lydia lunch et des choses dangereux...

Lydia Lunch played last night at a place by Clingancourt called Mains d'Oeuvres.
ah...what's to be said of Lydia Lunch beyond what the lady herself has said?
so for your reading and viewing pleasure, here's a few pictures, and a few fantastic quotes:

"you (the audience) are my alibi tonight ."

(in response to the guy in the audience who asked why she was drinking so much whiskey on stage) "it's cognac motherf*cker)


"i hate a f*cking musician who can't hold his drugs. if any of you out there can't hold your drugs, please deposit them here on the f*cking stage--i'll hold them for you."


note i scrawled down during the show:
"from whiskey infused Southern Baptist prosthelytizer to torch singer circa 1920 to Lynard Skynnard sans penis mais con cojones...still waiting for the gospel."


yeah she's still got it. but what's the decision you make to adhere to the person/a you embodied 20+ years ago?  do you make this decision then, or as time goes by, there's no not sticking to it? 

synthesizing notes: honor to savage values

from Dubuffet's text Honneur aux Valeurs Sauvages:

in reference to the artistic creation, in general, Dubuffet states:
"il faut qu'il soit une projection immédiate de ces humeurs de l'artiste..." 
if we assume that there is little advance consideration of developing a well-rounded and cohesive oeuvre--by the ArtBrutists--during the actual creation of the works, the artist then is free to change.  and we must assume that the artists' temperment must necessarily change from day to day...so if there is no professional motivation underlying, one is truly free to be one's expressive-self-in-constant-flux.

"l'art consiste essentiellement dans cette exteriorisation des movements d'humeur les plus intimes, les plues profondément intérieurs de l'artiste."
Dubuffet continues this thought stating that this exteriorization of the deepest essential self will be recongnized by those seeing the art and the we will recognize that psychically we are the same (as the mad, or the psychically free, rather); we possess the same essence, compulsions, and inner-workings.

"we look for an artist who explodes away the surface layers, revealing all those glimmering beneath."

and sometimes we as artists do not realize we've been knocked-up by someone else' ideas, aesthetics.  the bastard art we call our own, not realizing it's been tainted by some outside forces to which we'd not seen we were susceptible.

an artist--argues Dubuffet, in regards to those interned in mental hospitals--needs solitude, perhaps a bit of boredom, to find in himself the drive and the will to create.  in the absence of other excitations, he will fabricate his own "théâtre de fêtes et d'echantements."

"tous les méchanismes qui fonctionnent chez le fou existent aussi chez le sain, et ils sont l'un et l'autre bien plus semblables qu'ils ne le croient--ou du moins que ne le croit celui-ce qui prétend être sain"
my translation follows:
all the mechanisms that function in the crazy also exist in the sane, and the are both more similar than they believe--or at least less so than those who pretend to be sane are willing to believe.


on the artist Aloïse, whom will undoubtedly be revisited in detail, in future entries...

the figures with blued-out eyes in Aloïse' drawings are often mis-construed to be representative of masked persons.  rather, they are blind to the reality into which their portraits gaze, for the simple fact that they don't exist in it.  in addition to bluing out the eyes, the figures are further removed from reality by Aloïse' negation of a continuous narrative consistent between the thousands of images.  though, some narrative may be perceived from one page to the next, the absence of any continuous logic frees her oeuvre from such banal requirements.  and further, it insists on a certain timelessness, impermanence, and irrationality as its rules, rather than its exceptions.

Dubuffet, unconvinced of Aloïse' acting mad--though her sever autism is documented in other writings-- says that one mustn't lose sight of the fact that one who's given themselves over entirely to madness has, at least in some small part, done so voluntarily.

Foucault, who we'll revisit in a few days, says in Madness and Civilization "madness is the déja-là of death... what death unmasks was never more than a mask...from the vain mask to the corpse, the same smile persists.  but when the madman laughs, he already laughs with the laugh of death."

les huîtres

sunday night we ate a lot of oysters... specifically "Les Papillons #4" et quelques autres, aussie #4--les plus petites, but more delicious. also, we made a ton of couscous with fresh vegetables, mint, and enough garlic to fend off the entire vampire population of France.  additionally, there was some strange green I found at the market--not Kale, not Collard Greens, and certainly not bok choi--but some relative of all three perhaps.  with even more garlic, onions, lemon, and a pinch of salt, i'll immodestly confess that it was by far the best pot of winter greens i've yet made. mmm. and en plus, untold bottles of red and white wine, with the evening rounded off with clementines and whiskey. 

perhaps it's imperative that i define the number of we present at the occasion, as well as elaborate a bit on why i've chose to write about it just now.  we were six, hailing from the states, switzerland, austria, and italy.  it's important to note the nationalities to give you some idea of how complex dinner conversation could become--what, with my little knowledge of German, better knowledge of French, and ability only to curse a storm in Italian.  now also imagine that between us, we've all got these linguistic limitations, but a profound love of eating and wine drinking, apparently.  oh, also we ate two enormous baguettes and fresh tomatoes with balsamic vinegar and artist picked and pressed olive oil (compliments of Aurèle). i'm also mentioning this because i'm imagining you might've wondered to where i've disappeared--i've been meeting the other folks here and eating. oh, ok and drinking a bit of wine too.
here's a few photos of the after-dinner merry-making, which included video-sehen, wein trinken, und ein bißchen tanzen...

 

 

 

 

au tour des galeries : conceptual ethnography

thursday night:  Galerie Karsten Greve hosted an exceptional exhibition of "Photographs" by the long-time, British collaborators Adam Broomberg and Oliver Chanarin. Photographs explores four conceptualizations (dubbed "conceptional ethnography") of media representation the Afghanistan and Iraq wars.

the Red House, is a particularly fascinating series of photographs (100 x 76 cm each) taken inside a torture location (a "jail") nicknamed the Red House.  in 1991, after the site had been abandoned, by Saddam Hussein and his cronies, the graffiti made by the previously deferred Kurd prisoners was discovered.  the photographs themselves are simple, unpretentious documentations of the scrawlings carved into the stone and plaster walls.  admittedly, i'm quite fond of them for their inherent naïve qualities, and for their aesthetic semblance to those lovely chalkboard scribblings of Cy Twombly (also represented by Galerie Greve).  but, beyond that, beyond the aesthetic interest, they're loaded with so so much that escapes traditional photojournalism essays.  what sort of boredom inspires such belabored work? and particularly from those men who'd ostensibly never previously explored their artistic visions?  and what'd they endure between drawings? and to where did they disappear? all these questions remain unanswered, and we're left with the imaginings of obviously imperiled and desperate men, incarcerated in what must've been the very worst of the worst torture cells in Iraq...previous to those in more recent times perhaps.

the three other experimental photographic works featured left less of an impression on me. however i did have a brief conversation with Broomberg about the conceptional content of the exhibition--specifically the different lenses through which we watch war.  and more precisely what's the difference between journalistic photographers (with their responsibility to accurately portray reality) and artists who use photography to present their own admittedly opinion-ed interpretation of events and peoples.  i asked Broomberg if he imagined that he, in the Red House Series employed the same, or a similar, lens through which the Iraq war is presented to the Western World... and more specifically if he thought that he'd a wholly objective view of what he saw.  he unabashedly replied that "well of course I have an opinion. so do you. I'm not a reporter..." and he went on to suggest that this is why it's important that artists are looking and representing war images--that we admit our bias, and yours as well.  he also explained his fascination for the way in which the Western media lens is always that of watcher or colonizer, or at worst ethnographer.  this he accepts is also his role, but he explained that the difference he sees is that the media will likely never admit that this is theirs, fundamentally.

more images of the exhibition are online here, as is further information about the artists.

au tour des galeries

Galerie Eric Mircher : Nazanin Pouyandeh
this gallery is perhaps thrice the size of my studio, and was full full full of people and paintings.  as Peggy Olsen, of Mad Men quotes (season 3 episode 4 i think) "it's so crowded in here i feel like i'm on the subway." and they spilled out onto the street, mingling with the respective crowds of the nearby galleries.  now what i'm trying to understand is, what's all the hubub about? i'd rather be kind, and say, "i just don't get it," rather than flat out denying there existed any merit to the work in this show. but, i'll let you decide for yourself. here is the exhibition card image:

my neighbors in the building offered an excellent reprieve from a rather unsatisfying evening out at the galleries (Saturday).  short animations and films...one entitled "White Out," was discomfitingly similar to Paul Pfeiffer's earlier videos wherein he'd remove the basketball players (or boxers...etc) from the arena, leaving the viewer with swishes, blinking lights, and the sensation itself, minus the spectacle's main characters.  another, beautifully done, though i missed the title, involves a slow rotation through domestic spaces...as though the camera, panning 360 degrees moved so slowly there was time enough to change the scenery entirely before it'd come full circle.  we begin our voyage in the attic of an old house, panning eventually past bedrooms, bathrooms, living room spaces and workshops, a doorway with someone desperately ringing to get in, and finally conclude in the garage, just as the door shuts.  and it's also so eerily ersatz, the pieced together photomontaged landscape, in its hyper-real color, and just-a-wee-bit off movement. kudos you guys.  if you'd like to find them online, my neighbors organized a screening of works by themselves &; friends including: claudia larchner, liddy scheffknecht &; armin b wagner, and markus hanakam & roswitha schuller. later i went out with some friends, residents here, sissa and auréle.

last night le Galerie Thaddaeus Ropac hosted a vernissage for Elger Esser, whose work i'd forgotten was so breathtakingly poetic. the exhibition entitled Saone & Rhone features photos of those two landscapes printed large enough as to allow each of us the opportunity to dive right in. and standing before one of them i realized i'd never seen so clearly the division of air, land, and water.  i'd never been offered such an opportunity virtually.  the uppermost and bottommost edges of each print fade to almost-white before the frame's edge, and in each a modest strip of land is suspended like a tight-rope pulled taught through the middle.  and it's revealed: the division of water, solid, gas. and it's so simple, and we wonder why we'd never seen it this way before.  and not to ramble on at great length, but the colors, so muted, seem to have been breathed onto the paper's surface.  they're somewhere between entirely desaturated, sepia tinted, and that artificially yet nostalgia-inducing hand coloration effect from the early 20th ce.

also on exhibit are francesco clemente and terence koh, both of which were terribly disappointing.

DEADLINE

at the Musée d'Art Moderne de la Ville de Paris - ARC
(à coté de la Palais de Tokyo)

your last words. your last meal. your last experience listening to music. your last kiss. your last sarcone's hoagie. imagine all these. i mean, imagine knowing full well that it may be your very last, this one right here, in front of you, this person right here in your arms, and this last morsel of hoagie, it's the last one for you.

i highly recommend watching the video above, the curator's statement about the deadline exhibition. in brief, the exhibition centers around the idea of "last works," primarily of artists with terminal illnesses, who fully aware of their imminent ends, infused their last oeuvres with a force that we healthy people cannot imagine. years ago, i wrote a paper on Deleuze, Peter Greenaway, and the impossibility of imagining auto-defenestration. while it's possible that we can imagine all those experiences falling from some too-high elevation, it's frankly impossible to imagine our own bodies hurtling through a space at such a great speed that the impact would kill us. and so, it's with this sort of awe, terror, and curiosity that we approach the works in Deadline.

the show features works by: Martin Kippenberger, Hans Hartung, Felix Gonzalez-Torres, Robert Mapplethorpe, Gilles Aillaud, Hannah Villiger, Absalon, James Lee Byars, Joan Mitchell, Chen Zhen, Willem de Kooning, and Jörg Immendorff.

Absalom's three videos, entitled "Bruits," "Bataille," and "Solutions," are short films of actions, respectively: yelling in bursts until the throat is too raw to continue (i cried watching this), fighting off imaginary enemies whilst wearing a suit, and the artist at a table eating, drinking, smoking, being calm.

The Death of James Lee Byars (excellently reviewed here)

Robert Mapplethorpe's last series possesses a sort of gloomy luminescence not uncommon to his earlier work. but in this setting, in this context it's a much seriouser thing.  take for example "Bust & Skull," image below.  perhaps it ought to've been titled "Pan, Death, Self Portrait."

Jörg Immendorff's enormous untitled works from the last years of his life reflect the evolution of the disease from which he'd suffered, "lateral amyotrophic sclerosis."  more than any other artist included in this exhibition, Immendorff's works seemed to be the artist's great triumph...the crowning achievement of his entire oeuvre.  i'm aware this is arguable, and it's a loaded thing to say, but i'm just saying. and what's further, the last years of his life were pretty scandalous... i'd forgotten..

also on view at the Musée...  Albert Oehlen. Albert, i love you. not because you work with trash and found objects, or because your painting is trashy and bad-it's really bad painting-or because your collaging together of various found imagery is so awkward and almost unconvincing, but you see color in a way i never have. you see all those places where too many hues come together as awkwardly as your imagery...where the oils go all muddy, blur, and find their ways again. and your artist statement is pretty ok too :

the title of the exhibition comes from Abstract

Reality, an album by a very good metal band Nasty

Savage.  I personally didn't take it seriously.  Maybe

they wanted it to be, but I think as a title it's a bit 

wacko.  It sounds as if they were trying to be 

abtruse and hard to understand.  I like it when

people take it as a swear word, or meaning a

sickness or a mess.  That's very close to my

definition of what my work is.

his interview with the preeminent Glenn O'Brien lives here .

Oehlen is represented by Luhring Augustine, whose website is here.

and with that i leave you Nasty Savage ...serious smoke machine footage here...

pre-text to yesterday's post (re:PALANC)

it should have been noted, in yesterday's post, that all quotes and references therein were taken from Dubuffet's Prospectus et tous écrits suivants Vol. I .  and it should also be noted that Thévoz also discusses PALANC in his writing Art Brut.

so i'd like to premise yesterday's post with two brief explanations. firstly, i'd like to elucidate why i'm personally drawn to les écritures des gens fous.  secondly, i ought to explain further the connection made between Foucault & PALANC, and their ideas about words and things.

to begin with the second agenda first, because, why not? here's a bit of writing i've done on the subject of words & things and Deleuze & Foucault, which should help a bit :

In Gilles Deleuze’ essay Strata or Historical Formations, he argues that speaking is not seeing (and seeing is not speaking). This is a reference to Michel Foucault’s concept that although statements and visibilities are primary and irreducible utterances, there is not necessarily any system of causality between the two, nor is there any transferable symbolism.  Deleuze explains that the object of a statement is specific to that particular statement alone.  It can neither be transferred to another statement nor can it be transferred to the visible object to which it ostensibly refers. The lack of direct causality between articulable elements and visibilities evinces their truly independent existences. They effect each other indirectly, modulating the threshold of tension that binds their relationship.    

He then argues that the visible qualities of an object are exclusively related to its sensual experience; the articulable elements exclusively relate to the supportive text or dialogue. And that which is addressed in the form of text/statement creates its own correlative object within the text (the object of the statement is particular to that statement).  The visible qualities of an object evoke a visceral response (particular to an experience of an object). Because they are so very self-specific, or collapsed, they are each subject to their own revelatory limitations.

and in relation to my own work:

Rene Magritte suggests, “thought is what sees and can be described visibly.” In this, thought, an action, assumes a form.  Deleuze employs Magritte’s Ceci n’est pas un pipe as an example of an artwork that exacerbates the limits of articulable and visible things.  Ceci est incroyable in its com-possible relation of words and things.  In Consumption I, I attempt to “exacerbate that thin little line separating text from figure.”   

The piece consists of eight 4 x 6 foot dry-erase boards, almost entirely blacked-out with hand-drawn text in dry-erase ink.  The textual content ranges from Mixtape + Maussian gift-exchange, to the Limits of Rebellion in the Arts, to Spitwad Theory, and each text is approximately eight pages when typed.  The content, though deadly serious, analytical, and accented with dorky wit, is intimidatingly densely penned and difficult to read (a six foot long sentence is hard to follow).  Up close, it’s possible to read in the speed-reading method: scanning an amorphous area of text for content, rather than following entire sentences.  

From afar, the text forms grey waves on the white surface—Agnes Martin or Bridget Riley drawings come to mind.  And true to formalist sculpture, the object itself is intimidating.  Hung higher, and encompassing greater surface area than the human body, the text-on-board is elevated beyond its word-on-page/computer screen status.  Beyond decorating the surface of the object with text, as I’d intended, the text adds value-in-content to the object, and the object magnifies the potential power of the written word.  And as if this dialogue between viewer and text-covered object weren’t already confrontational, the ink of course is impermanent.  The reader is tempted (taunted) by this realization. 

 Dubuffet's chapter on PALANC concludes with a transcription of Palanque's text on Autogéométrie, which if i understand it correctly, is basically a set of instructions on how to draw with one's entire body, mind, and spirit simultaneously.  apparently, Palanque used a large black table to draw with both arms simultaneously on one sheet of paper.  he stresses understanding the difference between "la geste règle" and "le gest compas." and the attitudes of gestures : "curved," or "straight."  and the process of drawing (writing really) becomes a sort of metaphysical gymnastical exercise.  
he says (my translation):

All these reunited disciplines are a psychophysical treatment.
All the gestures, following their attitudes, their drives, their regularity, their precision, influence the physical and mental well-being. 

also, there are 17 published "poèmes géométriques," by Palanque.  when i've found and read them, i promise you'll be the first to know!

"fortement déconcertante et dépaysante"

PALANC l'écrituriste, born Francis Palanque, foretold Michel Foucault's The Order of Things (Les Mots et les choses: Une archéologie des sciences humaines) by almost twenty years.

briefly, in an effort to envigorate the text, to give life to his words on paper, Palanc developed two entirely new alphabets--"ouvertitude," and "fermotitude," or opened/closed texts. in exercising these phonic symbols, he'd hoped to discover the perfect voice for his revelations-- and of course in finding this voice through writing, the form of the letters themselves would embody the revelation.

and this i love: for most every écriture, there is an expository text. the following is but one example:

Croyez-moi --vivez moi-- je vous rénoverai.
Je suis géométrie-- visage universel.
Mes lignes sont des mots-- des murmures sans bruit.
Par vos gestes qui tracent-- la beauté de ma vie.
Lentement-- doucement, je vous pénétrerai
Pour venir me loger dans votre être.
Vous ne me verrez pas-- vous ne m'entendrez pas,
Pourtant je serai là-- chantant silencieux.
A vos états je mêlerai ma voix,
Je freinerai les uns-- j'exciterai les autres,
Faisant de votre forme-- pureté de mes lignes,
Offrant à votre âme-- la clarté de ma vie.
Vous deviendrez-- un sublime sourire,
C'est un sourire joie-- il est rouge brillant.

la closerie falbala

saturday afternoon, at 14:30, we arrived at the Closerie Falballa-- the site itself is in Périgny-Sur-Yerres, approximately 2 hours by train/bus/walk from centre-ville Paris.


i went with Edith, from Austria, who's last name, i've lost track of at the moment. it's not that i'm so forgetful--see, Edith was here this weekend visiting my friend Miriam Bajtala, who fell ill and couldn't come along with us. and so, it was just the two of us strangers...either way, Edith is the one person i've met in my time here that shares the same interest in ArtBrut, and specifically art of the insane. and so we had a lot to say to one another. we'd talked most of the way there about what we'd been reading, what we were making in our studios, and why it was relevant at all to read about art brut at this point in our histories. we agreed that it was particularly in effort to unlearn everything piled-on in art school, and in effort to unlearn critical thinking.

the closerie falbala was executed between 1971-1973 by Dubuffet and a team of technicians. it's quite a grand accomplishment, and is representative of the Hourloupe Cycle for which he's most known. the site is nestled away in the woods, and was damp and slippery with wet leaves when we arrived. the Closerie, the garden-simulacrum is just large enough to feel like a site, once you're in it, but not so grand as to feel like a park, say, and is larger than monumental sculpture--or more inviting anyway. and our group numbered about 10 people--two families, including a set of talkative toddlers, and locals from the banlieu. i'll update this post with pictures soon, but what was really most striking about being there, navigating this undulating, black and white terrain, was watching the way in which the groups' shapes and colors interacted with the piece. imagine this: a blond woman in fur coat, 50ish, stockings, and 3 inch heels with a toddler modifies her movements to the terrain and to the child run-amok. i mean at first you'd think the site seems out of place (stark white and black on earth-tones). within the closerie, you realize we the visitors are quite out of place there--tripping, wobbling around, and interrupting each others' views of the work with our brightly colored, awkward bodies.

the interior of the Closerie-the Villa Falbala- is warm, carpeted, and silent. it reeks of laquer and styrofoam, and is a claustrophobic's worst nightmare. the interior motif is blue and white and black (where the exterior is white and black), and for all its cavernous qualities, it's close and calm and very still. within the Villa Falbala is housed the Cabinet Logologique (completed between 1967 and 1969. it's made entirely of carved styrofoam slabs, vinyl based paint, and laquer....hence the odor. if not for the smell, it'd be possible perhaps to live there, in awe of the thing for months. unfortunately photography is not permitted. but if i were to attempt to paint you a picture of what i'd witnessed i'd begin thusly: imagine the linear intensity of Jackson Pollock's splatter paintings, four of them, measuring 20 x 20 feet each in very close quarters, forming a room. though, Dubuffet's lines demark 2D spaces with some intentionality, and within the spaces themselves live small terrains, and the individual terrains converse with one another across the grander space. and the colors of each line and each space are also in conversation. and we were there with three toddlers who, like us, were completely in awe and completely optically over-stimulated . and, the most remarkable things happen to non-archival substances over so much time: you'd never imagine what on earth the medium was--it'd yellowed so much that maybe it was marble, or papier- mache. and the combination of the yellowing and the boldness of the painted primary colors was so ecstatically perfect. and you know, i'm not biased at all...

Dubuffet says of the Cabinet Logologique:
"My work preceding this cycle creates sinuous graphics responding with immediacy to spontaneous and, so to speak, uncontrolled impulses of my hand which traces them. These graphics start uncertain, fleeting, ambiguous figures. Their movement unclenches in the spirit that finds itself in their presence a " suractivation " of the faculty of seeing in their tangles all sorts of objects which make and unmake themselves as the eye moves, thus aligning intimately the transitory and the permanent, the real and the deceptive. It results in (...) a grasp of conscience of the illusionary character of the world we believe to be real, to which we call the real world. "


the site across the road houses the CouCou Bazar, a grand selection of Dubuffet's earlier paintings, the maquettes for Closerie, and several large sculptures from the Hourloupe Cycle.

and it is with apologies that this post comes almost a week after the fact. j'avais la Grippe (the flu) since visiting last saturday. c'est pas la Grippe H1N1, peut-etre la Grippe Dubuffet??

art brut préféré aux arts culturels

In its entirety and in translation, here is Dubuffet's (& Compagnie d'Art Brut) essay from 1949:

"Anyone who undertakes, as we do, to look at the works of the Irregulars, will find his notion of the approved art of the museums, galleries and salons - let us call it cultural art - totally transformed. This type of approved art will not seem representative of art in general, rather merely the activity of a particular clique: a cohort of careerist intellectuals. What country lacks its small clique of cultural arts: its troop of careerist intellectuals? It is obligatory. From one capital to another, they ape each other marvelously; they practice an artificial, Esperanto art tirelessly copied everywhere. Is art the right word? Does it actually have anything to do with art?
It is fairly widely thought that in considering the artistic production of intellectuals one is at the same time grasping the flower of production in general, since intellectuals, being drawn from the common people, cannot lack any of their qualities, having rather those additional qualities acquired by wearing out their trousers on the schoolroom bench - without allowing for the fact that intellectuals think themselves by definition far more intelligent than ordinary people. But is this really so? One also meets plenty of people with far less favourable opinion of the intellectual type. The intellectual type seems to them directionless, impenetrable, lacking in vitamins, a swimmer in pap. Empty, without magnetism, without vision.
Perhaps the solid seat of the intellectual has been pulled out from under him. The intellectual's labours are always carried out while seated: at school, at conferences, at congresses. Often while dozing; sometimes while dead. Dead in one's seat. For a long time, intelligence has been highly valued. When one says of someone that they are intelligent, has not said everything? Nowadays people are growing disillusioned with this; they are beginning to demand other things. Intellectual qualities are less prized. People now value health and vitality. One can see that what was called intelligence is nothing more than a modicum of knowledge in the manipulation of simple, false and pointless algebraic formulae, having nothing to do with genuine vision (but rather obscuring it).
One cannot deny that on the level of vision, the light of the intellectuals is far from bright. The imbecile (or those the intellectual calls imbeciles) shows greater aptitude. It might even be that this vision gets worn out by the school benches, along with the seat of the intellectual's pants. Imbecile perhaps, but sparks fly from him, unlike Mr Grammar School, who doesn't spark at all. Good for the imbecile! He is our man! [...]
There are still people, particularly the intellectuals, who do not clearly see that the intelligent are hopeless cases, and one needs to rely on the so-called imbeciles for moments of lucidity; indeed, they just laugh at the idea. They cannot take the idea seriously.
The intellectual is of course crazy about ideas; he loves to chew them over, and cannot imagine any type of chewing gum.
One can with justification call art a chewing gum totally devoid of such ideas. One can sometimes lose sight of this. Ideas, and the algebra of ideas, may be a level of knowledge, but art is another means of knowledge, whose levels are completely different: they are those of vision. Ideas are an inert gas. It is when vision in blinded that the intellectual pops his head up.
Art exists to be a way of operating that does not involve ideas. When it is mixed with ideas, art becomes oxidized and worthless. Let there be as few ideas as possible! Ideas do not nourish art!
There are people (the present writer for example) who go so far to maintain that the art of these intellectuals is false art, the counterfeit currency of art, which is intricately ornamented but unsound.
Certainly the ornament is of some slight interest, but whether it sounds true is more interesting. Many slight works, brief, almost lacking form ring very loudly indeed; and for that reason they are preferable to many monumental works by illustrious professionals. It is enough for certain people just to tell them that the creator of a work is a professional artist, so that the spell is immediately broken. Amongst artists, as amongst card-players or lovers, professionals are a little like crooks. [...]
True art is never where it is expected to be: in the place where no one considers it, nor names it. Art hates to be recognized and greeted by its name; it runs away immediately. Art is a person in love with anonymity. As soon as it's unmasked, as soon as someone points the finger, it runs away. It leaves in its place a prize stooge wearing on its back a great placard marked ART, which everybody immediately showers with champagne, and which the lecturers lead from town to town with a ring through its nose. That is the false Art. That is the art that the public knows, the art of the prize and the placard. The real Mrs Art no one recognize. She walks everywhere, everyone has met her, jostled her at very junction, but no one thinks it could be her, Mrs Art herself, of whom so much has been said. She does not have the right air about her. You see, it is the false Mrs Art who has the air of being the true one; it is the real one who lacks this air. That means that one is deceived! So many people deceive themselves! It was in July 1945 that we undertook in both France and Switzerland, then in other countries, methodical research into the relevant ways of producing that which we now call Art Brut.
We understand by this works crated by those untouched by artistic culture; in which copying has little part, unlike the art of intellectuals. Similarly, the artists take everything (subjects, choice of materials, modes of transposition, rhythms, writing styles) from their own inner being, not from the canons of classical or fashionable art. We engage in an artistic enterprise that is completely pure, basic; totally guided in all its phases solely by the creator's own impulses. It is therefore an art which only manifests invention, not the characteristics of cultural art which are those of the chameleon and the monkey.
Before concluding this essay we want to say a word about the mad. Madness gives man wings and helps his power of vision; many of the objects (almost half) that our exhibition contains are works by people in psychiatric hospitals. We see no reason to segregate them, unlike others. All the numerous dealings that we have had with our friends have convinced us that the mechanisms of artistic creation are the same in them as in so-called normal people. This distinction between normal and abnormal seems to us to be quite far-fetched: who is normal? Where is he, your normal man? Show him to us! The artistic act, with the extreme tension that it implies, the high fever that accompanies it, can it ever be considered normal?
Finally, mental 'illness' are extremely diverse - there are almost as many of them as there are sick people - and it seems quite arbitrary to label them all in the same way. Our point of view is that art is the same in all cases, and there is no more an art of the mad than there is an art of the dyspeptic, or an art for those with bad knees.

synthesizing notes III : Michel Thévoz

from Art Brut, psychose et médiumnité:

Dubuffet believed that the most cultured people were the 'everymen,' those who found high culture intimidating.
He said of his own work, in an interview, "I seek to paint like everyone--like the everyman."
The interviewer is baffled.
"I am the only one in the world who paints like everyone," he explained.
(note : Sartre's 'serial alterity // passive activity // recurrence)

Baudelaire : "Genius is infancy revisited at will." (+ perhaps the capacity to play one's alter-egos, those perhaps retired since childhood)

Foucault : "la maladie mentale est comme une archéologie de la libido."

Feyerabend : "they must make an oneiric world to discover the characteristics of the real world"... (de la délire heuristique)

Dubuffet : "il n'y a que de l'art psychopathologique."

Thévoz : "la teneur artistique d'une oeuvre est en raison même de sa déraison."

Nietzsche : "si on voulait la santé, on supprimerait le génie."

Thévoz : "The theory of mediumnity adequatly reflects, or in each case is symptomatic of, the condition of the damned of Earth in search for their soul."

Augustin Lésage

Thévoz argues that spiritism/occultism is at base "psychology projected on the exterior world." unless we believe mediumistic practices actually channel the dead, we must believe that the medium is both author and 'reader' of the received messages. by displacing ownership of the messages received, the medium is freer to express 'pulsionnel' aspects of his being--those perhaps previously sublimated by the author.

et jadis,
le Platon dit que "les plus beaux poèmes épiques ne sont pas les effets de l'art de poète, mais d'un état d'inspiration et de possession. Tel poète sera possédé par telle Muse, telle par telle autre."

translation:
Plato says : "the most beautiful epic poems are not the effects of the poet's own artistry, but the state of inspiration (that comes from) possession. this poet will be possessed by this muse, each by each other."

synthesizing notes II : michel thévoz

from Art Brut:

it's essential to understand that the original impulse to study & classify ArtBrut as such (Dubuffet et al) was an antagonistic gesture--against culture, against 'fine art proper.' Thévoz points out that the modernists' initial interest in ethnographic art was similarly motivated. however, where the fetishization of ethnographica sets up a false dichotomy between Occidental Art and that of the Other, ArtBrut attempts no such polarization.

naïves perhaps cannot be accused of mystification (of their work/lives), rather the art world is guilty of "mythification" of these artists who are "with only one foot" in fine art, and with the other very hesitant to move from surer ground.

while there is no visually apparent defining characteristic to l'art chez les fous, the circumstances under which it is created are unique (life in l'asile vs la réalité):
*Thévoz compares life in the asylum to that of semi-somnambulance...the outside world ceases to be at all pertinent, and one undergoes an marked decline in ability to conceptualize reality.
*he also suggests that those interned were already existing on the cultural margins. they'd most likely not "paid the ransom (ie sold their creative innocence) to acquire the finesse of abstract-thinking, technical mastery," etc.
*the asylum also strips the interned of all reason to adhere to the structures of finite time and socially mandated behavioral limitations.

this is just a nice idea : "one may choose to 'émajusculer' reality rather than immasculating the Ego."

james ensor

what more is there to say about james ensor, really?
the show, previously in New York, is now on view at the Musée d'Orsay.