hommangerie

some excerpts, including a lovely prayer, from Nick Tosches’s masterpiece illustrated with pornography

If you bring forth what is within you, what you bring forth will save you. If you do not bring forth what is within you, what you do not bring forth will destroy you.”

– the Gospel of Thomas, quoted in Nick Tosches, In The Hand of Dante, Little, Brown and Co., 2003, p. 105

Jacopo was a poet and a lawyer: a dangerous combination. And Dante, lest we forget, was but a man – a man who throughout his marriage to Jacopo’s mother, and throughout Jacopo’s own childhood, adolescence, and young manhood, went publicly about pulling his poetic prick and moaning like a ricchione over some dead twat he never even knew.

– Ibid., p. 366

There are those whom I love and who dwell within me. Some of them I have abandoned long ago. Others long ago have abandoned me. Yet they dwell in the love within me.

There are others, whom I never have abandoned, and who never have abandoned me.

For so long, the souls of others sustained me as much as my own soul did.

God, how I long now for them.

I must have them know that I breathe. I must allow them the knowledge that we still breathe together, apart as we may be. I can not let them know this only when I bring them to me to celebrate that befalling thing.

God, how I am blessed to have Giulietta, whose breath I can feel upon my skin and in my soul, and upon whose skin and into whose sweet soul I can breathe.

As for the rest of you, neither I nor those who dwell in the love within me desire or would abide your company. To you who in your fear, your stupidity, your jealousy, darkened the path of my previous life as you desecrated your own – and you know who you are – may your true death precede mine, as did the death of your souls.

In the name of the Father and the Son and the Holy Ghost. Amen.

– Ibid., pp. 369-370

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this is worth hearing. Listen: Galway Kinnell reads “The Dead Shall Be Raised Incorruptible” …

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porte-parole
swweesaience
textasies

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Aryan Kaganof’s “Hymn”

in the beginning…

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pique-assiettes

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R.I.P. Oscar Niemeyer, December 15 1907 to December 5 2012

Office, Rio de Janeiro by Tuca Vieira

Copan, architect Oscar Niemeyer, 1954, photograph by  Tuca Vieira

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Julian Assange on phase shift

in the 1930s, certain people saw what was going on. And they saw the general trends. I’m telling you there is a general trend. I am an expert and I’ve lived through it. Other experts have also lived through different facets of this—an American, a German and a French man, all experts on different parts of what is happening legislatively and what is happening in terms of the technology. Now we have all been intercepted permanently. This is a state change. This is not matter of simply a change to any individual. This is a sea change in politics and we are going to have to do something about it. If we don’t do something about it, we run the risk of losing the democracy we have treasured for so long.

– Julian Assange, here and look here too

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the gap in which the machines conduct their work of reconstructing the human

Le processus est brutal. Ma pratique implique un passage à l’acteur permanent. Par la transgression de la frontière séparant le photographe de son sujet, je suis devenu l’objet de mes images, l’acteur contraint d’un scénario que j’ai moi-même élaboré. Le manque, la souffrance, le vieillissement de la chair, la nécessité de jouir et celle, plus subtile, de faire jouir, tout me ramène, à travers l’acte sexuel, à mon propre corps. Je ne peux photographier si je ne suis pas acteur à part entière des situations dans lesquelles je m’immisce ou que je provoque. Épicentre d’un champ de filtres, de prismes et de zones d’ombres, je photographie ce que je fais, je fais ce que je photographie. Tenter de rendre visible cette fracture nécessite de se trouver d’un côté ou de l’autre et d’avoir intégré la césure comme une partie de soi. Je me soumets docilement et, au fur et à mesure que je me perds dans ma pratique, que ma vie touche à la dissolution, que mon corps se disloque, que ma photographie me devient étrangère, je suis de plus en plus seul dans mon entreprise de reconstruction.

– Antoine D’Agata – from here

I was actually pursuing a link to Leigh Ledare’s work when I found this. No. No. What am I saying? I didn’t find it, I was lead to it. It already existed.

– more here

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empathetic machinism – to soft_skinned_space

Antonio Damasio (Looking for Spinoza) shows, to simplify, the material neuronal causes of such feelings as empathy in the brain. Catherine Malabou goes further. She invents in The New Wounded, self-consciously, the philosophical concept of “cerebrality” to provide an aetiology for psychic events. She cites the argument of Bruno Bettelheim implying a shared causality of psychological symptoms in autists and mussulmen – the 1000 yard stare and – the indifference.

From Malabou’s preamble: “this book is a belated reaction to the ordeal of depersonalisation to which my grandmother was subjected as Alzheimer’s disease operated upon her. I say “operated” because it seemed to me that my grandmother, or, at least, the new and ultimate version of her, was the work of the disease, its opus, its own sculpture. Indeed, this was not a diminished person in front of me, the same woman weaker than she used to be, lessened, spoiled. No, this was a stranger who didn’t recognise me, who didn’t recognise herself because she had undoubtedly never met her before.”

And: “I was perfectly aware – along with everyone who must endure the same spectacle in their own lives – that this absence, this disaffection, this strangeness to oneself were, without any possible doubt, the paradoxical signs of profound pain. Later, I learned that Alzheimer’s disease is a cerebral pathology. Could it be that the brain suffers? Could it be that this suffering manifests itself in the form of indifference to suffering? In the form of the inability to experience suffering as one’s own? Could it be that there is a type of suffering that creates a new identity, the unknown identity of an unknown person who suffers? Could it be that cerebral suffering is precisely such suffering?”

I’d like to ask the opposite: if it could be that an as yet for us unknown person, an identity in the process of creation, can be equal to cerebral suffering, in the sense in which Deleuze issues the Stoic challenge of being equal to the wound which afflicts us? or in other words, acting?

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hommangerie
infemmarie
porte-parole
Problematik
theatrum philosophicum
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Federico Armando Beltrán-Masses, 1885-1949, Graphic Idealism, the New Aesthetic and the best porn

Pierrot malade, ou Pierrot et Colombine, 1929

Frederico Beltrán-Masses was a Cuban-born Spanish painter whose reputation flourished in the Golden Age of Hollywood. Friends with William Randolph Hearst, whose portrait he painted, his influence is apparent on the films of the era, particularly his body aesthetic, the look of his women. He’d already shown his notorious Salome, painted in Paris in 1918, at the XII Venice Biennale, 1920, in a pavilion dedicated to his work. When shown in London, in 1929, she was called the most daring nude ever painted, “a naked woman in a pose which no lesser artist could have attempted,” depicted in an athletically erotic position, crutch forward. It could be said that Beltrán-Masses’s athletic eroticism was fashion forward. But of course his exoticism, an Everyman’s Babylonia, his orientialism, which makes him an heir to Moreau, must also have had its fans in Hollywood.

His paintings have this patina – a built-in pathology of age, as if the materials were already in decay before he put them on the canvas. It is theatrical. But there’s a veil, a gauze, an accretion of textural detail – over everything, so that even when it’s clear, with the whites of Pierrot’s costume and the throw on the fauteuil, a sick haze is still there. Which is probably what attracted me to this painting: theatricality and pathology. And the effects of time in which both take part.

These characteristics are what I’m missing from the high definition imagery, the retina tech, which Duchamp would have recognised as belonging to a merely retinal artistic culture, that fills every screen, and screens everywhere. The tablet and touch screen might have returned something of the tactile but so much about their materiality, the glass, the plastic, the metal, while it will last a fraction of the time of one of Beltrán-Masses’s paintings, places it outside of time, which is its own sort of theatricality and pathology, but is in fact inimical to touch since our bodies tie the temporal and tactile together in a decaying, rotting and inevitably dying knot.

There’s something wrong with these paintings, even the flesh of Beltrán-Masses’s nudes, his Salome, and it’s not simply in the elision of genital detail. They look wrong and dated. It’s not simply the implicit prudery eschewing the pornographic. It might be an a-graphism. What these paintings show is the opposite of graphic. As if the clean lines and clear forms we are more familiar with and which we consider closer to nature, to visible reality, were borrowed or stolen exclusively from the clarity, the cleanliness of letters, scripts, writing, in a kind of graphic idealism. Which of course has nothing to do with nature, time, sickness and our bodies, or health, for that matter.

It lies. Graphic idealism. It glitches and because it is machine made it gives rise to an imagistic unconscious, unconsciouses, satellite imagery, computer eyes, distant from the human and un-willed. Which has been called a New Aesthetic. But these machinic aspects are possibly its solitary virtue. (Although I’ve written this sentence three times because my touchpad is playing up. Should I leave the lacuna in obeisance to this virtue?)

I’d been missing something from the imagery on my phone and computer and television and the advertisment hordings and the magazines and … and funny that newsprint retains something of an ongoing state-of-decay recalling the process of time, even more now with digital capture and printing of images showing technical progress doesn’t make for better quality. (But the involuntary shakiness, unmatching colour separations, pixelation and artifacting of the newspaper photo perhaps epitomise the New Aesthetic?) And where what I’d been missing most is most absent is where you might most expect to find it: in graphic depictions of the nude body. Porn I’ve always thought of as the first pomo artform. Bodies come together like the conjunction of letters, like X’s, spread at either end.

A friend said the best porn is the worst. But so much relies on the support medium. VHS is able to be worse. Digital break-up of flesh-tones immediately leaves the territory of even the slimmest pretext of eroticism. As an aside, this could be an observation applicable to digital imagery itself, whether reticulated at the retinal level or on the verge of breaking down in newsprint: a depth all surface. With Andy Warhol as prophet and profiteer. But I hope there’s something more profoundly superficial going on here: the digital image when it fails to represent – in its untimely decay – leaves behind representation altogether. Thinness or lack of profondeur is not the issue, nor is the intimation that the digital body at its most intimate might suddenly reveal itself at its least like a body.

Here the digital makes a short cut – tout court – allowing no natural passage of real time and cutting short the process – of decay or progress. I mean the decay can be built in to painting, the material decay bound to occur, and it can also occur. And what is presented by its inherency in the artistic project or aesthetic – decadence – is the boundedness of materiality: the unescapable depredations of… What? A throwaway society doesn’t see its treasured artifacts decay. Even its iPhone 5’s. Time no longer represents time as process. We fall immediately from one thing into another, through the screened image into what is technically chaos. The spectacle is what is longest lasting in its immediacy, then. Then there is no then.

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imarginaleiro
immedia
infemmarie
luz es tiempo
porte-parole
representationalism
resolution
theatricality
thigein & conatus

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enter company

come on beautiful people

sanguine people

pointlessly milling around people

occupying people

alter-globalists

“what is to be done?” askers

you know you want to: give generously to realise Little Elephant’s company

a beautiful, sanguine, pointless, creative, alter-global multilingual online communications place –

to the power of 2  real / virtual…

because it only takes 2

to make a new society: contact me

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CAPITAL CAPITAL CAPITAL
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infemmarie
network critical
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Wachowskis, Tykwer and Mitchell: Cloud Atlas

a link


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