Showing posts with label Hans Bellmer. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Hans Bellmer. Show all posts

Monday, December 26, 2016

Hans Bellmer (1902-1975) ... Transfer of meaning, lithograph 1949

 "What is at stake here is a totally new unity of form, meaning and feeling: language-images that cannot simply be thought up or written up … They constitute new, multifaceted objects, resembling polyplanes made of mirrors … As if the illogical was relaxation, as if laughter was permitted while thinking, as if error was a way and chance, a proof of eternity.”

Saturday, August 24, 2013

Cécile Reims ... burin and dry-point prints

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Cécile Reims ~ Metamorphoses ~ 1957-1958 

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Cécile Reims ~ Metamorphoses ~ 1957-1958 

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Ephemeral being ~ 2003

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Sacred liquor - 2003-2004 

Thursday, April 4, 2013

Comte de Lautréamont (4 April 1846 – 24 November 1870)...Happy Birthday...

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Chants de Maldoror illustration  Hans Bellmer 1971

Pale hair in thick windings
Crackled in shadows horribly;
And behind, in rough, long hummings
There unreeled, according to species and size,
The animals of the earth and of the heavenly circlings.

Friday, July 6, 2012

Unica Zürn ... Happy Birthday...6 July 1916 Berlin - 19 October 1970 Paris...anagrams


Unica Zürn 1919


from an old copy of Sulfur Magazine no 29 1991 featuring a few Unica Zurn anagrams


I am yours, otherwise it escapes and
wipes us into death. Sing, burn
Sun, don’t die, sing, turn and
born, to turn and into Nothing is
never. The gone creates sense - or
not died have they and when
and when dead - they are not.

for Hans Bellmer.Berlin 1956

(Line from a poem by Henri Michaux)

Eyes, days, door, the old country.
Eagle eyes, a thousand days old.

Ermenonville 1957


After three ways in the rain image
when waking your counterimage: he,
the magician. Angels weave you in
the dragonbody. Rings in the way,
long in the rain I become yours.

Ermenonville 1959



ANAGRAMS are words and sentences resulting from the rearrangement of the letters in a given word or sentence. It is surprising that despite the re-awakened interest in the development of language in psychotics, psychics and children, little thought has been given to the anagrammatic interpretation of the coffee grounds of letters. - It is clear that we know very little of the birth and anatomy of the “image.” Man seems to know his language even less well than he knows his own body: the sentence too resembles a body which seems to invite us to decompose it, so that an infinite chain of anagrams may re-compose the truth it contains.

At close inspection the anagram is seen to arise from a violent and paradoxical dilemma. It demands the highest possible tension of the form-giving will and, simultaneously, the exclusion of premeditated purposeful shaping, because of the latter’s sterility. The result acknowledges - in a slightly uncanny manner - that it owes more to the help of some “other” than to one’s own consciousness. This sense of an alien responsibility and of one’s own technical limitations - only the given letters may be used and no others can be called upon for help - leads toward a hightened flair, an unrestrained and feverish readiness for discoveries, resulting in a kind of automatism. Chance seems to play a major role in the result, as if without it no language reality were true, for only at the end, after the fact, does it - surprisingly - become clear that this result was necessary, that no other was possible. Writing one anagram each day of the year would leave one with an accurate poetic weather report concerning one’s self at the end of that year.

What is at stake here is a totally new unity of form, meaning and feeling: language-images that cannot simply be thought up or written up. They enter suddenly and for real into their interconnections, radiating multiple meanings, meandering loops lassoing neighboring sense and sound. They constitute new, multifacetted objects, resembling polyplanes made of mirrors. “Beil” (hatchet) becomes “Lieb’” (Love) and “Leib” (body), when the hurried stonehand glides over it; the wonder of it lifts us up and rides away with us on its broomstick. The process remains enigmatic. For this kind of imaging and composing to happen, no doubt an eager hobgoblin - oracularly, sometimes spectacularly - adds much of its own behind the back of the I. A pleasantly disrespectful spririt, in all probability, who is serious only about singing the praises of the improbable, of error and of chance. As if the illogical was relaxation, as if laughter was permitted while thinking, as if error was a way and chance a proof of eternity.

Translated by Pierre Joris



from my visit to Unica's Grave Paris, Pere Lachaise Cemetery, February 16th 2008.


Publications by Verlag Brinkman & Bose 1998 and 2009


Wednesday, July 6, 2011

Unica Zürn... Happy Birthday! ...painting...

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Tempera on board 1957

"If only nobody would block my view. This was what bothered me the most.
My new viewpoint was of great importance to me. I would defend it
against all comers, however weary I might be" UZ