Showing posts with label surrealism. Show all posts
Showing posts with label surrealism. Show all posts
Tuesday, April 3, 2012
Monday, April 2, 2012
Max Ernst ... Happy Birthday! ...
Absolument ou le Vide a l'Envers 1950
At Eye Level — Paramyths 1949
Friday, March 9, 2012
Paul Rumsey... drawings... Satyr Family... 2002
I am delighted to share with you, some work generously sent by a favourite artist and super thrilled to know he is a fan of the blog!!
click on image to enlarge
click on image to enlarge
more wonders here > The Paul Rumsey Homepage
Saturday, February 25, 2012
Stephen J. Clark... prints 2010/11/12
Burden 2010
From A Great Lost Book 2011
Mephistotrix, Beezle and Lamia 2011
Night Swallows 2012
more here > The Singing Garden
Monday, February 20, 2012
Saturday, February 18, 2012
Friday, February 10, 2012
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.
Saturday, July 30, 2011
Toyen (Marie Cerminova) ... Erotica & essay...
"Toyen's entire oeuvre aims at nothing less than the correction of the exterior world in terms of a desire that feeds upon and grows from its own satisfaction. "
Benjamin Peret 1953
interesting essay on Toyen here >
previous toyen
Saturday, July 23, 2011
The Story of the Eye ...Andre Masson..book cover
Cover sketch for George Bataille's Story of the Eye - first edition 1928 - André Masson
"And it struck me that death was the sole outcome of my erection, and if Simone and I were killed, then the universe of our unbearable personal vision was certain to be replaced by the pure stars, fully unrelated to any external gazes and realizing in a cold state, without human delays or detours, something that strikes me as the goal of my sexual licentiousness: a geometric incandescence (among other things, the coinciding point of life and death, being and nothingness), perfectly fulgurating..."
George Bataille's Story of the Eye
previous post > George Bataille
Monday, July 18, 2011
Monday, July 11, 2011
Wednesday, July 6, 2011
Unica Zürn... Happy Birthday! ...painting...
click on image to enlarge
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" UZmore > Unica Zürn
Tuesday, May 10, 2011
Hans Bellmer...print.... undated
“The body resembles a sentence that seems to invite us to dismantle it into its component letters, so that its true meanings may be revealed anew through an endless stream of anagrams.”
Hans Bellmer
Hans Bellmer
André Pieyre de Mandiargues on Bellmer...
“He was highly intelligent and seemed to have no sense of culpability or sin—there was innocence in his perversity. His eroticism was intellectual rather than sensual, cold rather than hot: this attracted me to him because like me, he was basically a puritan, and like me, he had no time for vulgar sensuality.”
Monday, February 7, 2011
For Benjamin PERET...
Max Ernst - illustration for La Breis Galante 1949 by Benjamin Peret
TOM TOM 1 for Benjamin Peret
even the river of earth blood
even the blood of the ruptured sun
even the blood of a hundred nails of sun
even the blood of the suicide fire beasts
even the blood of ashes blood of salt blood
of bloods of love
even the flaming blood of the fire bird
herons and falcons
rise and burn
AIME CESAIRE
Sunday, January 23, 2011
Wednesday, December 29, 2010
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