Anarchy and Art

Anarchy and Art

If a self-governing system guides the creation of an art, determining its own balance and design , regardless of content, and  if art could avoid the pitfalls of indulgence such as ego and marketplace,  it would be more capable to transcend. With really accomplished works, we sense an unspoken order, albeit personal  and impenetrable by words, unruly, anarchic. Anarchy and chaos are hardly interchangeable terms; order does exist – it is the self-imposed rigor we admire which needs not even recognize any external constructs. It may seem, therefore, irrelevant, not interacting in a broadly meaningful way due to its rarefied nature.

If chaos is the question, consider how the paint drippings of J. Pollack become valuable art through the interpretations of intermediaries who determine the codes of expression. These critics have some sort of decoder ring of meaning which translates into, among other things, commercial success for artist and investor. Ah, modernism. I love it when you interpret for me.

Cubism gives us order of an almost complete other echelon, with nods to real-world objects simply for the sake of reference. Please do not tell us the “subject” of this painting is a still-life.

Duchamp extended the rules of chess to an intricate verbal and symbolic game of shifting pieces. At some point, such a construct becomes more than personal, for a game usually takes at least two. An exquisite corpse played by one would probably only make sense to a schizophrenic.

So what happens when the phrenetic, isolated, manic madman we call the artist comes out of his self-indulgent bubble or lets the ego’s membrane become permeous, while still holding on to its tenuous identity? He (or she-but that’s it with the bow to gender) may to decide to collectivize, write a fucking Manifesto. Choose revolutionary subject matter, or pragmatic design in the service of propaganda. Constructivism? Encompass the spirit of the age? Futurism?

Fast forward to the now – mass media memes LOL-ing across the screens we choose to use to communicate. If I want to express myself in a fashion that will be understood and accessible, (which I do, more  or less), it seems I must use the glossary of postmodern-pop-street culture. Otherwise I run the risk of remaining irrelevant, or in retrograde. All things being equal (and reproduceable), the challenge is two-fold: to admit or embrace that an effort at utterly original work is a chimera; and, that relying on pastiche in lieu of content is an unworthy pastime.

An analogy: we speak in English, we who speak English. We could either invent a new language which would be not only a hollow gesture but a gargantuan effort, an impossible task with dubious rewards requiring more than a human’s lifetime to even approximate what this tool can already do. (With Borges and Wittgenstein mocking us at every step).

To continue, if we admit defeat on this idea of reinventing the wheel… We are left with grandfather’s toolbox. Fun stuff, he built a house. It’s still standing, needs work. Do we fix it up, grow vegetables and raise goats? What if we give it away to someone and move on? That’s what I’m talkin’ about. Build a treehouse or an ark, sail the coming seas on Goodship Anarchy.

-to be continued-

Who’s the Captain???

               

December Poems

The Procedure

I admire the surgical skill with which

You performed the amputation

I see no foreseeable risk

Of a subsequent infection.

Pet names have been euthanized

The quarantine on memories seems sealed

If some erupt I will certainly, as advised, cauterize

With red hot steel.

The symptoms will persist, that I foresee
Insomnia, loss of appetite, walking in a daze

No concentration, apathy…
Time will heal more fish in the sea, and other clichés.

No pharmacy balm to numb this. Alcohol!

There's the rub, antiseptic, that burns as it cleans.

Damn the side effects to hell.

Let the flames begin.

For Marc

When Bolan made to play,

In a forest hushed,

Breathing elementals sat

In leafy beds,

Gentle, curious,

In still evening air.

No enemy scent and so they settle in

Relax in warm comfort and wait.

The mists conspire a while

And glow, anticipate.

Then in time they hear: chooga chooga chooga

Cat Black and Beltane Walk

The sky was sleek and indigo

A fine grain field of blinking stars

Some sweet smell

Of jasmine or thyme

A tiny waterfall

Is in the know

Cool moss crickets chirp and buzz in the breeze
Giggling water burps

Leaves spin round between wet moonlit stones

Barefoot girls in white dresses look for

Tadpoles in the pools

Shadows of the knotty trees

What is this place called? I ask

The Imp just holds her breathe, puffs out her cheeks

Blows me a raspberry and runs away.

“The devil!” I say, as she looks back, wanting to be chased on a spree.

I stroke my white beard, and see Mischief, that nimble lad, will oblige.

I light my pipe and reminisce, in smoky reverie.

Sweet Soft Death

They tempt us, O Thanatos, with Mayan calendars and Y2K

I’ll bang you as they whimper ‘God Save Us!’, and march a fool’s parade

Before I’d have to descend into the catacombs where they store the fruit of skulls

A library that is, with shelves of tomes, the world, my oyster rotting in its shell

Worm-eaten smell of must, gouged out holes and rust.

But now, I just “Wiki” it, and avoid the dust.

I call your name born in hushed deliverance, shallow and breathy like on a 
    dying man’s bed:

Come to me, when are you coming O Angel, Sweet Soft Death.

No? I’m passed by, stood up at the Gate? It’s not my time? I thought you were a friend.

You broke our date, how must I live? Here we go. Here we go again.

Opus minimus

It begins in joy, but ends in tragedy, a minor opera you might enjoy:

Born in mirth but transgressed and he fell. Oh, he fell to earth.

Apprentice to a dying art, then master of a dead one, he played the part:

Adept of the ego, schooled in a dark market, commerce, deceived by shadows

So fell a bit more.

A dim light, persistent, grew, spoke -

            “It’s all a vacuum and a void. God may be Great but I am bored. I walk this world in weary wonder at its folly and wish to strike it with my sword. When I light the match it is my life that I light. And do wear the mark of Cain. Die brother, die.”

Spend your days laughing at these spinning orbs I suggest.

Asymmetric wobbly things aren’t they?

Do I give up the game when I see now two? Go forth Gaianeer. Pioneer.

To Mars! There is Curiosity which is our eyes and Apollo which was our baby feet. But put

            away such childish things, and look out!

Because there is no ‘up’. Just…out.

I get my mail on planet three, in a backwater part of a plain galaxy.

And screwing up this wet dream of Jeannie as we proceed, oblivious to gravity.

The curtain soon falls, no Deus Ex, just velvet draperies.

The ETs we await like angels shrug their alien shoulders and move on at intergalactic

speeds

Not all experiments succeed. 

Peppermint Moon

The moon is a dinner mint on a platter of sky

The sun? What a flamer, but we like his energy and Oh! he cooks so well.

I’d like something basilly in a thin rue,

Steamed clams, scallopini,

Or gnocchi au vino delicieux?

The lemon zesty afternoon

And the tides that break bread

And laughter in the hollows where the bumble bees go in.

These are just some random treasures

Small trinkets to give to a girl.

And the moon is serving, well, by moonlight

From a shiny silver platter. On another world.