Tuesday, March 30, 2010

50 Drawings to Murder Magic.

Antonin Artaud , one of the 20th century’s most important theoreticians of drama, was maybe the last visionary poet and a theorist of cruelty as principal life force. He was a playwright and actor and well read in esoteric and occult texts from the Upanishads to Novalis. For him art was indistinguishable from magic and his use of it was no ‘tourism of the irrational’ but a fervent and often desperate attempt to ‘reunite what is separated and to rebuild what is destroyed’. But nine years of incarceration in French mental asylums, following a disillusioning trip to Mexico had destroyed his belief in magic as positive and transformative power and the whole world seemed to have become demonic and cannibalistic, persecutory and vampiristic around him.

This incredible piece magic in itself bears the facsimile reproductions taken from the last 12 of the 406 ‘little schoolchild notebooks’ which he had been pencil-carving into from 1945 to 1948. They are witness to a last warding off in stunning works of exorcism by one surrealist whose appetite for life and culture was terrifying and hallucinatory in the best sense of the word.

His incantatory text, which opens the book - reproduced in facsimile as well, was the last he wrote, 2 months before his death.

Constipation Blues.

Monday, March 29, 2010


“Gainsbourg is both the best and the worst, yin and yang, white and black. This Jewish little Prince from Russia whose dreams were probably fueled by Andersen, Perrault and Grimm, became, when confronted by the tragic reality of life, a moving or repugnant Quasimodo, depending on his and your state of mind. Hidden deep within this fragile, shy and aggressive man lies the soul of a poet craving tenderness, truth and integrity.”


North 9th and Bedford.

White Wooden Clouds.

I love Grace Slick.

Monday, March 15, 2010


For Shari.

Sky is womb, she's the moon.

It's been a while now.

So it's 5am here...it's the seventh or eight morning in a row I've given in to the nauseousness of my very light, very anxious excuse of sleep and succumbed to that god damn insistent wedge of light driving itself into my mind, as it forces me into full consciousness. I actually woke up at at 5am on the dot, sat up and walked straight to the computer to do this. It's now 5:05...

Gypsy hands.