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{Friday}

 
sINTRE // 14 MESSIDOR

HOL LOTTA LACK

From Andy Warhol to William Blake ...

Two of my favourite artist theorist poets of the ordinary ... and debatably in one way or another avatars of the sacred or where the profane meets the inner sea sky breath aspiration of the sacred - let's hazard 'profane AS sacred' as in, why NOT piss paintings ... ?

I'd like to write something about Warhol as sacred artist.
A Sistine Chapel by Andy could have been 1000s of Polaroids of little Truman's Black and White Ball! But no, I mean this to be taken seriously or, I don't know, who knows, who cares, maybe he was, maybe he wasn't, he was cool either way, cool like cobalt cool like Mexican women serving you in their pharmacies when you ask habla? for something with a sky high codeine content cool as delicate pressed meats cuts off the head tongue baby lambs balls eaten by the very rich so rich their drivers have it maid service but like Andy said, the rich go to all that trouble to have their special delicate pressed meat starter preserved and imported and presented and then they serve frozen peas with the entrée, now that's not cool and Andy knew ... he knew when it came to mass produced produce, he had a palette for it ... he knew its place, knew when it went POP! and when it was sheer lazy poison ...

"Andy always said the blandest things; it drove people crazy, they were forced to read meaning into his words, but we knew different. Andy was not only dyslexic but he was uncomfortable with words. [...] I think the only reason he liked me was because I was Catholic, like everyone around him ..."
{Mary Woronov swimming underground

Andy is for starters a great 20th Century boy name for an artist. Artists were meant to be either cool and cruel and detached; or die of syphilis unknown unappreciated YOU HAVE NO MESSAGES in a bowl of their own absinthe laced vomit owing that week's rent to an old crone who then took their masterpieces as rent and threw them on the fire to cook her dog stew when it got too cold ...
They weren't meant to be Andy and have a silve halo: an unnatural silver halo.

He couldn't speak, he couldn't see, his hair didn't grow, his skin didn't breathe, he didn't like being touched, secretly hated not being touched, made an art whose dialectic was touch and coldness, distance and ache, feel and frieze, he PLUNGED into 20th century things like telephone television polaroid microphone tape recording and when he used them he left IN the tinniness {TIN-iness! I honestly didn't realise!} OK then let's also say SOUPiness and static and the phatic the PAUSE the masking tape the track the tracks the price tag all this broke the Law of art and art conversation in a way you weren't supposed to, he somehow thereby annulled or transcended - which is to say that as per Heidegger's advice, he wasn't simply on or off or couldn't care about Technology {here, the technology of mass repro} - he courted it was giddyhup schoolgirl excited by it set fire to it made ...

posted by Ian 7/11/2003 11:28:00 AM

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