exit wound, moon

all the deadphoto-7

were once loved

all the buried

are still

 

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Red pill, redemption

“Claude Lanzmann, the director of the epic documentary film Shoah…argues that his own approach to recording the experience of survivors—through direct testimony—is the only legitimate method, and that art and imagination can have no part in such an endeavor.” (The Paris Review)

The wounds of horror flew deep into the flesh. But art cannot be still, so it lends itself an air of skepticism in the face of yearning for redemption, of yearning for an imagined reason untainted by power, for the restoration of beauty into the world – as Leo Bersani put it, “Art as a correction for life.” Redeemed from our actions, our thoughts, our own death, even. Some, including visual artists such as Jean Debuffet, found these dogmatic notions disgusting, rejecting the very constructs that create such a wonderland: “I believe very much in the values of savagery,” he said, “Instinct, passion, mood, violence, madness.”

No. Humanity had hoisted itself upon a cross. Humanity as it was known had suffered, then died. Resurrection would come later (redemption, perhaps never) out of the bones of the soil, turned anew. The psychology of practice, as much as the concession of impotence, would become central to everything that followed it.

the bodymind

 

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We are afraid of the visibility of technologies below the surface, especially those cold and strange. We conceal them in the process of attempting to expose the illusions and myths within ourselves. We, the creators and viewers, prefer the wires tucked neatly out of sight, for the machine to be covered in skin and hair, in order to muse on its poetry, rather than the mundanity of its underpinnings.

It is fine to look back critically at the role of the traditional crafts, to the role of the traditional institution. But I would like to rip the plaster off the Guggenheim’s walls, to expose the glass wool, the wires, the pipework: the facts of its matter. To be confronted with its biology is to be confronted with the duality of that with its identity, and hence to peer within our own bodies and within our own minds… because after all we have achieved, it is still impossible to unite these disparate notions.

it looked painful

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They sweat, those standing around
the hole in the pavement, gasping
There is one in a digger with his arm
shuddering, cascading against mud and sometimes against rock

We paused around the tape
voyeurs gaping at the wound, protruding
pipe-ends like butchered veins
and those men’s solemn faces,
pillaging the bones of the earth.

Growing.

he hit the bed like a hammer
he hit the bed like a hammer

 

See sunglasses

under drenched duvet sky

over there on the right

they lie in the dirt, amputated

your new eyes open and close like

moth wings in take-off

and when you get bigger

everything gets smaller, shorter

dim under a curtain of cerebral privilege.

Then, I hear the sparkles in my cup

singing as if it was the first time.