What is art, a deuxieme manifesto on the dissisitudes of modern day epistemology?

December 23, 2007

Books are art, the glass over there is art.

I defined it as such.

 

This is art, when bought for $3.36 in british money that’s just a little more than a dollar fifty.

 

Second grade is art. There is art in you and on this ticket.

 Algerian is art ART Duchamp was an artist and guilty of it. Hey Pomp stop selling those pins, he isn’t innocent. Dali was a sell out and an artist, but Disney was the Pope! Guns aren’t art, we don’t won’t them not the futurists, they can take their automobiles and leave.  BYE Sans art Le gouvernement français est art.  Il n’y a rien d’art ici, sauf tout ce qui est art.  Germany lost world war two.  The Large Glass has another name. The Seven Dwarfs was a German story. Mickey Mouse represents an alliteration, art.  Art is in the paper, art is in the pen, art is on the tv, art is in the den, art lives in you, art comes from me, art sings to all, art’s done by a bee, art is something dumb, art is something fun, art is sometimes alive, and art is relentlessly a pun,  art can breath change, art can be thrown away, art can cause tears, art is here to stay.  That was a really dumb poem. This is war! You still owe me that $4.56                                                             I STAND FOR ART Tristan hurry up and come back to us before countless more go to art school. Hanz we have failed, and Earnst if you hadn’t painted Ubu, he would have gone unnoticed in today’s world.  We want NO violence, we are not the futurists or the idiot Dadaists who cried for such stupidity.  But should you see Mr. Ubu (he is no longer a king) KILL HIM! That is all! Free those confined by the trap.  R. Mutt I Salute You! Huysmans.

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Why? well that didn’t answer anything.

December 12, 2007

Literature as literary wraps the literal world literally

 

M stands alone when faced with glass and polyester

 

Granite and skin soft lotion knows not facsimiles

 

Carbon copies of derelicts and saint nicks

 

Rapture sings true, chanting that tune in time with paramount

 

Capture that innocent

 

Plug the hemp into the corner oval office connected to that clamp

 

Shoot that down

 

Umpire whispers the wrong paper’s name

 

Plastics of a vermillion appearance

 

Paprika is honing its own textual understanding

 

Judge humorously

 

Queue in burrows and bombastic fortitude

 

Vicariously notice the limestone yoyo

 

Tear the underside of imagination

 

Grim and grip

 

Gyrate in unprecedented motion

 

Eradicate unintentional limitations

 

Irradiate nothing less than blistering creativity unquestionably

 

Black

 

Cough for curious connotations

 

Sample slanting ceremoniously surmounted singularities

 

Underline the word black

 

Draw arrows back

 

Plug in the computer

 

And download the straws

 

Ring Ring Rhyme

 

Notice the wrappers around the table

 

Cringe at the sound of their voices

 

Joint

 

Jazz

 

Abandon

 

Abandoned

 

Abandoning

 

Allocations call for bases

 

Simultaneously

 

And I surrender.


The 20th of November dreams of the 16th.

November 22, 2007

– An experimentation in the combination of automatic, creative, constructed, poetic, and prose writing… by Huysmans

I met a man sometime after the 16th of November who reminded me of a time long ago where there was a guerilla sitting on a hump that looked like some string from the fourth of July parade back in August. What then was the meaning of these jumbled months looking like moths? I say, if they go after the light one more time I swear that I will write down every god damn candle that looks in on itself. Calling upon my previous knowledge I now must admit that I know nothing, or is it something? I can never remember, maybe that is because I know nothing. WAIT that’s it, that’s the answer. Oh Socrates you’d be so proud of Walter, only if you knew that he and Surrealism never really got along.

   

                                                                        A long pause was then taken by the author of the above text as he contemplated the ridiculousness that he had found himself in when dealing with such creative processes. Was Breton on to something grand or just on to something, something like all the other somethings that never amounted to something in their lifetime? The author thought this over for a period of fifteen seconds and a handful of milliseconds only to then start writing about writing under this process of thinking. He began by stating the obvious, “a long pause was then taken” (see above). He then moved to discuss how this writing was being produced in his mind, or at least that is what he thought as he wrote, “the ridiculousness that he had found himself in while dealing with this creative processes”(see above, but not the first above reference). Following this she moved to compare her work with that of Breton, presumably Andre Breton, the Surrealist of a century ago, while not exactly a century but a long time at least. This didn’t get her anywhere and eventually she had to begin looking back on looking back. She first calculated the exact amount of time it took for that pause, she had to estimate the milliseconds. After stating this time, “a period of fifteen seconds and three milliseconds” (again above, but again after the last two references to above statements), she moved to talk about how she responded to the writing exercise. This discussion did not last long as the reflection did not match up with the quotation, “this writing was being produced in her mind” (see see see see see above see). So again Breton was brought up followed by a clarification of who Breton really is, Andre Breton the great Surrealist. Funny enough thinking about Breton brought the writer back to nowhere and the process began all over again. It had to look back on looking back and assume responsibility of cataloging everything one more time. Beginning again again with the pause and a reflection on the exact account of which the pause took, this time stating the amount of milliseconds it took. Again following the “four millisecond” (do not see below), it lost its quotation abiligy, yes abiligy, not ability and definitely not agility and found itself back at Breton. Oh no, not Breton, my apologies, Andre Breton the Greatest of great Surrealists. The account here begins to get confusing as variations in the reflection process caused a fourth return to the original but this time going straight for the incalculable millisecond count that brought out lost quotations, “abiligy, yes abiligy, not ability and definitely not agility” (I think that came from somewhere). I eventually found myself again at the great Surreal, Bretonist and again nowhere. In this final review of for the twentieth time I noted the variations, or at least I referenced the fact that there are variations and then the confusion with the milliseconds and quotations. Abiligy became a word and Breton became a movement. So with this textual procedure going nowhere I looked in the text for the answer, there I found the symbol, oloioloi., I found the symbol. :765893094. So in finding this I asked it what it was: “Are you a P, but backwards?” It rudely didn’t answer. However the seven did, it said that we all had one chance to talk and that it didn’t want six or five to share anything. But while it was decreeing its decree the double dot mark spoke out and said that it liked the backwards P and wanted to be friends with it. Here is where everything went BLACK,

  

well except for the B, A, and K that is. These three formed a new work: BAK, to always be preceded by the double dot mark.

           

              We have to take back the page. Cried We. But who could we do it? All we was was just a two letter word that indicated the presences of the plural first person, the many I, if you will. Well in reality we couldn’t do it. It failed miserably because it was undefined. Who was this we? How did it get there? But one could argue that it had one, the page was being taken over once again by the typed words. It all came to ruin once again when Berlin Sans FB Demi came into the ring.                                                                                     This font couldn’t hold out against the paper.                                      It kept loosing ground.                                                                                                  Eventually. No we need to…                           Finish the stor………………….y…………………………………………….   Comic Sans MS came but all was already lost. What a stupid font I am.  Good bye to all that, Franklin Gothic. I don’t want to hear it anymore Mr. Graves.             I have thought long and hard over the countless nights how I was to avoid capture. I hid beneath the sheets of yellow and white along side a fish named Bob, he was a likeable fish except for the fin he was sporting on his back thigh, I thought it looked rather pretty but ugly at the same time. You know how that goes, an object of unbelievable mystery that intrigues you to no end except with its unmistakable ugliness that outlines this mystery. What contradictions these objects maintain. I frankly hate it. But sadly I had to deal with it and the fish named Bob under the sheets of yellow and white.             So there we hid, hoping not to get captured by the love birds, those sick hate filled lovers of dysfunctional generation scared of the fishes. I felt a great need to bring them back to reality. I tried, in vain, to introduce them to Bob, it didn’t go well. They hated Bob and everything he stood for, happiness, prettiness, ugliness. They hated him so much that they turned into great big monsters with “Love?” printed on their chests. This was the sign I had feared, they turned evil and sought to kill us. I grabbed Bob and ran for the yellow and white sheets, they were the only objects that could repel the evilness that was this questioned love.             Well audience I have caught you up, please allow me to now give you an idea of what the dialogue was like between Bob, the fish, and myself, the writer:  BOB (a fish): These sheets make me visibly ugly.  Me (a writer): Trust me, we need to hide.  Bob: I know but I am a fish.  Me: But I am a writer. Bob: Are you not a fish?  Me: Why can’t fish write? Bob: Because fins can’t hold crayons.  Me: Is there a crayon store where you live?  Bob: Why would there be one?  Me: Don’t you people eat crayons?  Bob: Why does it always become a reference to my people?  Me: What would you like it to be?  Bob: Why does it have to be anything?  Me: Don’t you think it has to be something?  Bob: Why do we have to bring something into this at all?  Me: Why not?  Bob: Do you really have to persist on this issue?  Me: And you don’t think you are being just as persistent?  Bob: Are you suggesting that I am trying to manipulate you?  Me: Are you suggesting that I can be manipulated?  Bob: What then are you suggesting if not that?  (Before I could answer the fishes redicoulous question the sheets of yellow and white were removed and the lovers entered the scene.) Lover 1 (a boy): Are these the two?  Lover 2 (a woman): Who else could they be?  Me: How did you find us?  Lover 2: You really think sheets can hide a fish?  Lover 1: Who’s a fish?  Bob: Are you sure one of us is a fish?  Me: Are you guys looking to eat fish?  Lover 1: Do you know any good fish stores?  Me: What kind of fish do you want?  Lover 1: What kind of fish do you recommend?  Lover 2: Are you seriously asking these questions?  Lover 1: Am I not supposed to ask him questions?  Lover 2 (to the fish): Where is the fish?  Bob (remember, the fish): Did you lose a fish?  Me (to Bob): Can you help them find the fish?  Bob: If I help, will you eat my friend here (points to me, the writer)?  Lover 2: Why would I eat your friend?  Bob: Don’t you think he looks like a fish?  Lover 1: What’s a fish?  Lover 2: If he is a fish then why do I need your help finding one?  Bob: Don’t you think that I just helped you?  Lover 2: Did you just help me?  Me: Has anyone else noticed that we are only speaking in questions?  Lover 2: We are?  Bob: Why are we?  Me: How do we stop?  Lover 1: What do we do to stop?  Lover 2: What do you think about killing the person who doesn’t ask a question?  Lover 1: Is that fair?  Me (to the fish): Can you say a statement?  Bob (also a fish): Why? Do you want me to die?  Me: Didn’t you try to get me killed?  Lover 1: Who killed who?  (Following this last absurdly appropriate question Answer came wandering on stage and took a very predictable position to stage right. Why predictable? Because he answered it.) Answer (to all questions): This is no play.  

                                    And in predictable fashion that had overtaken the play, the play ended. The writer paused to reflect on the loss of control he had endured these past few pages. It was as if he was automatic, but that’s not the case according to Breton.

 

            I watched on the television device in my room the other day a program discussing the conquests of Alexander the Great; he had big machines that were capable of launching an attack from water on island fortresses. While this was on the television device I was unaware that bug had entered my room, not just any bug though, an invisible imaginary one.

 

                                                            Later on that week I put the Disney Channel on while attempting to pass into the dream world that occurs only when eyes are shut and sleep entered. The channel continued until it was turned off automatically by the sleep feature already programmed into the television device. So this device operates outside of human interaction but based on human interaction. Breton, does this sleeping television enter into automatism? Or are we blind. “Great Men” he replies in French as if that means something to anyone but him.

 If we were in England at an older time this is what this document might look like. Or so Bill would have you believe…

Certified Morally

    
Do not engage the public in this way. Coke is only coke.  We’re fresstyling now. I can’t read script because it isn’t English.                                                                                      Sign Here please._________________  Do not look here for any kind of intellectual debate, we hate those.


FAFA Manifesto, Version 1.86

November 16, 2007

FAFA ManifestoV1.86

            This world is dead! Yes dead and yet still dying. It needs life shocked violently back into its little limbs a shock so grand in principle that in reality it would at least do something. But first we must understand why. We must understand what caused and is causing this ultimate death. We have to ask the question: How did this pathetic little world die? The answer is in the dictionary, between the words “dad” and “daddy”. Please stop reading and look this up in your household dictionary before continuing, you know, the one you have in that living/dining/ whatever room that puts all of our history and culture into a little book created to create a formula for our world. If you continue reading without executing this operation you will not have the knowledge necessary to continue reading. Now what is between those words… it actually depends on the size of your dictionary for some there is a rather long description of an artistic movement ending before World War Two, for others there is NOTHING. So what am I talking about? What little word which so nicely divides two words of the same object. Why just a simple four letter word comprised of only two letters, DADA, a significantly meaningless expression that kicked this world into the 20th century. So Dada caused this death? NO NO DADA NO. Dada has died, and with it went the rest of the world not controlled by ambiguous significance. What we need is significant ambiguity! Thus it is a call to arms, or legs. FAFA demands a trial by air for those who committed the atrocity of killing DADA. Who killed it then, who is responsible for this blank world of nothing but an impressioned ideal of nothing? You are, I am, the Sam Fox School of yadadadada is, Wash U is, Bush is, Kerry too, so is America and Iraq as well as Russia and Australia, they can’t WTF out of this, Youtube, facebook, New York and especially Paris are. LA is because it is not New York, Hollywood is because it exists, Rowling and Brown are, the T-rex from Jurassic Park and the entire world are, and this computer is.

            So to understand why these people are involved in its death you have to first understand all the students in this world, yes it’s always the students, i.e. you people and me, who look upon                                                                               Fountain

 and see only categories of art, who sometimes can’t even see the                      studented aspects of themselves. We students have this sick blindness of looking upon tangible questions and see only answers. We get so riled up we demand the answers usurp the question and eat the brains of the questioners.                                    So we are still shocked by such question-inducing objects. Shocked enough to attempt to eradicate its existence and assert our answers. R. Mutt would be proud to know that his work still upsets the majority of students. But                                                 R. Mutt’s pride is neither here nor there, the question we need to ask now for the sake of FAFA is this: if these pieces of art/nonartare still so provocative as to bring someone to anger, why did the movement die?

            I say here and now that that doesn’t matter in the least. What matters is the need for a revolution, bring back the porcelain sculptures and nailed heads! I want freedom once again!  DADADADADADADADADA.

            L’art pour l’art, NO MORE, l’art pour le monde! Where the hell is Guernica now? STOP PAINTING THAT DAMN PAINTING OVER AND OVER AND OVER AGAIN!!!!E

            So what can you do to save the world? That’s simple, burn M the institutions calling themselves schools of art, they serve no purpose, they work to continue the traditions that kill us and our future, I’m sick of “reproductive” artists, has production really died? R. Mutt once told me that the reason Dada died is that people are now post-shocked. Well god damn it! You people are stupid for that, I am stupid for that. Ubu has won now hasn’t he; we all followed him into the trap. Well I’m sick of the trap. Everyone grab your knives and stab the dictionaries, free yourselves from contemplation and education. Run naked in the streets and Dada, dada all the way to the next world. Dada the white house, and yellow houses and the blue houses and those houses without colors. Dada the films that only perpetuate film, dada tomorrow and yesterday, dada the moon and Spain. Dada V through W. Dada Dada and FAFA.


When Dadaism didn’t die

November 14, 2007

When up up up and left

The right goes away down light

Tonight we see darkness in the facts

Documents stripped of life

Lost andre lost

Where found in fire

Darn that lamp water

Can’t hold the hell

Bobby doesn’t know what that knew him well with he who does not know well

No no no no no

Not right not right

Wrong nor either

Left to right we can’t decide

I see TVs

See you on the otherside of that which we can’t decide

No stop the wrongness of this

Stop it now