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HOLY WAR - another brief digression

Warhol {warholes warhologram warholy warbaby} as Catholic mis en scene is something else again. {I have made notes, oh, I have!} Can I just say that it is no coincidence that some intimates called him their Pope; and that these damaged children came to confess to him - he, out of sight, wedged safely silently SACREDly untouchably behind the SCREEN of his CONFESSIONAL apparatus.

And what was at stake after all {was said and done for the camera} was an AFTERLIFE, of sorts.

Which takes us into truly unsteady uncanny territory - (somewhere for which a weblog is not an adequate enough roadmap) - the place of LIFEDEATH.

And of dying not once, not even twice, but endlessly - while still alive.

It is possible to speculate that this was what truly finished some his superstars. (And not quite or wholly - tho' it is tempting to go with the echoes of the pun - in the sense of a 'finishing school', even if some of them maybe thought this was indeed where they were.) Not the drugs, not the 'wind em up and let em go' attitude Warhol ahs been accused of.

But the experience of staged death (of time's slow count down) which a lot of Warhol's 'film making' ultimately seems to resemble.

{Silent film birthed via Fritz Lang's Man In The Moon: 10 - 9 - 8 - ...; and the ship lifts off into outer space, but what happens 'beyond the zero' in these Warholian cases? with what another cagey cruel Catholic called the human factor - which is happily adjacent enough to ACTOR to suit our general thetic purpose.)

I don't know if any of them TRULY believed they would have a proper 'rebrith' in Hollywood* or on Johnny Carson , but nothing kills the soul more than that Eureka! syndrome: one moment of ecstasy followed by . . . years of left over time.

{* And I just opened Mary Woronov's excellent swimming underground ยท my years in the warhol factory and found this:

"Velvet was beginning to really annoy me with this telephone shit. She was nervous because she thought this was her big movie chance. What a stupid cunt. Even I knew this was not the way to Hollywood. I was not really sure what this was the way to, other than an odd kind of boredom. No matter how simple they made it - Paul loaded the camera, Andy pointed it, and Gerard started the tape recorder - there were always endless amounts of waiting."

Which is also (my theory) why so many ex speed freaks {like Andy's no-doze darlings) ultimately turn to heroin.

If you had formative (or DIS-formative) experiences on some KINGDOM COME mixture of sex, speed and music - it can be a kind of HIGH that is literally unrepeatable. Only suicide or precise daily sedation proffer their pale hands as a comparable 'solution' (or dissolution), as jumps into vertigo or a langorous wrap of shut-down jouissance. SURGE. Repetition - or fullstop. Endless stop-go repetition. Addiction as a Warhol film, a Burroughs logbook. Stop. Go. Stop. Go. Measured, contained, you are your own boundary.
Your own installation. Your own gas sation.
Your own Sleep or Empire.

{Empire [Warhol, 1964] which now has a second life as uncanny New York artefact. Because as someone once pointed out - here is the ultimate pointless or perverse film. Using film - a moving art - to film something static; immovable state; empire of signlessness.

Unless ... "some catastrophe should happen."
Like two planes flying into it, you mean? Would that do?

And wasn't that film of the World Trade Centre catastrophe also quintessentially Warholian?
Not so much (or not only) the film itself, as the way it was endlesly REPEATED. The way everyone tutted, and sighed and called it obscene and unwatchable and heart stopping .. .and then RAN IT AGAIN. Just like all theose repeat frames Warhol did in the 60s of suicide jumpers, car smashes, electric chairs ... : the call of the uncanny, the obscene, the techno sublime. Jouissance of realised phantasy. TOMBE. Everything solid falls to earth. Rewind. Repeat. REWATCH. Everything solid ... [World rights not included ... ]

An Andy silk screen of the White Bronco.
An Andy silk screen of Osama.
An Andy silk screen of Rodney King.
An Andy an andy an andy an andy and andy and and he and he and he and he LIVES IN US FOREVER MORE, FOREVER NUMB...

Is the camera on? are you taping me yet?


Endless flow of words the meaning doesn't matter it is the jouissance of chatter of just a phatic un-phallic letting go and of saying it all saying it now singing it back hearing the flow go on go on go on ARE WE ON go go and IT is what is MISSING now missing from blogs missing from big brother missing from oh singalonga nice comfy Radiohead songs and oh -

posted by Ian 7/10/2003 12:46:00 PM

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