“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.
So it’s day two (I’ll give up the day counting tomorrow, perhaps instead needlessly referring to the date as a matter of urgency like intergalactic Avon lady, Captain Kirk.)
The internet is down. THE INTERNET IS DOWN. Less pressingly, there is a power cut, so I may have to molotov cocktail some potatoes for dinner (if you are insane and want to try this, don’t forget to foil wrap first.)
I have just ‘put’ the kids ‘to bed’, quotes highlighting the irony of this statement given that upon closing the door they spring out of their beds and start hopping about like miniature clowns. In any case, I wish them pleasant dreaming, no matter how lucid. I am having the genius dream at the moment, in which I come up with an inspired and earth-shattering idea, only to wake up with a vague sense of the idea being something to do with… whatever it was – beans, or god, or whatever. The genius dream is reminding me that I know nothing. Continue reading
I was eating a carrot of debatable texture when it occurred to me that I should start a blog dedicated to what I do the most in my spare time, which is chewing over the mealy stuff of life (pow), forcing together topics in an intimidating and meandering style comprising sentences of formidable length and dwindling interest, sandwiched together with a considerable amount of filler material, mostly assembled by my fervently mind-dredging my favourite comedians on youtube in a desperate ploy to sell their hard graft as my own. Aside from fixing the world as I rather hubristically assume I can, there are other things going on in my life, naturally, but if I were to write about the things that fill most of my mind for most of my day then it would be an absurd exercise indeed: filling my precious spare time by filling my head, and hence a page, with the things that occupy the meat of my day. In that vein, I would unashamedly post macaroni art and recite the three little pigs repeatedly. However, as time wears on and I run out of ideas, I am sure this will become increasingly likely to occur. Continue reading