Category Archives: Fundamentals

Moment of Sanity, Part III: The Human

Moment of Sanity, Part I: The Genius
Moment of Sanity, Part II: The Mad Man
Moment of Sanity, Part III: The Human

Art and the human. The human. The human in me is living through the faces of cultural Europe. Let’s make one thing clear: I am not human. Nor am I the ultimate icon of denial for Post-modernist thinkers that is the humble medium of the universal truths of human emotion, human’s true eye on reality. But, yah, no-one said I was, so I’m not quite sure how I came to emphasize that here.

I am merely a writer from another dimension with the desire to share his soul, and how it is thrown back by the force of the human beings denying its existence in the face of their reality. It brings me to life…A life I don’t need, as it is one in which art is facing total annihilation.

Ah, humanness: Gaia forbid that you ever be left uncaptured by the brush holding, pen licking, clay sticking, stage tricking, string plucking, dicks ****** freaks and geeks on this earth that we call artists. Mozart, Kafka and Brecht. I am walking in their footsteps…And I’m sad I came too late.

The traces of great men with great minds in times of terrible trouble. And it occurred to me that none of these traces will be captured in a glass box, plaster casted to outlast the shit storm we are currently concocting.

It occurred to me that these traces needed to be refreshed…

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Moment of Sanity, Part II: The Mad Man

Moment of Sanity, Part I: The Genius
Moment of Sanity, Part II: The Mad Man
Moment of Sanity, Part III: The Human

Art and the mad man. The mad man. The mad man in me is living through the faces of cultural Europe. Let’s make one thing clear: I am a mad man. I am not, however, the ultimate icon of denial for Post-modernistic thinkers that is the humble medium of the universal truths of human emotion, human’s true eye on reality. For he is otherwise known as the genius artist. And although it is real that genius artists are mad men – I, a mad man, am not a genius artist. I am merely a man from another dimension with the desire to share his moments of being mentally incapacitated, of having been thrown back by the force of the mad man genius so hard once, that he was pulled onto and forced to blueball the horse of crazy for the rest of his life.

It must be evident, by now, where I am going with this: Madness is living in me through the faces of cultural Europe – if it wasn’t alive already, through birth. And I wasn’t born the way you real people are born…So…

I see Caravaggio, Keats, Socrates and Ataman. For it is them that I next visit as my scrawny little behind makes a move across the rough, unholy and uncoveted lands of Western Europe. At least, it takes a mad man to believe they are there. See for yourself.

It takes one to know one.

I talk to them, I smell their dead presence as ignorant and disbelieving tourists walk past – snap, snap…tap! As if a ghost can be captured on celluloid…It can’t, okay? Pixels neither. One needs to invite it into the habitat of the living with some live conversation, maybe a smoke, and a fresh cup of coffee, or something or other. Do that, and you’ll be up for a real good conversation. Find out about untruths that will make your ears sing. Green eggs and ham isn’t the only meal we never heard of…

It turns out the genius creator has decided he will be the mad man none of us, without losing their fragile minds, could be. Indeed, at this very moment even, my fingers have trickled away from the cerebral center they are controlled by, and green goo in the shape of square bubbles is oozing down the walls left and right of me. There isn’t much sense anymore in letting these letters fall together so coherently; they have nothing to say about the state I am found in yester morning days, seven pickles…Path, laugh, dribble…

And indeed, as Dalí pointed out, the only difference between mad men and mad men genius creators, so to say, is that the latter aren’t actually mad. I have to admit – I do feel the same. “We are but men, ROCK!”

And so my humble little behind is out to find its kindred souls…


Moment of sanity, Part I: The Genius

Moment of Sanity, Part I: The Genius
Moment of Sanity, Part II: The Mad Man

Moment of Sanity, Part III: The Human

Art and the genius. The genius. The genius in me is living through the faces of cultural Europe. Please let’s make one thing clear: I am not a genius. I am not the ultimate icon of denial for Post-modernistic thinkers that is the humble medium of the universal truths of human emotion, human’s true eye on reality. I am merely a man from another dimension with the desire to share his moments of infatuation, of being thrown back by the force of the genius so hard that he is pulled onto the horse it is riding for a moment or two.

It is living in me through the faces of cultural Europe. It is Hemingway, Godard, Gaudí, Picasso and Dalí that I see. And it is them that I first visit as my scrawny little behind makes a move across the rough, unholy and uncoveted lands of Western Europe. Paris is in my way, and Montpellier, Barcelona, Figueres, Marseille, Rome, Athens, Thessaloniki, Istanbul, Vienna, Prague, Berlin and finally Essen – and they are also helping me – as I reach for the genius. The unforgiveable, (un)wealthy, unhealthy, blasphemous, sexist, insane and infamous genius.

Those unattainable little fuckers that never seem to think about good and bad – at least, not the way you and I do. That would never give a journalist a straight answer, unless he was upside down. That would never give the crowd what it wanted, but autistically sought to make it want just what they created. And we would finally cave…Yeah, art is not so much about good and bad, healthy and unhealthy; not in the brain either.

Given the idea, then, that art is not essentially about good or bad (health), what good would it do a pioneer to the quest for true emotion, a seeker of the unknown known to walk the path that hath been trampled on before? We are all trying to be good, trying to be healthy. What is a genius’ business sniffing around the bushes of the all-too familiar sane world? Maybe for some bread at times, a place to stay. But really, the genius creator, the artists we all love and hate (oh, we are so good) will carry madness in the mind. Bad hair. Bad teeth falling out…And he loves the way his tongue fills the holes in his mouth, that he curses.

My humble little behind out to find its kindred souls…


On the Bildensturm of Negligence and Foolishness: A mission statement

If culture was cousin Itt from the Addams family, then art would be its hair. And currently, art is being cut short. Yet if anyone who knows cousin Itt is asked what he looks like, the first and only thing they will mention is his hair, and that there’s lots of it. Indeed, it is quite undeniable that it’s there, and anything else we might know about him is seen through that celestial head of hair. Anyone who ‘knows’ culture, knows that it consists of a romantically excessive amount of hair – that is culture. What would be left if cousin Itt was no longer covered by that ocean of filamentous biomaterial? Would we recognize our oldest family member without it? Would we know who he used to be?

There is a boy who has yet to meet cousin Itt in its full glory – who has not yet reached his hair-covered heart. And he believes it is Europe. However Euro-centric of a thought, still Europe can be regarded as the cultural centre of the world – be it merely because much of what is historically regarded as the most impactful works ever made and collected, however imperialistically, in the cities of Europe. And now, some political lice have decided to do away with this heritage by allowing the clipping of this wondrous being. Rather, they are leaving the hair that is there – they need to feed off it until they perish themselves – but meanwhile are genetically modifying it such that it will stop growing effectively. And slowly but surely, as generations pass cousin Itt turns balder and balder.
It is imperative that the boy speak with him now, see him hair to heart, before he should fall into the depths of his eyes. Itt’s sad and withered eyes, which would feel ashamed to bare themselves, for they are humble and can only be truly expressed in hair. He needs to get to know cousin Itt, be inspired and admire, before he disappears. Hence, he is setting out to visit some of the cultural landmarks of Europe before they turn ruinous, more ruinous than the Forum Romanum. That is to say, he will travel through Europe to experience some of its most beautiful and inspiring places, catching a glimpse of humanity’s sole selfless endeavor – to allow visions to be shared, and emotions to be seen – before they will all turn to dust.

But what should be the purpose of this endeavor if all is going to waste anyway? What can one boy do amidst a crowd of 7 billion, to fully safeguard the existence of something in decay? One word should be enough; one word about all those beautiful hairs that still exist equals approximately one new hair, or a piece of it. By writing only one word, cousin Itt’s coupe will already be recuperated. And he doesn’t intend to stop after that one word. (He is a character, not a writer.)
In a world where governments are seemingly collectively pulling out of cultural funding, and a world where devastation or transience (without appropriate acceptance thereof) are taking the shape of the latest, sellable hype, he is going to take what’s left of creativity and use it to destroy that hype. He is going to make sure the world doesn’t forget, and therefore will do everything in its power to maintain the single worldly phenomenon that exists for its own sake – Art. Create in order to destroy, only to allow us to create again. Perhaps ‘defy’ is a better word when it comes to the hype of devastation, as it is less ambiguous in this context, and more appropriately describes what belongs to the character’s personal capabilities. He will not be able to reverse the painfully slow Bildensturm of Negligence & Foolishness, yet he would certainly think himself capable of defying devastation by praising, preaching, and practicing creativity. And that should suffice, for devastation is hanging by a thread.

Let creativity be our god, and communication our angels. Let our voices be heard because we create, not because we destroy, or there will be no-one left to listen. Let us create, for there is nothing left to destroy. Let us create!

– IG Karfield


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