Powerful submission
Opting for art is choosing to live under the totalitarian hold of a submissive god; one whose reign comes by absorption of whoever dominates him.
Concepts
There is no dignified personality that does not accept and love reality in its pure animality. Neither thinker, nor artist, nor anyone else is to be considered if he creates his life production in the bed of false concepts.
Let's just say that these are my ways of seeing and approaching things. That doesn't mean I always share them, but they are there and it would be foolish to deny them. The interest of thinking is also not to constantly agree with oneself. This is even, I believe, what interests me in art and life: the real; what is and not what we want it to be; therefore not necessarily realism or reality, which seems to me to lean more towards the perception of phenomena than the simple observation of their existence.
Opting for art is choosing to live under the totalitarian hold of a submissive god; one whose reign comes by absorption of whoever dominates him.
To remain silent would be a decent way of stifling thought, which will always be the painful expression of an order given to oneself by one's own mental bourgeoisie.
To decry sexual exhibition is to deny the reality of coitus, the most banal of our realities, in favour of an illusion of self, the mother of all violence.
While looking for the solution, I'm suffocating in the Web and the 2-dimensional page. I hope for a third one for a non-linear narrative art.
Some improbable and primitive metamorphoses in search of those who aspire to be told only the nonsense of the stories.
As Victor says about the spider and the nettle - not Dr. Frankenstein, but his friend old Hugo - I love hate because we hate it.
Artists at fault, artists too weak, unable to save this world from a predatory terror... Artistic ultra-violence, where are you hiding?
"Everything must go" is intended to make its participants perceive this total eclipse of self-confidence that makes the interpreter in true research.
One morning, or rather one night, a new blog was born in my little family of sites, a messed-up blog, designed to collect spelling mistakes with a ladle.
The true individual venturing out of his isolation room, faints on contact with the air. He refuses to be legibly embodied in his words and deeds...