Night Blog

On the threshold of my editions as at the edge of the forest. One site wasn't enough, but 14 sites weren't enough. Poor form. Limited page. Its edges limit us. As much as the page of the book, as much as the frame of the picture. I see no depth in the single-file accumulation of ideas and words; the off-field does not stimulate the imagination. Not mine anyway. That's not true. Just good for fantasizing those who get excited by spotting the shapes of bodies under clothes rather than observing them raw, naked. The suggestion is boredom. The opposite of the living, which lets the one who doesn't hide his eyes see everything and takes the trouble to look at what's right in front of his nose. Nothing seems crazy enough to look like life to me. Life and living things are spread out in front of everyone's eyes; it's a wasteland, a public rubbish dump.

This is the problem of forms; of all forms and structures. Nothing satisfies me in that; in the expression of art. Yes, the scene, sometimes, when you let it go, when you let yourself go, looks a bit like art and life; the feeling of art. Because the feeling is very alive; I always feel it very alive and fast and lively and without limits. But its realization is laborious even when you go fast and accumulate forms and formats and experiences. It is never enough; it will never be enough to give an idea of thought and feeling; to be faithful to what is going through us. It's the illusion that goes through me; the illusion of the superman; of going fast, so fast that I won't have time to look at what has just happened. The scene, for this quality of the moment, yes perhaps, it can be appropriate if it is treated well; if nothing is important or if everything is equal. If you die there faster than you live. If it grows like grass. If it collapses like an unbalanced mass of rock... The feeling of art for me is the clatter. The porcelain pyramid that breaks in one clumsy, deliberate gesture. Skillful with willful clumsiness.