Sal Dali, The Great Masturbator
Don’t look at me. I didn’t name the painting. But it looks like the old Great Masturbator himself might have been sowing his wild oats hither and yon to the point that the Suprema Corte in Madrid, Spain has ruled that Dali’s body will be exhumed in order for his DNA to be tested to see if it coincides with that of a “tarot card reader and fortune teller” named Pilar Abel. I had no idea that tarot card readers and fortune tellers were two different professions, but then The Guardian never fails to open my mind to undreamt of facts. Or at least what they claim to be facts, with very little evidence whatsoever put forward to establish them as true. But, hey, we’re all PoMos on this bus.
I once knew a young lassie from Pilar, New Mexico, but that’s another story entirely. And I deny all paternity claims against my estate in the event of my succumbing to the fickle finger of fate.
What next? Every day a new revelation. Did Gala put Dali up to this business? Mysteries inside of mysteries growing deeper than the enigma already wrapped up in billions of dollars of loot so tight that this Pilar Abel had better have some pretty sharp lawyers to get her share of a quarter of The Gala-Dali, Foundation or whatever corporate identity they call themselves. I’m not sure whose side I’m on in this one as usual. But I can’t look away at the ARTs and MYTHS WORLD, Inc. Going Outta Business while going out of its mind Sale.
All this decadence is getting to be a little much for my badly shaken moral values so I was tempted to not even post this one, but I was so taken by this paragraph from the piece I couldn’t help it.
Some believe Dalí was gay and once had an affair with the poet Federico García Lorca, others that he had feelings for his only sister Ana Maria. Others, however, believe that his sex life was confined to masturbation and voyeurism. His memoirs are spectacularly unreliable, but his account of his father trying to keep him on the straight and narrow by showing him images of body parts hideously disfigured by venereal disease cannot have helped. He once wrote: “Hitler turned me on in the highest.”
I might just throw in that Dali was hardly alone in his being turned on by the German strong man. Though one can only imagine what kind of behavior Hitler provoked in Dali when he was in a turned-on state. Inspiration for his Masterpiece The Great Masturbator? I’m just speculating on that one . But as to the crowds all over the world being turned on by the Führer and I’ll turn to the great American Historian William L. Shirer’s eyewitness account of seeing Time‘s Man of the Year’s effect on the masses. Remind you guys of anyone in particular?
“Like a Roman emperor Hitler rode into this medieval town at sundown today, past solid phalanxes of wildly cheering Nazis who packed the narrow streets. Tens of thousands of Swastika flags blot out of the Gothic beauties of the place, the facades of the old houses, the gabled roofs. The streets hardly wider than alleys, are a sea of brown and black uniforms. About ten o’clock tonight, I got caught in a mob of ten thousand hysterics who jammed the moat in front of Hitler’s hotel, shouting: “We want our Fuehrer.” I was a little shocked at the faces, especially those of the women, when Hitler finally appeared on the balcony I saw once in the back country of Louisiana on the faces of some Holy Rollers who were about to hit the trail. They looked up at him as he were a Messiah, their faces transformed into something positively inhuman. If he had remained in sight for more than a few moments, I think many of the women would have swooned from excitement. “
Not sure about how the men would have been looking, but from Shirer’s description of the women I imagine something along these lines.
Fortunately, the Beatles never really had any political ambitions. Except for John in later life when he wanted to encourage the working class to stop “being fuckin’ peasants as far as I can see.” Was that Revolution No. 9, or was it No. 10?
In John’s transporting Homeric lyrics, unfairly shoved to the sideline Swedish Nobel Commies in favor of the shallow pretensions of Bob Dylan, the tallest Beatle with the worst taste in women (according to the other Beatles that is) tells the youth of the day to Keep it Real, like him and Yoko.
Keep you doped with religion and sex and TV
And you think you’re so clever and classless and free
But you’re still fucking peasants as far as I can see
A working class hero is something to be
A working class hero is something to be
Mr. and Mrs. Superior themselves. Mother Superior, John’s a gone. He blew his mind out in a car. He didn’t notice that the light had changed. Too doped up on Acid or the Maharishi Maheshi Yogi. TM. More like BM in the hands of the Neo-Buddhist self-admiration Brigades. Plus all their adoring fans all in a bonfire of the Vanities fit to bring down Western Civilization in a nuclear holocaust along with burning forests and submerged coastal areas and entire island nations. But no worries. As Meher Baba and the jerks who listen to him say: “Don’t worry. Be happy.” The only thing that matters is You. And negativity will kill business deals. Thus Spake the Donald.
Along with demanding confrontation with the Soviet Union in Syria while driving toward a showdown with Iran. Trump now in the role of Hillary during the last debate. But who remembers that far back in history? Not anybody I know in my immediate vicinity, that’s for sure. And so I write on. Right on! Because it’s a tonic at this point that I have no readers because I’d just as soon not have to spend my every waking hour left on the planet talking adolescent morons about how much smarter they are than everybody else. It’s boring to begin with. And pointless beyond that. The last thing I’m trying to do is force anyone to wake up and notice what time it is on the Big Clock of Doom. I’ll leave that to Noam Chomsky and the others who calculate those odds.
And so on and so forth. This was just after the Heroic Victory of Abstract Expressionism.*** Back when America was Great. And we still are Great. So come on, let’s stop all this handwringing about Health Care, as we’re neck and neck with Britain for being totally on the skids, according to the authority on all things skid-related, The Guardian. At this point it’s the only news source I go to because it is the only source I trust when it comes to Art Writing. Readers might inform me differently, but for sheer caliber of mentally defective art writers, The Guardian puts the competition to shame.
See how many egregious mistakes, sheer fantasies and gibbering idiocy you can spot in this J. Jones review of Modern Art. What are these people eating and drinking to have turned them into babbling babboons? And not even capable of defending themselves from what they no doubt believe our my calumnies against their highly cultured elite reporters. How boring life is without people in the arts capable of articulating a single coherent sentence. I knew I should have took up Golf like my father wanted me to when I was a wee lad growing up along the banks of the Potomac River.
*** It was heroic! As Clement Greenberg proclaimed in a 1961 revision of an Art News article, “New York Painting Only Yesterday”:
Someday it will have to be told how ‘anti-Stalinism’ which started out more or less as ‘Trotskyism,’ turned into art for art’s sake, and thereby cleared the way, heroically, for what was to come.”
Indeed. Pop Art, Minimalism, Earth Art, Video Art, Performance Art, Photorealism Art, Neo-Pluralistic Whatever You Feel Like Making Art, Pattern and Decoration Art, Politically Correct, GWB Sodomizing a Pig Art, GWB Portraits of Heroic Vets (note Alice Neel influence with Hockneyesque flair for pretty colors), Infantilism, Devolutionism, Machines producing Feces-Art… All the incredibly gifted artists with their incredible gifts but nobody knows anything at all is amiss in Art Lover Land. It’s just part of the grift. All is beauty and serenity under a peaceful Sea of Happy Shoppers who believe in nothing whatsoever other than their own personal pleasure inside their extended families of Selfie Snappers living La Dolce Vita.
Lastly a quote from Dante’s Inferno. The Clive James translation but that’s all I have handy down here in the sub-sub basement in the bowels of the Deep Underground.
Bad language, bursts of anger, yelps of pain,
Shrill scrambled messages from aching lungs,
And clapped hands, self-applause of the insane:
All this was whipped by its own energy
Into a timeless tumult without form–
Dark as a whirlpool in a dead black sea
Or a whirlwind sucking sand into a storm.
Ears ringing to the center of my brain
From horror, “Master, what furore is this?”
I asked, “Who are they, so distraught with pain?”
Then he: “Their pride to have no prejudice,
Seeking no praise for fear of taking blame,
They were for nothing, nor were they against:
They made no waves and so they made no name.
Now their neutrality is recompensed,
For here there is no cautious holding back
Voices once circumspect are now incensed
And raised to make each other’s eardrums crack.
Thus they are joined to that self-seeking squad
Of angels fitted neither to rebel
Against, nor put their heartfelt faith in, God–
Hunted from heaven and locked out of Hell
Because the perfect sky would brook no blur,
And in the lower depths the rebels prized
The glory won from being what they were,
Not the nonentities that they despised.”
Ah, yes. The nonentities that they despised. Those would be the much-reviled nonentities saying a few words about what is currently transpiring in God’s real world, all the while being drowned out by the self-applause of the insane. Eric Waynesters and his Many Million Neo-Hipster Artist Army seeing any dissenters from the madness as “grandstanding” or “self-glorifying. Yes. The multitudes of insane artists all look alike and talk alike. And times they even walk alike. You could lose your mind if you pay too much attention to them. So let’s just give another round of applause for the geniuses of the Contemporary Art Moment that, in their minds, is bound to last forever through Eternity. Bound to Glory.