Real artists don't talk to the world

What I did would be there, wouldn't it? Buried there, huh? Just like that, in a little iron box or chest or whatever monumental or tiny thing we'd discover one day?

I don't believe it for two seconds, you see.

I don't believe for two seconds in artists who show up, who want to be seen, who we see, who we can see. I don't believe they exist. In fact I think they probably do exist but not the fact that we can see them; not the fact that they are visible or audible or hearable or palpable in any way. No, I don't think you can see them because I don't think you can show them. Besides I don't believe for two seconds that they should be shown and the whole world agrees with me.

Everything they will ever show, the real artists, the true artists, is the opposite of their work. Their work must not be seen, and no one, no passing Peking must see it, nor even suspect that it exists. Besides, no Beijing suspects it and it does not exist. The opposite, the flip side of what we have to say, to do; it does exist.

The real artists, the powerful artists, who have, who would have something to say, hate the world and won't say anything to it, right? Because they have to get their power from somewhere, don't they? And it's much better that way, isn't it?

Because somehow it's like a crime and it's better not to know about it. Because it's not something you can put in every hand or every ear or every thigh. It's just between nothing and nothing. Not even in brackets.

Fuck the world and fuck the artists and fuck the invasive English that granted us the use of the word fuck! Fuck the fuck itself. Isn't that right?

So where will your money, your pittance, your housing, your daily life come from if you do nothing; if you refuse to do anything visible other than that nothing that nobody wants to see? Out of nowhere, softly, like this; will fall from the sky, spring straight up, like this, like a reward; miraculous, like Christmas.

For your job? Do you think. What's your job worth to get paid for? It'd have to be worth something, come on! But the nothingness that we refuse to show because others refuse to see it, that invisible nothingness, is worth even less than the imaginable, conceivable nothingness. That's the other side of nothing. It is much more difficult to perceive. It takes an iron will to accept to want to perceive it, if only for a few minutes.

It's antimatter, a black hole. It's just absorption. It produces nothing but disappearance. It's like life producing disappearance, dissolution of life, the end of life. It's between the lines; between many, almost between all the lines.

There's something in between! Something did happen, didn't it? I saw it; I felt, I felt something going on, didn't I? Not in the back, not a shadow; not from the front; really from the front. Yes, a whole life like a motorway or that kind of image scrolling on a screen as we already know it, filmed from the front, arriving at us from the front, right in front. A whole life, right across the street. But that does exist, doesn't it, a life lived from the front, completely, totally, desperately from the front?

You can testify that it's real, can't you? Or can you? Or you? Did you at least see it at the cinema, say, at the cinema?