, keep saying until we get it right…

but we always win and we never quit, see, we’ve won again, here we are at the place

where I get to beg for it

where I get to say Please, for just one night, will you lay down next to me, we can leave our

clothes on, we can stay all buttoned up?

or will I say

Roll over and let me fuck you till you puke, Henry, you owe me this much, you can indulge me

this at least, can’t you? but we both know how it goes. I say I want you inside me

and you hold my head underwater, I say I want you inside me

and you split me open with a knife. I’m battling monsters, half-monkey, half-tarantula,

I’m pulling you out of the burning buildings and you say I’ll give you anything.

But you never come through.

Give me bullet power. Give me power over angels. Even when you’re standing up

you look like you’re lying down, but will you let me kiss your neck, baby? Do I have to

tie your arms down?

Do I have to stick my tongue in your mouth like the hand of a thief, like a burglary

like it’s just another petty theft? It makes me tired, Henry. Do you see what I mean?

Do you see what I’m getting at?

You swallowing matches and suddenly I’m yelling Strike me. Strike anywhere.

I swear, I end up feeling empty, like you’ve taken something out of me, and I have to search

my body for the scars, thinking

Did he find that one last tender place to sink his teeth in? I know you want me to say it, Henry,

it’s in the script, you want me to say Lie down on the bed, you’re all I ever wanted

and worth dying for too

but I think I’d rather keep the bullet this time. It’s mine, you can’t have it, see,

I’m not giving it up. This way you still owe me, and that’s

as good as anything.

You can’t get out of this one, Henry, you can’t get it out of me, and with this bullet

lodged in my chest, covered with your name, I will turn myself into a gun, because

it’s all I have,

because I’m hungry and hollow and just want something to call my own. I’ll be your

slaughterhouse, your killing floor, your morgue and final resting, walking around with this

bullet inside me

‘cause I couldn’t make you love me and I’m tired of pulling your teeth. Don’t you see, it’s like

I’ve swallowed your house keys, and it feels so natural, like the bullet was already there,

like it’s been waiting inside me the whole time.

Do you want it? Do you want anything I have? Will you throw me to the ground

like you mean it, reach inside and wrestle it out with your bare hands?

If you love me, Henry, you don’t love me in a way I understand.

Do you know how it ends? Do you feel lucky? Do you want to go home now?

There’s a bottle of whiskey in the trunk of the Chevy and a dead man at our feet

staring up at us like we’re something interesting.

This is where the evening splits in half, Henry, love or death. Grab an end, pull hard,

and make a wish.

So i've nothing to write about the sea?/ the waves the water the froth white and lapping/ the sky like a surrealist painting the colour not blue not grey/ the rolling in of the water tides pushing/ we ran away from our feet getting drenched and i ran towards Shoreham/ for a while, along the stones/ away from all life/ frightened because the sea tonight was too much like what's inside me/ all the time/ along the concrete girder/ out to sea/ what's inside me/ is a black force/ churning the night/ ebbing/ flashing and falling/ black shiver/ trance/ i ran away from all life/ into wet breaking/ and i laughed,/ all elements dispersing/ white/ in my spine.

Thursday, May 18, 2006

poem

ropes,
i am ageing
eglantine and
spirit.
furthermost
i reach you,
spindle, wood,
lake palm
upper thigh.
bridged between
daylight,
off set by a
whirlwind, soon
escape, perhaps
elevated,
drugged special,we
break flowers
and
die.

five poems, Robert Creeley

The House, for Louis Zukofsky


Mud put
upon mud,
lifted
to make room,

house
a cave,
and
colder night.

To sleep
in, live in,
to come in
from heat,

all form derived
from kind,
built
with that in mind.



After


I'll not write again
things a young man
thinks, not the words
of that feeling.

There is no world
except felt, no
one there but
must be here also.

If that time was
echoing, a vindication
apparent, if flesh
and bone coincided--

let the body be.
See faces float
over the horizon let
the day end.



What


What would it be
like walking off
by oneself down

that path in the
classic woods the light
lift of breeze softness

of this early evening and
you want some time
to yourself to think

of it all again
and again an
empty ending?



Echo


Broken heart, you
timeless wonder.

What a small
place to be.

True, true
to life, to life.



Life


All the ways to go,
the echoes, made sense.

It was as fast as that,
no time to figure it out.

No simple straight line,
you'd get there in time

enough standing still.
It came to you

whatever you planned to do.
Later, you'd get it together.

Now it was here.
Time to move.

tiny spheres on mars~blue~rimbaud's last letter





YVES KLEIN
THE CHELSEA HOTEL MANIFESTO





INTRODUCTION
BY ROBERT PINCUS - WITTEN


Birds must be eliminated. This astonishing proposal is found in the reverse chronology that Yves Klein drafted at the time of his first one person show in New York City held under the aegis of Leo Castelli in 1961. In that account, now called the Chelsea Hotel Manifesto after the hotel of artists' choice in the 1960's.

Yves drags us back in reverie to that moment when, as an adolescent, he lay stretched upon the beach of Nice, feeling "hatred for birds which flew back and forth across my blue, cloudless sky because they tried to bore holes in my greatest and most beautiful work."

The pain that suffuses the Chelsea Manifesto is similar, all proportion guarded, to Beethoven's Heiligenstadt Testament, or Paul Gauguin's despairing painting;

where do we come from? what are we? where are we going?



Still, for all the poses struck, the Manifesto is marked by a baroque grandeur of a kind unimaginably preserved in the dictee of the ordinary French classroom. The manifest is best understood when read aloud by jeune premier of classical stock.

(editors note: this is part of the introduction from "Sponge Reliefs" October 1989 The Gagosian Gallery, also - The Chelsea Hotel Manifesto is copyrighted by the Gagosian Gallery - 1989)


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THE CHELSEA HOTEL MANIFESTO

Due to the fact that I have painted monochromes for fifteen years,

Due to the fact that I have created pictorial immaterial states,

Due to the fact that I have manipulated the forces of the void,

Due to the fact that I have sculpted with fire and with water painted with fire and with water,

Due to the fact that I have painted with living brushes - in other words, the nude body of live models covered with paint: these living brushes were under the constant direction of my commands, such as "a little to the right; over to the left now: to the right again, etc.."By maintaining myself at a specific and obligatory distance from the surface to be painted, I am able to resolve the problem of detachment.

Due to the fact that I have invented the architecture and the urbanism of air - of course, this new conception transcends the traditional meaning of the terms "architecture and urbanism" - my goal from the beginning was to reunite with the legend of Paradise Lost. This project was directed toward the habitable surface of the Earth by the climatization of the great geographical expanses through an absolute control over the thermal and atmospheric situation in their relation to our morphological and psychical conditions.

Due to the fact that I have proposed a new conception of music with my "monotone - silence - symphony,"

Due to the fact that I have presented a theatre of the void, among countless other adventures...

I would never have believed, fifteen years ago at the time of my earliest efforts, that I would suddenly feel the need to explain myself - to satisfy the desire to know the reason of all that has occurred and the even still more dangerous effect, in other words - the influence my art has had on the young generation of artists throughout the world today.

It dismays me to hear that a certain number of them think that I represent a danger to the future of art - that I am one of those disastrous and noxious results of our time that must be crushed and destroyed before the propagation of my evil completely takes over.

I regret to reveal that this was not my intention; and to happily proclaim to those who evince faith in the multiplicity of new possibilities in the path that I prescribe - Take care! Nothing has crystallized as yet; nor can I say what will happen after this. I can only say that today I am no longer as afraid as I was yesterday in the face of the souvenir of the future.

An artist always feels uneasy when called upon to speak of his own work. It should speak for itself, particularly when it is valid.

What can I do? Stop now?

No, what I call "the indefinable pictorial sensibility" absolutely escapes this very personal solution.

So...

I think of those words I was once inspired to write. "Would not the future artist be he who expressed through an eternal silence an immense painting possessing no dimension?"

Gallery-goers, like any other public, would carry this immense painting in their memory (a remembrance which does not derive at all from the past, but is solely cognizant of the indefinable sensibility of man).

It is necessary to create and recreate a constant physical fluidity in order to receive the grace which allows a positive creativity of the the void.

Just as I created a "monotone - silence - symphony" in 1947, composed in two parts, - one broad continuous sound followed by an equally broad and extended silence, endowed with a limitless dimension - in the same way, I attempt to set before you a written painting of the short history of my art, followed naturally by a pure and effective silence.

My account will close with the creation of a compelling a posteriori silence whose existence in our communal space, after all - the space of a single being - is immune to the destructive qualities of physical noise.

Much depends upon the success of my written painting in its initial technical and audible phase. Only then will the extraordinary a posteriori silence, in the midst of noise as well as in the cell of physical silence, operate in a new and unique zone of pictorial immaterial sensibility.

Having reached today this point in space and knowledge, I propose to gird my loins, then to draw back in retrospection of the diving board of my evolution. In the manner of an Olympic diver, in the most classic technique of the sport, I must prepare for my leap into the future of today by prudently moving backward, without ever losing sight of the edge, today consciously attained - the immaterialization of art.

What is the purpose of the retrospective journey in time?

Simply, I wish to avoid that you or I fall under the power of that phenomenon of dreams, which describes the feelings and landscapes provoked by our brusque landing in the past. This psychological past is precisely the anti-space that I put behind me during the adventures of these past fifteen years.

At present, I am particularly excited by "bad taste". I have the deep feeling that there exists in the very essence of bad taste a power capable of creating those things situated far beyond what is traditionally termed "The Work of Art". I wish to play with human feeling, with its "morbidity" in a cold and ferocious manner. Only very recently I have become a sort of grave digger of art (oddly enough, I am using the very terms of my enemies). Some of my latest works have been coffins and tombs. During the same time I succeeded in painting with fire, using particularly powerful and searing gas flames, some of them measuring three to four meters high. I use these to bathe the surface of the painting in such a way that it registered the spontaneous trace of fire.

In sum, my goal is twofold: first of all, to register the trace of human sentimentality in present-day civilization; and then, to register the trace of fire, which has engendered this very same civilization - that of the fire itself. And all of this because the void has always been my constant preoccupation; and I believe that fires burn in the heart of the void as well as in the heart of man.

All facts that are contradictory are authentic principles of an explanation of the universe. Truly, fire is one of these principles, essentially contradictory, one from the other, since it is both the sweetness and torture that lies at the heart and origin of our civilization. But what stirs this search for feeling in me through the making of super-graves and super coffins? What stirs this search in me for the imprint of fire? Why search for the Trace itself?

Because every work of creation, regardless of its cosmic place, is the representation of a pure phenomenology - all that is phenomena manifests itself. This manifestation is always distinct from form and it is the essence of the Immediate, the Trace of the Immediate.

A few months ago, for example, I felt the urge to register the signs of atmospheric behavior by recording the instantaneous traces of spring showers on a canvas, of south winds, and of lightning (needless to say, the last-mentioned ended in a catastrophe). For instance, a trip from Paris to Nice might have been a waste of time had I not spent it profitably by recording the wind. I placed a canvas, freshly coated with paint, on the roof of my white Citron. As I drove down Route National 7 at 100 kilometers an hour, the heat, the cold, the light, the wind, and the rain all combined to age my canvas prematurely. At least thirty to forty years were condensed into a single day. The only annoying thing about this project is that for the entire trip I was unable to separate myself from my painting.

My atmospheric imprints of a few months ago were preceded by vegetal imprints. After all, my air is to extract and obtain the trace of the immediate from all natural objects, whatever their origin - be the circumstance human, animal, vegetable, or atmospheric.

I would like now, with you permission and close attention, to divulge to you possibly the most important and certainly the most secret phase of my art. I do not know if you are going to believe me - it is cannibalism. After all, is it not preferable to be eaten that to be bombed to death? I can hardly develop this idea that has tormented me for years. I leave it up to you to draw you own conclusions with regard to the future of art.

If we step back again, following the lines of my evolution, we arrive at the moment when I conceived of painting with the aid of living brushes. That was two years ago. The purpose of this was to be able to attain a defined and constant distance between myself and the painting during the time of creation.

Many critics claimed that by this method of painting I was doing nothing more that recreating the method that has been called "action painting". But now, I would like to make it clear that this endeavor is distinct from "action painting" in so far as I am completely detached from all physical work during the time of creation.

Just to cite one example of the anthropometric errors found within the deformed ideas spread by the international press - I speak of that group of Japanese painters who with great refinement used my method in a strange way. In fact, these painters actually transformed themselves into living brushes. By diving themselves in color and then rolling on their canvases, they became representative of ultra-action-painters! Personally, I would never attempt to smear paint over my body and thus to become a living brush; to the contrary, I would rather put on my tuxedo and don white gloves.

It would never cross my mind to soil my hands with paint. Detached and distant, the work of art must be completed under my eyes and under my command. As the work begins its completion, I stand there - present at the ceremony, immaculate, calm, relaxed, perfectly aware of what is taking place and ready to receive the art being born into the tangible world.

What directed me towards anthropometry? The answer can be bound in the work that I make during the years 1956 to 1957 while I took part in the giant adventure, the creation of pictorial immaterial sensibility.

I had just removed from my studio all earlier works. The result - and empty studio. All that I could physically do was to remain in my empty studio and the pictorial immaterial states of creation marvelously unfolded. However, little by little, I became mistrustful of myself, but never of the immaterial. From that moment, following the example of all painters, I hired models. But unlike the other, I merely wanted to work in their company rather than have them pose for me. I had been spending too much time alone in the empty studio; I no longer wanted to remain alone with the marvelous blue void which was in the process of opening.

Though seemingly strange, remember that I was perfectly aware of the fact that I experienced none of that vertigo, felt by all my predecessors, when they found themselves face to face with the absolute void that is, quite naturally, true pictorial space.

But how long could my security in this awareness endure?

Years ago, the artist went directly to his subject, worked outdoors in the country, had his feet firmly planted on the ground - it was healthy.

Today, easel-painters have become academics and have reached the point of shutting themselves in their studios in order to confront the terrifying mirrors of their canvases. Now the reason I was pushed to use nude models is all but evident: it was a way of preventing the danger of secluding myself in the overly spiritual spheres of creation, thus breaking with the most basic common sense repeatedly affirmed by our incarnate condition.

The shape of the body, its lines, its strange colors hovering between life and death, hold no interest for me. Only the essential, pure affective climate of the flesh is valid.

Having rejected nothingness, I discovered the void. The meaning of the immaterial pictorial zones, extracted from the depth of the void which by that time was of a very material order. Finding it unacceptable to sell these immaterial zones for money, I insisted in exchange for the highest quality of the immaterial, the highest quality of material payment - a bar of pure gold. Incredible as it may seem, I have actually sold a number of these pictorial immaterial states.

So much could be said about my adventure in the immaterial and the void that the result would be an overly extended pause while steeped in the present elaboration of a written painting.

Painting no longer appeared to me to be functionally related to the gaze, since during the blue monochrome period of 1957 I became aware of what I called the pictorial sensibility. This pictorial sensibility exists beyond our being and yet belongs in our sphere. We hold no right of possession over life itself. It is only by the intermediary of our taking possession of sensibility that we are able to purchase life. Sensibility enables us to pursue life to the level of its base material manifestations, in the exchange and barter that are the universe of space, the immense totality of nature.

Imagination is the vehicle of sensibility!

Transported by (effective) imagination we attain life, that very life which is absolute art itself.

Absolute art, what mortal men call with a sensation of vertigo the summum of art, materializes instantaneously. It makes its appearance in the tangible world, even as I remain at a geometrically fixed point, in the wake of extraordinary volumetric displacements with a static and vertiginous speed.

The explanation of the conditions that led me to pictorial sensibility, is to be found in the intrinsic power of the monochromes of my blue period of 1957. This period of blue monochromes was the fruit of my quest for the indefinable in painting which Delacroix the master could already intimate in his time.

From 1956 to 1946, my monochrome experiments, tried with various other colors than blue, never allowed me to lose sight of the fundamental truth of our time - namely that form, henceforth, would no longer be a simple linear value, but rather a value of impregnation. Once, in 1946, while still an adolescent, I was to sign my name on the other side of the sky during a fantastic "realistico-imaginary" journey. That day, as I lay stretched upon the beach of Nice, I began to feel hatred for birds which flew back and forth across my blue, cloudless sky, because they tried to bore holes in my greatest and most beautiful work.

Birds must be eliminated.

Thus, we humans will have acquired the right to evolve in full liberty without any physical and spiritual constraint.

Neither missiles nor rockets nor sputniks will render man the "conquistador" of space.

Those means derive only from the phantom of today's scientists who still live in the romantic and sentimental spirit of the XIX century.

Man will only be able to take possession of space through the terrifying forces, the ones imprinted with peace and sensibility. He will be able to conquer space - truly his greatest desire - only after having realized the impregnation of space by his own sensibility. His sensibility can even read into the memory of nature, be it of the past, of the present, and of the future!

It is our true extra-dimensional capacity for action!

If proofs, precedents or predecessors are needed, let me then cite Dante, who in the Divine Comedy, described with absolute precision what no traveler of his time could reasonably have discovered, the invisible constellation of the Northern Hemisphere known as the Southern Cross;

Jonathan Swift, in his Voyage to Laputa, gave the distances and periods of rotation of two satellites of Mars though they were unknown at the time;

When American astronomer, Asoph Hall, discovered them in 1877, he realized that his measurements were the same as those of Swift. Seized by panic, he named them Phobos and Deimos, Fear and Terror! With these two words - Fear and Terror - I find myself before you in the year 1946, ready to dive into the void.

Long Live the Immaterial

And now,

Thank you for your kind attention.

_YVES KLEIN

Yves Klein Yves Klein

Le Vide 1958
Galerie Iris Clert, Paris

Iris Clert invites you to honor, with all your affective presence, the lucid and positive advent of a certain reign of the sensitive. This manifestation of perceptive synthesis confirms Yves Klein's pictorial quest for an ecstatic and immediately communicable emotion.

Le Vide invitation 1958 (Klein 1982)

The object of this endeavor: to create, establish, and present to the public a palpable pictorial state in the limits of a picture gallery. In other words, creation of an ambience, a genuine pictorial climate, and, therefore, an invisible one. This invisible pictorial state within the gallery space should be so present and endowed with autonomous life that it should literally be what has hitherto been regarded as the best overall definition of painting: radiance.

Yves Klein, Sorbonne lecture 1959 (Klein 1982)



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The French artist Yves Klein (1928-62) professed an optimistic belief in the liberation of human 'sensibility', and his work as a whole dramatizes the elemental forces of nature - air, fire, earth and water - in relationship with the human aspiration for transcendence. His worldview was inspired by various philosophies, among them Judo, Zen, Rosicrucianism, and phenomenology. From this combination of influences he developed a wide ranging body of work remarkably consistent in aesthetic and conceptual terms. As stated in his Sorbonne lecture of 1959, Klein felt that the forms and perspective of linear composition were "like the bars on the window of a prison" (Harrison & Wood 2003: 819). His embracing of colour and space, as aesthetic and affective realities in themselves, led him to a concept of the void as the underlying reality of all phenomena. In its positive generative qualities Klein's emptiness had more in common with the eastern philosophy of Zen, than with the meaningless existential void explored by writers such as Jean-Paul Sartre (Westgeest 1996:126).

Klein's work is usually identified with monochrome painting, especially his trademark International Klein Blue (IKB) pigment applied with commercial paint rollers. As early as 1948 Klein had 'signed' the blue sky of his hometown Nice, in his words creating his "first and biggest monochrome" (Stich 1994: 19). During the early 1950s his interest in the monochrome developed, and was influenced by his time in Japan as a Judo student (1952-53). Klein's aesthetic of 'the empty field' has been compared to the use of space as a positive element in traditional Japanese arts, as seen in meditative screen paintings and Zen rock gardens (Westgeest 1996: 125).

The blue monochrome was seen by Klein as a visual analogue for the void itself, a view he found supported in the phenomenology of Gaston Bachelard, "First there is nothing, next there is a depth of nothingness, then a profundity of blue..." (Harrison & Wood 2003: 819). Monochrome painting was not new of course. In the 1910s Kasimir Malevich had developed Suprematist monochrome compositions, followed in 1921 by truly non-compositional monochromes in red, yellow and blue by Alexander Rodchenko. In the 1930s Polish artist Wladslaw Strzeminski developed Unism, a movement using sculptured monochrome surfaces. Later, the truly featureless monochrome was resurrected again by Robert Rauschenberg with his White Paintings of 1951. At the same time Rauschenberg also produced a number of body print photograms with his wife Susan Weil, prefiguring Klein's own Anthropometries or nude body prints. Other precedents for aspects of Klein's work include the sponge sculptures of Jean Dubuffet, the conceptual music of John Cage, and the absurdist antics of Dada, Surrealism, and Lettrism.

La specialization de la sensibilite a l'etat de matiere premiere en sensibilite picturale stabilize (The Specialization of Sensibility in the Raw Material State of Stabilized Pictorial Sensibility) was an empty gallery, the walls painted white. More simply known as Le Vide (The Void) it was on display from April 28 to May 15 1958 at Galerie Iris Clert, Paris. Descriptions of the exhibition inevitably focus on the opening night. The exterior window was painted blue and the entrance lobby framed with an enormous blue theatre curtain, while uniformed Republican guards and complimentary blue cocktails were on hand to welcome the visitors. Thanks to an enormous publicity campaign (including thousands of postcards mailed with monochrome blue stamps), almost 3,000 people crammed the street and the gallery space, requiring 3 wagons of police to control the mob. Klein himself wrote an amusing diary of the night, relishing the drama of the event. It was so popular it drew 200 visitors a day and had to be extended for a week. According to Klein, "frequently people remain inside for hours without saying a word, and some tremble or begin to cry" (Klein 1982).

Apart from the famous 1958 show, Klein presented voids in various forms as part of other exhibitions. An empty room was included in solo shows in 1957 and 1961, while immaterial works were included in group shows in 1959 and 1960. In 1962 Klein created a gallery void as "a documentary photo event", the photograph appearing in a group show in the same gallery space a few months later (Stich 1994: 155). More famous than these manifestations were the seven sales of Zones of Immaterial Pictorial Sensibility which Klein made between 1959 and 1962. Special certificates for immaterial zones were sold for a weight of gold. Some of these certificates were then ritually burnt, while Klein threw the gold into the River Seine, in the process restoring these manifestations of the void to their original immaterial state.

Klein's infatuation with the void and its spiritual powers was admittedly presented through verbose quasi-mystical commentary and attention-seeking performances. Yet this is often combined with an underlying comic sensibility, as seen in his outlandish utopian theories (air architecture) and absurdist conceptual pieces (Theatre of the Void). His photomontage Leap Into the Void (1960) is the most famous example of his tongue in cheek depiction of the artist aspiring to transcendence. The subtle irony is that the fall that the viewer expects to follow has been eternally delayed in the absolute certainty and stillness of the leap itself.

Despite the various precursors for Klein's work, he remains significant for creating a unique synthesis of avant-garde approaches. In his combination of conceptual and performance elements Klein "reinvested avant-garde strategies with irrationality, metaphysics, cult and ritual" (Buchloch 1995).

Klein also produced a large body of paintings and objects which share an absence of the artist's expressive gesture. Instead Klein used elements from the world around him to shape the work - among them pure pigment, sponges, body imprints, and fire. They have a beauty and simplicity that have sustained Klein's reputation and prevented it from collapsing into the appearance of empty rhetoric. These works are symbolic manifestations of energies that exist in nature, and at the same time are illustrations of the power of the void itself.

Jason Beale





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REFERENCES

Buchloch, Benjamin (1995) 'Klein and Poses - Artist Yves Klein - Into the Blue.' ArtForum, Summer 1995.

Harrison, Charles & Wood, Paul, eds. (2003) Art in Theory 1900-2000: An Anthology of Changing Ideas. Blackwell Publishing, Malden MA.

Klein, Yves (1982) 'Le Vide Performance (The Void).' From Yves Klein 1928-1962: A Retrospective. Institute for the Arts, Rice University, Houston. Internet: http://members.aol.com/mindwebart3/page19.htm

Stich, Sidra (1994) Yves Klein. Cantz Verlag, Stuttgart.

Westgeest, Helen (1996) Zen in the Fifties: Interaction in Art Between East and West. Wanders Uitgevers, Zwolle.

Wednesday, May 17, 2006

to be continued...

I am often more interested in the biographies of those I call geniuses than their work itself.
I am often more interested in what I call the spirit that is in/through/emanating/coursing them than what they 'produce'.
The myth of the genius is one of my guiding ones
The myth of the tortured genius is even stronger
The myth of the Artist
The search for Enlightenment
I am perhaps more interested in the myth of the person, than the person themselves.
To what extent can the myth of a person be separated from the 'real' person, 'myth' of a life from their 'real' life?

Myth is a structure I set my world upon

"that very day. or rather, that very hour,but suddenly thereafter she became feverish. As she lay in his bed and he stood over her, he had the irrepressible feeling that she was a child who had been put in a bulrush basket and sent to him.
The image of the abandoned child had consequently become dear to him,and he often reflected on the ancient myths in which it occurred. it was apparently with this in mind that he picked up a translation of Sophocles' Oedipus."


The Romantic myth, Romantic poets.
Would I go anywhere without myth? Spain, Venice, New York? And is it Romantic?
flamenco, Duende, bullfight, desert, ..
the masked diseased ones, casanova, island where the plagued ones go to die.

They are the structures upon which I set my world.
of course, IS THERE A POETIC WORLD WITHOUT MYTH?

IS THIS WORLD A 'POST MODERN WORLD?'

Can I survive it?

The only 'truth' I ever came across that I didn't feel could be untangled to ideas/myths is Prajnaparamita sutras, and deconstruction.

Belief.

Language, meaning, construction, constructed.

But the question that never goes away, I have chased this through years and down many many routes, is:

this can be deconstructed, but there is nothing else there behind it, so it becomes true, and not true.

Is it simply we chuck away the cruder myths and signifiers, the misguided ones, the ones that hurt, and live in ones that don't, myths are changing every day, not fixed ( throw away the myth of rimbaud, like a toy I don't need anymore, throw away the punk poet, throw away the Perfect One, throw away the death drive, thorw away any quest??..but then,
love, compassion, death, loss, hatred, envy, desire, fear,destruction,
not myth, but reality, Vajrasattva is only a Buddha figure to those who look lightly without seeing.
What is mystery? What is transcendental? What is void? Journey and moving nowhere. Form matter travel stillness

Tuesday, May 16, 2006

shamen-----
heart
sutra---------
wood-------bury
body in
earth---------------
swans-----
----------i read
derrida------------
upset-------------------
Kundalini-----
make weird
faces--
sunyata-------split
head
open--------------

spider eats
bumble bee-----

--orgasm on the
beach------------------
fall on the
pavement-----cut
knee, split
thigh---
------holy spirit----
reiki
awakening----
every angel is
terrifying
------------
tattooed on my
back

romance is
saviour/bane of
creation ---
desert knows
bigger than ---
100,000 crystal
rocks----

and Vajrasattva------
mantra----- my
man walks on
hands and knees
I am his first and
only child----

possession-----Lord seeing
everywhere-------------
ritual---bull is
dying--- sand is
red
with his blood----
we are crying---
wine tastes
good--
gravitational pull
of the
unconditioned---
meaning is
always already
divided-- fucked
up by the
transcendental --

devotion------
suck his cock-----
lie and shiver---
Yves Klein yes
he was a nutter
who

spoke about the
void

the void------form
is ---------------
only------
emptiness-------------
the clash --

--- gnawing biting
chewing-- born
reborn every
time you came

like sputtering
the fist from
your daddy's
grave ---- echo
---eta
carinae------

tragic impulse
towards -----
death drive
--------------sperm
- i scatter -----
must -

read---must read
-- must read ---
must read - fell
inside the sun
---- turned over

was a first born
----- broken glass
makes angel
wings and sails
for ships -- hold
in --- let out ---
intellect
-------------------------------------
running away
from the face of
God ------------

sublime -----
snakes up back
drag spirit up ---
shake stir throw
shatter blast fuck

a prayer --- pure
always was -----
unspeakable
Dharma ---
unsayable ---
poem -- must
spin must spin
must quake

-----------------------------
scare--- caravan
become witch in
bush under
starlight

Prajnaparamita a
shrine---
hut-------------
empty ----------
solid ------------empty

------------------------------------------------------
air-------------------
twist-

---untwisted-
knot--------
unravel-----
picture ----------
postcard-from
America.


from


shamen----- heart sutra---------wood-------bury body in earth---------------swans-----
----------i read derrida------------upset-------------------Kundalini-----make weird faces--
sunyata-------split head open--------------spider eats bumble bee-----

--orgasm on the beach------------------fall on the pavement-----cut knee, split thigh---
------holy spirit----reiki awakening---- every angel is terrifying ------------tattooed on my back

romance is saviour/bane of creation --- desert knows bigger than --- 100,000 crystal
rocks----

and Vajrasattva------mantra----- my man walks on hands and knees I am his first and only child----

possession-----Lord seeing everywhere-------------ritual---bull is dying--- sand is red
with his blood----we are crying--- wine tastes good--gravitational pull of the
unconditioned---
meaning is always already divided-- fucked up by the transcendental --

devotion------suck his cock----- lie and shiver--- Yves Klein yes he was a nutter who

spoke about the void

the void------form is ---------------only------emptiness-------------the clash --

--- gnawing biting chewing-- born reborn every time you came

like sputtering the fist from your daddy's grave ---- echo ---eta carinae------

tragic impulse towards -----death drive --------------sperm - i scatter -----must -

read---must read -- must read --- must read - fell inside the sun ---- turned over

was a first born ----- broken glass makes angel wings and sails for ships -- hold in --- let out --- intellect
-------------------------------------running away from the face of God ------------

sublime -----snakes up back drag spirit up --- shake stir throw shatter blast fuck

a prayer --- pure always was ----- unspeakable Dharma --- unsayable ---poem -- must spin must spin must quake

-----------------------------scare--- caravan become witch in bush under starlight

Prajnaparamita a shrine--- hut------------- empty ----------solid ------------empty

------------------------------------------------------air-------------------twist-

---untwisted-knot--------unravel-----picture ---------- postcard-from America.

slut slut slut slut sl
make-love
close
too close
closed
intimate
life
dreams
apart
together
risk
wanting
want
a
sex
indelible
wanted
deep
reject
lose
find
his
shallow
love
hers
not mine
alone
far away
forever
temporary
care
fingering
return
cities
art
speak about
lights
from a pier
diving
orgasms
dying
brave
signals
reincarnate
outside
what trembles
feeling
hyper
slaughter
desire
chases
go away
inside
gulping
heart
not care
be
without
in love
out
lonely
lost
cycles
hurt
bastard
romance
with
romantic
cock
story
story line
the one
not the one
right
wrong
punishment
won't
failure
behind
undressed
where
desirable
remembering
absent
not in love
decay
is
pursued
breathing
sexual
exhaustion
soft
cry
lies/truth
and
again