Saturday, February 25, 2012

Thursday, February 23, 2012

Austin O Spare...


We who seek—whether we know or not what we seek or find, seem forced to face divergent paths; and ever inviting is the non-resistant blind alley to all sameness, to sick and weary life. Other paths, rougher, lead who so willeth to new pleasures: verily they lead the life-force with ever-open eye to the awaiting disaster or to chaos—never bathos, self-pity. The brave care nothing.

The wise man often exuviates his knowledge, rectifies his pastiche of acceptances and reverts to simple fundaments. By courage his eye is never stale and his levels become as steps. He again reorientates by oblique divagation, new asymmetries, dynamics, complexities and funambulatory compositions; never destroying his essential dis-symmetry.

Love for all things is integral beauty; it has no hate or possessiveness; its law is its own causality. Passions may be controlled but we best love by non-will as inclination dictates: so accept love wherever you may find it. It is difficult to recognize because it never asks.

All our denials, even of ourselves, come from non-acceptance: the unrealisation of otherness in self; of the Absolute in the non-absolute. 

from Austin Osman Spare,The Logomachy of ZOS ~ ZOS Speaks! Encounters with AOS. Fulgur, 1998


In our solitariness... great depths are sometimes sounded. Truth hideth in company.

Tuesday, February 21, 2012

Jindrich Styrsky...collage ...Comte de Lautréamont...1939...


"It was a spring day. Birds spilled out their warbling canticles, and humans, having answered their various calls of duty, were bathing in the sanctity of fatigue. Everything was working out its destiny: trees, planets, sharks. All except the Creator! He was stretched out on the highway, his clothing torn, His lower lip hung down like a soporific cable. His teeth were unbrushed, and dust clogged the blond waves of his hair. Numbed by a torpid drowsiness, crushed against pebbles, his body was making futile efforts to get up again. His strength had left him, and he lay there weak as an earthworm, impassive as treebark. Gouts of wine swamped the ruts trenched by his shoulders' nervous twitches."
Lautréamont, From "Maldoror"
     (trans. Alexis Lykiard)

previous Jindrich Styrsky

Styrsky poem > here

Monday, February 13, 2012

Alan Ti-Zariguin... Paintings ...2012


Mystere Araginee - Spider on the Solar Cross resurrected by Madame de la Luna


Mighty Ghuedhe - Burn the black candle and use strong and sweet incense of the tomb, for in fire, you will be reborn as Ghuedhe


Baron Lundy - To pass beyond, it is only possible with the guidance of the Voudon Baron Lundy, who rules the qliphotic dimension of the Northern Cross.

Paintings are acrylic on 320 g handmade paper – format A6

Friday, February 10, 2012

Ernst Fuchs... drawing...1963 erotica


click on image to enlarge

Victor Brauner... painting... 1938

click on image to enlarge

Entre le jour el la nuit (Gemini), 1938

“We, bird and man on two thrones
prolonguedly chat
my lover with untroubled gestures conjuring up
consoling archetypes of the night.” 

from  (Eagles on Vacation) Gellu Naum

Wednesday, February 8, 2012

J Karl Bogartte... A Curious night for a double eclipse..2011

Received my copy today of a collaboration with a favourite poet/artist  JK Bogartte...

The levels of consciousness passing through at unfamiliar angles, aroused by intuition and the enfolding future of wasps in a secretive handshake... The word for venom is always glowing in the dark. The storm takes your shape, impregnates those clear-cut moments of primitive bliss and darkens them. Everything unknown comes from deceptive distances. Authenticity enlightens death.



Life is another identity to the one you call your own, and the mystery of who desires its own form, follows the rush of nebulae...

    The missing links ravishing the landscape, hesitant poses, reluctant portraits, the erotic gathering of phantoms that cast themselves skimming over the water, where you and your shadow mediate with death, shaking the clarities between the poles of unconscious desires, striking up the band, of thieves and precious stones, languorous nights collaborating with philosophers haunted by wolves in the foundry of priceless shoulder blades... Bone is like breath when it reflects the sun. It is like devotion, even when it slumbers and dreams of a desirable climax, a beautiful havoc no one can resist.

   There is joy and longing in the skeletal remains of the astronomy that announces your passion, in quadrants, so completely out of step, so flint-like in those moments before waking, where you cannot even be seen...

   “Eat me, my love, live on me with animal-thirst, in the charade of a diamond split open for perilous novelty. Lick my fleece and draw blood into enchanted circles... Suffer for me, my eager shadow, sip the nightshade of my buzzing and my antennae, and cling to my stake, glow for me in the shallows of all that resemble the artifacts of confusion and dismay... my love, enter me and become my hunger for you...”

   Gold is time compressed into a diamond. Time is the process by which infinity lifts her dress just enough to unsilver the mirror that reflects your absence. Your breath is the completed triangle of a furious glance. Night trembles, because it knows you...

   Desire and desperation unfold like roadblocks on a street of glaciers burning up the architecture of fear, where swans mimic giant prisms and autopsy implements fondling the brightest of your glimpses, with passion and concern, with empathy and idealization, a little violence and projection, a passing semblance of erotic devotion, and yes, filled with a certain grace, moments of acceptable doubt, an anguish that allows us to evolve... If we do not falter...

    You are, in spite of yourself, a series of references, and ingenious designs, however brilliant and often too intricate for precise placement in the moment, and we become medial angles taunted by candles and poetic crimes in progress, crossbows of a lunar eclipse, and chaste fountains in the middle of the room with opened arms. We follow you with intent to commit mayhem. We love you endlessly, your propellers tearing up the forest, and when your transparency astounds us, we love you even more. A lunacy of longing dwells in us like words that have no meaning, but animal cries, torn linen, a loving defiance... There is hope for fire.