Dali’s Exquisite Corpse

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.

Is the UK or the US more of a Disaster at the Moment??!?

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.

https://www.theguardian.com/books/2002/apr/13/books.guardianreview1?INTCMP=ILCNETTXT3487

*** 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.

Posted in Decadent Art | Leave a comment

Paradigm Lost

Jean-Leon Gerome, Bathsheba, 1889

Becoming ever poorer and poorer in subject matter and more and more unintelligible in form, the art of the upper classes, in its latest productions, has even lost all the characteristics of art, and has been replaced by imitations of art.  Not only has upper-class art, in consequence of it s separation from universal art, become poor in subject matter and bad in form, i.e. ever more and more unintelligible, it has in course of time, ceased even to be art at all and has been replaced by counterfeits. –Leo Tolstoy, What is Art?, Ch.9

Rather than to go on beating a dead horse* in the hopes that the living dead wandering aimlessly around it hoping it will miraculously revive and return to its former Triumph of Abstraction from Reality I’m going to begin down the path of the new paradigm that has been evident to me for the last few months, if to nobody else flogging PoMo to death and too busy too notice that it isn’t just the horse that is dead. They can cling to each other trying to reassure each other that what they do has meaning just because it has a price tag but everyone with any honesty knows that making money bears no relationship at all to artmaking.

What used to be real art has long since been converted into commercial art and there are only one of two choices available to anyone endeavoring to take on the burdensome task of being an artist in the coming transformation.  One can either continue to be part of the commercial art system that is in process of total disintegration by holding on to all its values and commandments. Or one can reject it in its entirety, particularly it’s tawdry and long past their sell by date “ideas” and “theories”, none of which bear any relationship to real life on Earth. (see previous post The First PostModernist)

The choice is yours. I’m not advocating for anything. This began as a personal investigation along the lines of Franz Kafka’s Investigations of a Dog. For what else is the current artist but a whining and begging dog, tongue hanging out of his mouth hoping one of his old tricks will please the master and the servants of the master, the clueless masses. I have no Messianic mission. I’m simply bored to death talking about current fashion styles and and decadent work. What else could one expect to be produced in a corporate run and corporate controlled art world? As Capitalism either twinkles out or explodes into apocalypse it quite obviously has no future whatsoever, and when it fails the last half century and more of Business Art will collapse along with it.

Keeping my eye open for the panic that inevitably follows a long boom of this sort, the longest in history supported by little more than trite fashion art, I interpret the drop of 2/3 of value suffered over the last 27 years of  Gerome’s Bathsheba (a work that puts any PoMo Pop artist to shame) as the sign that the game is up. When masterpieces of the late 19th century drop that precipitously it’s clear that knowledge buyers realize that the overall “exuberance” allowing Old Master paintings to ride the vapor trails given off by mediocre kitsch like Basquiat is all but ended.

About the only thing going on in art at the moment is to convert anything possible that had never been considered serious art as late as the 1970s into brand New Innovations in Art. Ceramics, Jewelry, Costumes, RockStar Memorabilia, “Underground” Comic Books , Rap Stars, tattoo artists, etc. into High Art. This is a sign of total desperation. I’ve been enjoying it myself. Only those with vested interests in it or who have been playing the game since art schools are in a lather and looking for anyone else to blame but themselves. I can only imagine what not only Tolstoy but any other serious writer or artist of the past would make of this clowning and clowns who take themselves seriously going red as beets if one ever questions why digital printouts of their work on T-Shirts is  “art.”

I’m here as your scapegoat, gang. I’m hardly unfriendly or chastising anyone. Detached amusement, at myself included. So:   Fire away, Gridley. Or bleat away like sheep to sheering or stare vacantly like lambs to slaughter. Curse the fates in the person of yours truly. I bring bad tidings. That’s all they gave me. Somebody has to transmit the messages from above. That’s what artists are for. This happens historically. Things rise and fall. This collapse looks to be spectacular. I wish there were more outsider artists to watch it with, but the others  seem bound and determined to jump into it with their tshirts, tattoos, pop and multiple neo-styles and concepts rather than depart the vessel. Or exit through the gift shop leaving their Banksy memorabilia behind.

It can be nostalgia for the French Academy, the Italian Renaissance, the glory days of the American 1940s or the Pop Heyday. But all of it is kitsch sentimentality. And all of it is banal and without life.

To understand what real art is, I’ll keep trying to pepper some more serious thinkers on the subject than anybody we have writing today. I’ll repeat Tolstoy’s point. You’ll notice that Tolstoy’s clarity of thought on the subject bears as much relation to current art writing (i.e.,, sales talk with little resemblance to intelligible writing) as David Foster Wallace bears to Dickens.

Tolstoy’s   extraordinarily accurate summation of the art scene of 1898  is perfectly compatible with my own conclusions based on the volume of research I’ve done on this blog over the last few years.

Becoming ever poorer and poorer in subject matter and more and more unintelligible in form, the art of the upper classes, in its latest productions, has even lost all the characteristics of art, and has been replaced by imitations of art. Not only has upper-class art, in consequence of its separation from universal art, become poor in subject matter and bad in form, i.e. ever more and more unintelligible, it has in course of time, ceased even to be art at all and has been replaced by counterfeits.

We live now in an age of Ersatz, Computerized virtual reality fantasies, the so-called art being a mere form of disposable entertainment. If it isn’t pushed into big ticket monetized commodities, it ends up as kitsch trinkets on Ebay, Etsy, Artfinder, Artnet and other venues for investors who prefer nice things to trading gold, silver, porkbellies, and Collateralized Debt Obligations. I wish this weren’t the case but the only way for me to work as an artist is to work in relationship to the reality I live in. And in this case I work diametrically opposed to the commodification of life.

Note the Gerome painting above, which was his highest selling painting for $2.2 Million. In June it went for $631,000 with only one bidder. Contrast to what just sold for, according to the Times, a  mindblowing  (translation: absurd) $110.5 million at auction in Mid-May.

Yet artists keep cranking this kind of lamebrain stuff out. And recall that lamebrain critics like John Berger claimed the painting above to be greater than those by Picasso, whose later worker Berger wrote about as a failure. How much more absurd can it get really? It can only get more interesting as we watch the rivets popping and the gaskets blowing off and the water flooding into the lower decks wiping out the small fry with their Hirst Spot Paintings and Jeff and Andy and Bob and Jasper multiples. That Bacon is the other big name along with Basquiat, naturally drawing the attention of those who want to be “big stars” themselves is a kind of screaming and repetitive narcissism that somehow deceives itself into thinking it stands for anything thing more than “Look At ME!”

The Me Generation’s last Hurrah. And what could be a more pathetic of a life than what we see above selling for more than a hundred times the work of a mid-grade French Academician. The Avant-Garde as a fraudulent myth replacing real art with nothing but counterfeits.

Posted in Art and Money | Tagged , | Leave a comment

The First Postmodernist

As with my tracing back the roots of Postmodernism to Abstract Expressionism in the 1940s as it was illustrated in the crackpot writing of Clement Greenberg and further back to the Dadaists and Jarry, Duchamp being merely a packager of Lautreamont’s Pre-PostModernist plagiarism, the only way to understand PostModernist thinking at its root is to go back to the thinking of Friedrich Nietzsche.

Should one even be interested. I understand that few if any artists are, as none of the names are familiar anymore, much less their work or their thinking (for what that’s worth). At this point I can only take the comic view that has long been part of my character as I’m more of the Northern Renaissance temperament than the Southern. The grotesque and vulgar don’t alarm, and certainly don’t shock me. I can’t imagine who is being shocked other than three and four year olds. Although I imagine they take what’s on TV as normal behavior that they need to imitate.

Excuse me for not being shocked and amazed by soft core porn and people fornicating, but I went through pretty much the voyeuristic gamut as a young man about town in various American urban centers. Not that I’m jaded, mind you. Boredom is more the issue here. Is there anything new out there that is the least bit illuminating?  It would be wonderful if some of the lovers of the schlock of the new would explain to me the powerful emotions and provocative thoughts they’re experiencing when entranced in these spectacles, not to mention the reasoned political discussions they engender. At least I might be able to cast a few humorous reflections on your reflections and so amuse myself in a way that the artworks themselves fail to do. This is what I mean by the term meaningless when I refer to Contemporary Art. As to Nietzsche’s role (and no, I am not blaming Herr Nietzsche any more than I am blaming Monsieur Duchamp or Bubblebrain Greenberg) this is not a personal vendetta. For personal vendettas, like Vladimir Putin’s KGB, I prefer slow acting nuclear isotopes delivered James Bond style at the point of my umbrella.

This is my own PostModern effort to be part of the general festivities and take my mind off the heat burning down the Southwest at the moment. Fortunately this is a fluke and no worries about the temps a dozen years into the future, as we PostModernists have better things to think about. Like the fact that Jay Z’s iconic status seems to be in danger. I’ll play the timeless video at the bottom here as for me, nobody said it like it was than my man, Jay Z. I hope we will recover from his momentary challenge by Spotify, whatever that is. Before going on to the boring stuff (a quote from Simon Blackburn’s Truth) I wanted to be the first to break it to my readers that Barry Gibb suffered child abuse. I begin to wonder if a prerequisite to being an artist these days is to suffer child abuse. I need to remember that when I write my memoirs.

And now something from a writer whose thoughts are organized into coherent sentences. I myself prefer my own circular perambulations as that’s my PostModern signature style. The point I’m making is that there is no point i’m making. Isn’t that what PostModernism is all about? At least Nietzsche had a few points to make back before Google and Microsoft and Facebook took over the mind of Mankind (as I can only speak for myself as I embody the American übermensch while I’m on my computer). Other than that I’m just a regular Joe q. Sixpack watching NASCAR races with the other deplorables, my close family relatives. Is anybody aware of when I’m joking and when I’m not? No. Of course not. But that’s ok. Simon will get to the bottom of the abyss.

TRUTH CHAPTER 4.1 by Simon Blackburn:

in the introduction I remarked that the saying “There are no facts, only interpretations” could serve as a motto for the relativist movement. It comes as late notes by Friedrich Nietzsche, probably the greatest figurehead for that tendency since Protagoras (ed: more on him later as he is the real culprit!) We jump to Nietzsche rather than following the historical course of ancient and modern skepticism, for several reasons. First Nietzsche, more than any philosopher from the nineteenth century or before, is still with us. He is currently the most influential of the great philosophers. It is an axiom of many academic schools and programmes that he has something supremely important to tell us about the truth. (my itals) He is the patron saint of postmodernism. But secondly the bewildering varieties of Nietzsche interpretations perfectly illustrate the battles of the last two chapters (see the last two chapters). He appears to put himself quite willfully (note: will to power nod) to put himself in the firing line for a self-refutation (after all, that’s what PoMO is all about to the extent that it’s about anything whatsoever) or the charge of sailing in Ishmael’s boat. (Moby Dick reference… spoiler alert:. no happy ending). And the interpretative problem is worse given that he entirely throws over the the sober conventions of philosophical writing. (seen any of that lately? If not, try picking up any art forum published since the 1960s) Reading him can feel like listening to a great drunken bellow (as with Robert Hughes or John Berger’s art writings) a huge gust of wind attempting to blow down ancient forests, (I think of my own writing as farting into a hurricane. it has no effect but it relieves the pressure building up in my bowels) including those that shelter the rest of us.

We’re sheltering in ancient forests being blown down by huge gusts of wind? There’s the price of trying to disentangle Nietzsche, one becomes entranced by the poetic possibilities disregarding the nagging demands of common sense and clear expository writing. Then again, you can go the extremes of Herr Wittgenstein and go just as further into ancient impenetrable forests of indecipherable epigrams, which are what epigrams are all about. But how much insight do they really shed in the hands of writers who, at bottom, really don’t believe in anything at all but their own huge gusts of wind. Like myself at the moment. Of course, I make no claims to being a writer or philosopher. I just scribble. Doodlings for the Dark Ages…. As nobody believes that drawings have any meaning whatsoever unless they can be subjected to books of interpretations of them. For me understanding what  a drawing means is relatively simple. It’s not rocket science, like understanding what the art of  Jay Z  and Marina in the video means. Not to mention understanding the obvious intellectual brilliance of the enlightened assembled who buy and sell it.

Of course,  the wax museum  dummy and plagiarist extraordinaire Bob Dylan got the Nobel for Lit (this is why Dylan is so loved by PostModerns as plagiarism is the essence of the art form). While once again the black man, the real original  Jay Z, is losing iconic status already. Anyway, I’m Chinese on my mother’s side, which is why my writing is so Confucian to ya.

“You make yourself art. It’s amazing!” I’ll say. The talent in that room is beyond anything  around in the Sixties. Apatow. Piss Christ Man. The king of Conceptual Art Larry Weiner. This is a fundamental document. That list of artists in the credits at the end pretty much sum up the end of American culture. Anyone thinking there’s going to be a rebound needs to have their head examined. Of course the entire apparatus will remain in dumbshow silence from here to the financial collapse. Count on it.

And why not compare Jay Z, with his matter of fact lyrical pyrotechnics to this trite folkie bullshit. Get me my earplugs. At least Jaz Z is making some nice dance music and he has a pleasant voice and is far, far more personable than the self-absorbed Bob, with his pseudo-poetic sensitivities. Before he decided that playing the millionaire “outlaw” was where the bucks were. We’re all outlaws. Against the Man. Boo Trump!! Boo!!! Booo Comey!! Boo… oh yeah.. FBI are the good guys now. I forgot.

Lawrence Weiner. The heir of Duchamp. Who will replace Larry now that he’s prey to senile dementia, like the others. But we’ll have these great memories to sustain as the mountains are washed to the sea and the people are allowed to be free. Note the clarity of thought. Note the joint he’s smoking… That’s where the clear thoughts come from.

Like Larry I too wondered as a child about the big questions just as he did. Like what if Einstein and Madonna had a baby? Think about it. Every piece of art is posing that kind of question. And every day artists are coming up with some really fascinating answers. What if Duchamp and Lawrence Weiner had a baby with Lawrence Weiner being given  an artificial womb with in vitro fertilization of Duchamp’s frozen seed. .. What would that be like I wonder. Elon Musk? Pee Wee Herman? Son of Frankenstein?

The Zen Masturbator. How did empty headed intellectual pretention become the entire content of Contemporary Art? Well, that’s the question I’ve answered time and time again with each blog post. But just keep on believing. Never let go of the belief in Contemporary Art, as what would you be without it, art stars? :

Posted in Bart Johnson the VIII | Leave a comment

St. Augustine: True Being

Piero della Francesca, St. Augustine, c. 1465

For I was ignorant of that other reality, true being. And so it was that I was subtly persuaded to agree with these foolish deceivers when they put their questions to me: “Where does evil come from?” and, “Is God limited by a bodily shape, and does he have hair and nails?” and, “Are those patriarchs to be esteemed righteous who had many wives at one time, and who killed men and who sacrificed living creatures?” “In my ignorance I was much disturbed over these things and, though I was retreating from the truth, I appeared to myself to be going toward it, because I did not yet know  that evil was nothing but a privation of good (that, indeed, it has no being): and how should I have seen this when the sight of my eyes went no farther than physical objects, and the sight of my mind reached no farther than to phantasms? And I did not know that God is a spirit who has no parts extended in length and breadth, whose being has no mass–for every mass is less in a part than in a whole–and if it be an infinite mass it must be less in such parts as are limited by a certain space than in its infinity. It cannot therefore be wholly everywhere as spirit is, as God is. And I was entirely ignorant as to what is that principle within us by which we are like God, and which is rightly said in scripture to be made in God’s image.

–St. Augustine, Confessions, 3.7.12, 4th century AD

In my ignorance I was much disturbed over these things and, though I was retreating from the truth, I appeared to myself to be going toward it, because I did not yet know  that evil was nothing but a privation of good (that, indeed, it has no being): and how should I have seen this when the sight of my eyes went no farther than physical objects, and the sight of my mind reached no farther than to phantasms?

If I am not for myself, who will be for me? If I am not for others, what am I? And if not now, when?

He who refuses to learn deserves extinction.
–Rabbi Hillel

Posted in Spirit | Tagged , , | Leave a comment

Why I Am So Clever

It’s pretty urewarding, I have to admit, being the most brilliant person in the entire universe. Why? Nobody recognizes it! Of course not! They’d have to be as brilliant as I am in order to realize it. They’d have to get all the labyrinthine meanings and puns like labiarinthine for the Lacanians to pick apart to get at my various sexual neuroses. Penis Envy combine with a Castration Comples.. ?

Take Two Aspirins and Call me in the morning, Dumbkopf! That’s German for… whooopss.. Somebody just interuptured my airplane of thought. I think it was me.

That’s what’s so great about  ME! They named the entire Me Generation after ME, dont’cha know, choo choo. You too, boo boob. Boogalo. What you think you gonna do? Back up to the Bumperbaby, back from the internet startup company?

Anybody hear ever heard of David Foster Kane Wall Ass? Is that an insult to the Master of Prose of the Who Gives a Shit Generation… I’m sitting on my ass watching TV and making a lot of cool references and puns in my enormous brain. We;;;;; hah!! Weee haw!! It’s fun. I can’t wait to read the entire 15,000 pages but first I need to finish Reading the longest Postmodern Novel ever written by Comic Genius and Black Magician worshipping a Snake God, Alan Moore. … I like his show on YouTube so I’m sure I’ll like the book…

Did I say 15,000 pages? I read all of that…. Then I sent it to my shrink, Jacques Lacan and asked him what it meant.

It’s ok guys. I’m just ribbin; ya. I’m jealous. I’m just as stupid painter, like Marcel said. Stupid enough to keep painting when everybody busy watching tv or writing postmodern masterpieces or is that masturbationpieces. Fallin to pieces. .. Generation what one are we at at at the moment?

The Milleniums? You mean the Apocalypto Generation? Well, if they aren’t, they sure do a good impression of it…

Anybody know what I’m talking about cause I sure don’t. I’m gonna take this in to my shrink and then have my Tarot Cards read by Alejandro Jodorowsky who made the movies that are all about the different levels of consciousness and Pagan Rights and I agree! I’m all for Pagan Rights. Just give me a sign and I’m off to join the march on Washington. I’m going dressed as my hero, The Lizard King.

Now there was a straight talker, if I ever heard one. Father. I want to kill. Mother I want to fuck you.

I get it. Freud got it right on target. Hey. Do you guys have Oedipal desires? How long did they last? Just curious … I want to put the information into my next performance piece symbolically. Since Arthur C. Danto died I wonder if there’s anyone else who will get the arcane references… Any notions of who’s writing about performance art these days. Or a blog… Besides Eric Wayne’s, I mean. I like Eric’s blog, although he thinks I don’t read it enough to get what he’s saying. welll…. excuse me!

Here’s me when I was younger. You can see I was ripped off by Chapman Brothers. I was the first performance artist to put on a penis nose. And look how the audience loved me. I went on to write plays about Picasoo at the Lappin Agita. And note how my stuff isn’t tired at all when you watch it Now in 2017 or whatever year it is today. This captures how great those days were that we never left but are hoping we can get back to if we keep on doing what we been doing to get ourselves here gettin our gut laffs . .. The Laughin Giraffes at the Laffin Agile are Burnin… That’s a Dali reference for others who didn’t get the Picasso reference. I know. I know. Who cares? Not me. That’s for sure. But as Chauncey Gardiner said. I like to Watch for 15 seconds. I know you get it. But do you? Do you really? Drop me a line anytime and tell me what I’m talkin’ about. Let’s write a Postmodern novel. You write it and I’ll draw it. But make sure it’s funny, cause my drawings sure are funny.

A laugh riot. But this kind of stuff cheers me up to no end so in order to keep every one happy. I apologize for this brief digression into total absurdity and wonder if you will… take it away Steverino….

OH yeah!!! Dagoonit it am I always foe get ten to exclude my references. Why I Am So Clever is the name of a book I wrote in the 19th century when I went by the name of Fredrick Neetsy… It’s pronounced Friedrich Nietzsche by Kluge Getzit. He road in the Kentucky on a horse named Charles Bukowsky that Hunter Bogartson and Ralph SSiimpson ratted about in Rollin’  Bones.

That’s pretty bad, mates…. I gotsa bee bonin’ up on my spelling. People are gonna start thinking I’m a Post-Modernist Beat Poet! Is it true what somebody told me that Alan Clarksburg wrote Howlin Wolf on LSD or was that Bobby Benzendrine reciting it to him in the voice of Alvin Blake the Blues Singer? Well. U gest it. I’m givin up art and forming a New Wave Band of Rappin fools from Blues Town, Las Vegas Pennsylvania. Any a you guys have a moog synthezier and a Cello and can play like Charlotte Mermaid and has a nice rack.  See how many minutes you can take of this. Cause I’m an avant garter belt genius and funny like charlotte. a sharp wit a beautiful quiver and quim and am so concentrated and effervescent and i can interest anybody in the radius of a mile. and port authority couldn’t say no to me. but they told me to stop or they were gonna lock me up.

Lots of you younguns don’t know it now but those early avant garde days were filled with geniuses that make the dopey people today doing it look like amateurs. Char was a fave of Mar… Mar and Char played chess…. Mar rubbed himself under the table and felt good about himself. real gosh darn good.

Posted in PostMortemism | Leave a comment

Silence

As far as God helping us, I find that certain things help staying in touch with him. And why should He help us as most of us ignore him around the clock. I don’t myself. But that’s just me.

For staying in touch I draw every day as I have for 60 years or so. A compulsive draftsman. Obsessive Compulsive Disorder on top of all my other maladies, wouldn’t you know. Some of us are more cursed than others.

Also very little computer surfing. Doing a blog post and writing in my journals intermittently. Often sketching people at coffeeshops which I’ve done since the early 1980s, which is how I understand what is happening to people in this society better than those actually living in it, which I’m rarely doing.

It’s not good, friends. That’s all I’m saying here. Total Artificial Paradise. I apologize for adding to it here but hopefully it might have some tiny countereffect on the odd character. That’s the main reason I write. Ann odd character it’s had a large counter effect on is yours truly. Very odd. Almost eccentric. Eccentric artist? What ever happened to them? No doubt underground without access to a computer. I’m planning on joining them myself. Hard enough to type this up. Much less have to field comments from people of the caliber of intellect of Eric Wayne calling me an asshole, a maggot,  phony narcissist or whatever he was describing me as. An insane person? Well, sure. Why not? I’ve been called pretty much everything else. Insane Bart. Insane in the Membrane. I wrote that yesterday for Bob Dylan to sing. Bob the plagiarist turns out. But that’s PoMo Fo Yo. They don’t mention his plagiarizing Cartier Bresson photographs for his Gagosian show or wherever it was. You tell me for a change.

Anyway, this article came as a real shocker. I rolled my eyes when I read it:

https://www.theguardian.com/music/shortcuts/2017/jun/14/its-alright-ma-im-only-cheating-did-bob-dylan-crib-his-nobel-speech-from-sparknotes

Alas! Alack! The Great Bard a phony! Don’t tell me his ads for Victoria Principal bras was insincere! Where will it end? Noam Chomsky selling Men’s Hosiery? Nah. Noam always had integrity. Bob lost his when he decided to pretend to be an authentic Socialist and American hobo hero when he was a guy pretending to be Woody Guthrie.

Time loves a hero. But only time will tell. If he’s real he’s a angel from heaven. If he ain’t he’ was sent here from Hell. – Lowell George

Too bad nobody’s ever heard of Woody, though I can assure you he’d never get any award for his songwriting, much less a Nobel Prize. Although he deserved on. A real hero of min anyway. God Bless you, Woody Guthrie. Arlo? Too much pot and good times to be a great songwiter. But a nice kid nevertheless and a super lyrical storyteller. More Arlo, less Bob, and our generation might have done a hell of a lot better.

Sorry. There I go again. Like Jack Kerouac i’ve been poppin the Bennies. How else can I write On the Road… to Mandalay Bay.. way out Las Vegas Way… where they tested the nukes and ran the casinos that paid for it all. Now it’s time to pay it all back!?!?! But I’m in debt up to the eyeballs.

A little more silence in my busy mind actually goes a long way. … to keeping me at least somewhat sane. So I’ll turn it over to someone sensible to explain. Thich Nhat Hanh, the South Vietnamese Buddhist :

Our need to be filled up with one thing or another all the time is the collective disease of human beings in our era. And the marketplace is always ready to sell us every kind of product to fill ourselves up. Advertisers continually scare us into avoiding the supposedly pathetic situation of living life without this or that item. But many of the things we consume, both as edible food and as sensory impressions, have toxins in them. Just as we might feel worse after eating a whole bag of chips, we often feel so after we spend many hours on social media sites or playing video games. After we consume like that in an effort block out or cover up unpleasant feelings, somehow we only end up feeling even more loneliness and despair.   

Now I’ll go on blabbering away and you can tune out as Thich gave you the message to tune out. So tune out. Go out and draw, Junior. That’s how it’s done. And not on a computer.

I try to stay outside the cyberuniverse as much as possible. Particularly lately. Watch little TV. Of course that makes me a bore in social company as all that is being talked about is the in depth knowledge everyone has of where the Impeachment Proceedings are at the moment and expressing their deep thoughts about the shooting of a US Congressman in the working class suburb I grew up in of Alexandria, Virginia. We were so broke we didn’t even own a TV for a bit there.. And when we got one it was black and white and not that interesting. So I didn’t form the TV habit that everyone else is addicted by.

I don’t think of myself as morally elevated and above everyone else. Just not so much into it and a complete bore socially as I have little to add to conversations of how great the Broadway Musical Hamilton is as it really gets to what America is all about. Rap music and dancing, and not bothering to read much about who Alexander Hamilton really was. A lawyer and Big Time Wall Street guy. Made sure the working class stayed in their place. Shining his boots. Aaron Burr, a kind of gambler and hustler, with a penchant for running away from debts and threatening to sue whoever came after him. Another lawyer for you. Love those Lawyers. Donald Trump’s a gold mine for those guys. I guess. Not keeping track.

You can read a good book with the actual history of New York City included in it about H and B. A page turner. Not as exciting as Hamilton the Musical I imagine. Haven’t seen it yet. If I’m misjudging perhaps someone will straighten me out. The book is Duel with the Devil . I have a lot of books with Devil in the title. He interests me. What can I say? Way more exciting than God, who just sits in a cloud reaching out to touch Adam on the Sistine Ceiling. At least to most people in consumer heaven.

Next up, if I remember to pull a quote: The Devil’s Delusion. A Hell of a book and the atheist Fundamentalists Paul Rumsey loved so much, i.e. Sam Harris, Chris Hitchens and Richard Dawkins, come away with the short end of the stick. A longer version that dispels the delusions of the Fundamentalist Atheists is Karen Armstrong’s Fields of Blood: Religion and the History of Violence. A brilliant tour de force by one of the greatest writers on Comparative Religion who has ever lived. Unlike the Hitchens war mongering crowd, Karen Armstrong knows what she’s talking about. Small wonder Chris Hitchens would only debate if he was up against Al Sharpton on Chris Matthews rotten tomato of a show.

For you wits wanting to tell me I should practice what I’m preaching. I only stay silent during meditation, when I’m drawing. Other than when I’m interrupted when I go in and out to answer a question like: “Do you sell those in a gallery?” or “Are you ‘shrooming?” No I just naturally hallucinated on a piece of paper. Cheaper than buy LSD, which I’ve heard is pretty expensive today? You could get it by the handful at reasonable prices in certain locations back in the good old days. I’ve hallucinated since I was a kid. I thought everyone did. My son did anyway. He had an imaginary friend named Bobby Shake. Wonder if he remembers him.

Also I run my mouth to my wife and various other people driving them crazy. Most of them want to keep watching TV or read their smartphone news or tweet, which is more interesting than anything I can say to them.

Posted in PostMortemism, Uncategorized | Leave a comment

What Is Art?

Visions. Visions that come from the Sacred Universe and are translated by human beings into material form. No visions being translated by artists (as we started calling them toward the end of human history) no Sacred Universe.

A world filled with technology and material objects that have no meaning whatsoever outside of egotistical and narcissistic notions of what “art” is promoted by corporate owners of museums and galleries. Galleries are what, now? LLCs? Who knows? I don’t care what they are. Nor do I care about Galleries or anything in them.

I care about the visionary works that are in Museums. Without them humanity perishes in chaos and madness.

Visionaries today, like myself, the few of us that have survived the reign of atheism and technology and scientific materialism and so on are known as Chaotic Madmen, who need to be either drugged up or lobotomized or driven out of public sight in any way possible. By who else by the members of societies perfectly happy with all the Mod Cons… and I mean that last word in literal sense. It’s not short hand for conveniences. There are no conveniences. Only inconvenient truths that people on earth want nothing to do with.

Instead they’re stuffing their heads full of every Mad Con by any mad con artist who has a Beautiful Dream to sell them, at prices from a few bucks at the local coffeeshop to 100 million plus for a silkscreen electric chair…

Well, you guys think about it. Converse among yourselves. See what you come up with.

Hit Eric Wayne’s blog or Jerry Saltz or Tyler whatever his name is at Modern Art Notes or Natural Pigments forum where they tell you how to paint just like the Old Masters. I can’t wait for the next Rubens or Rembrandt to show up. … Or hmm… what else. MoMA site… Greatest art ever as far as the eye can see and the mind can boggle.

Cat still got everyone’s tongue? Is my writing too confusing? Too insane? Too brain fogged? Too ignorant about the clearly articulated writings great thinkers from Marcel Duchamp to Clement Greenberg to Roberta Smith to Robert Hughes about what art is and why today’s art is worth 100 plus million bucks for a silkscreen of an electric chair… one among tens of thousands of similar photo silkscreens untouched by human hands.

But it’s the seminal one… The Electric Chair where prisoners are executed with a dazzling Electro Shock that gives off one brilliant flash of illuminating light to the Criminal who we all agree, being judge, jury and executioner has to go to keep us all safe from the Dark Forces of Satan’s Armies of the Night.

But I don’t think that’s used any more. We use gentler methods that aren’t so shocking. Predator drones. Massive aerial bombardment. Nuclear weapons in reserve having shown their effectiveness in Japan. Flying Planes into buildings. Suicide bombers. Anything and everything that will halt the forces of Evil that threaten to destroy the planet.

Meanwhile, there’s always great art at the local galleries and museums that will help raise our consciousness onto a higher plane. That’s what art is meant to do. Hope there’s enough room in the Rothko Chapel, Matisse Chapel, Ellsworth Kelly Chapel and other chapels like the Museum of Modern Art to guide everyone to enlightenment so that we can bring on a new era of Peace, Love and Understanding.

Plus Bruce Nauman Videos and Paul McArthy sculptures of George Bush that will stop the Fascist Tyrants from destroying the land we love..

Yes. God help us all.

Posted in Uncategorized | Leave a comment