I miss being sick. Why can’t I get sick? Everyone else in the world has come down with one or another illness, but I wake up every day in perfect health. If I want to slow down and feel “under the weather”, I must begin my morning by drinking 80-proof booze. That’s fine: I’ll do whatever it takes; but I really wish that I could get sick naturally, like everyone else.
MORAL: Life is not fair, and God is evil.
Do you ever remember anyone saying comments like “This is the best place to perform the act of X in the free world”? For instance, “This is the best place to go skiing in the free world” or “This is the best place to purchase harlots in the free world”. I just want to make an observation about this phrase “the free world”: I think that, somewhere along the line, the world became unfree. Don’t you agree? Where’s the freedom anymore? I don’t see it.
When a woman who happens to be passing by my domicile pats me on the mane and sez “Keep on rockin’ in the free world, Bry!” I respond by purring & saying “Are you talking to ME, the famous author Bryan Ray?” And she replies “Yes.” And I say, “I don’t understand this terminology that you’re tossing around: this word ‘free’ — what does it mean? Please explain.” And the woman with whom I’m conversing will admit that she is flummoxed and frankly starstruck: “I should never have used vocabulary above my pay grade; I was only trying to impress you.” And she’ll begin to fasten the top buttons on her blouse, in embarrassment; but I will remark gently “Leave it alone: I love a low neckline.” And she shall smile and we will wed.
Here's a couple excerpts from a statement that Marcel Duchamp made at the Philadelphia Museum of Art on 20 March 1961:
. . . Surrealism introduced the exploration of the subconscious and reduced the role of the retina to that of an open window on the phenomena of the brain.
The young artist of tomorrow will, I believe, have to go still further in this same direction, to bring to light startling new values which are and will always be the basis of artistic revolutions.
. . . the general public accepts and demands a lot from art, far too much from art; that the general public today seeks aesthetic satisfaction wrapped up in a set of material and speculative values and is drawing artistic output towards an enormous dilution.
This enormous dilution, losing in quality what it gains in quantity, is accompanied by a levelling down of present taste and its immediate result will be to shroud the near future in mediocrity.
In conclusion, I hope that this mediocrity, conditioned by too many factors foreign to art per se, will this time bring a revolution on the ascetic level, of which the general public will not even be aware and which only a few initiates will develop on the fringe of a world blinded by economic fireworks.
The great artist of tomorrow will go underground.
My favorite thing about art is that, despite being middle-aged & obsessing about the subject all my life, I still have no idea what art is. Isn’t that great? A phenomenon that has no clear purpose, aim, or meaning. That thrills me.
But people who are NOT thrilled by art, and who react to my last statement by saying “Who cares? Art sounds stupid to me.” — I love these folks too. Even if their idea of a good instance of reality is an uncooked beefsteak, I embrace this stance: I completely understand. I love raw meat.
Or even if it’s passed thru the flames for a moment, I still love it. As long as it keeps the taste of blood.
I’ve chosen to contribute to the realm of text, which is a slow-moving medium. But I like how text can be preserved for thousands of years. The Bible is a very old book. I like to put my thoughts in rooms where the doors are dusty and difficult to open. And then when you open them, a curse flies out and hits you right in the face.
Wouldn’t you rather be a young person than an ancient mummy, tho? — Maybe I made the wrong choice. Maybe I should’ve accepted the affection of those females who wanted to be my girlfriends, back when I was in grade-school. I made the mistake of brushing them aside because I was preoccupied with becoming a famous artist. I was more concerned with fabricating an idea for my masterpiece than starting a family that will end up enslaved.
But very old Egyptian art has stood the test of time too: look how the pictures that are carved into stone are still viewable. Isn’t that a positive outcome? Or would you rather hold hands and walk thru our garden, right now? We could produce a little bambino and place him in an ark and send it up the river to Pharaoh, who’s the upcoming Leader of the Free World; and we could name the sucker Moses. (Whether or not he decides to die on Mount Pisgah will be totally up to him: We won’t force the lad to accept our wishes for his future career as a prophetic nation-builder. We’ll practice progressive parenting. Until we lose patience.)
It’s a conundrum: To accept pleasure or defer it. If you make sweet love to everyone in your office who sends you a valentine, then you’ll enjoy a very pleasant several months, but after all the Moseses are born, you’ll need to figure out where to bury them; because you’re definitely not going to be able to fulfill all your promises that you made: you simply don’t own enough land. However, if you refuse the advances of all those potential mates, in hopes of attaining greater satisfaction in the future, then…
I want, I want! — Here’s what I want:
A big cemetery; bigger than before, because I’m THE WHALE. I don’t fancy basking on the beach forever; I’d like someone to chase me — otherwise I’m liable to overdose on serene contemplation. Passing sailors might steal my oil. (Honestly, I’m not too worried about this: Let them have it. Reach your hands into my mind and wet your arms up to the elbow in the glowing elixir.) But I’d also like to manufacture a movable mountain that shall magnetize itself as a gravestone atop my corpse, once I’m finished living the Thug Life.
3 comments:
Oh! Elbow-deep while by no means only trying to impress you; Reading my way back in time and thus concurrently arriving on 31 January 2022 & 20 March 1961 -- it appears to me that Duchamp is clearly now joining our conversation from a few days back!
"This enormous dilution, losing in quality what it gains in quantity, is accompanied by a levelling down of present taste and its immediate result will be to shroud the near future in mediocrity [...] The great artist of tomorrow will go underground."
Thanks again for reading, and, again, thanks for sharing your reactions! I'm glad that we're both so spiritually in tune with Duchamp that we can each respectively channel his thoughts so that he can enjoy posthumous conversations with himself.
And that quote is something I repeat often to give myself comfort, especially the end line. Tho to use the phrase "go underground" makes the situation sound a little more intentional than it actually is, in my case: I can't claim to have chosen to be here — I was born underground; I stayed underground; and I'll remain underground... until I'm literally underground: Then I'll fly up to Heaven and do a regime change.
That's indeed one of the most wonderful side effects of truly great art and literature, don't you think? Besides the works of art themselves possessing this inherent quality of making conversation, its creators seem to keep the posthumous conversation flowing, too - with both themselves, their contemporaries as well as with their entire future audience!
As exhilarating as a regime change admittedly does sound, I can easily wait a very long time to see it happen, at least by those means(!)
Also, in my personal earthly perspective, I say just about eveything that attracts my attention and affection could be characterized as 'underground' in one way or another - you (in this single manner) being no exception!
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