Question remains
Stringed guitars,
Soaked-up bars,
Gyros on the tar –
We’re far from getting anywhere.
Fortunately, the Seine is right there.
Sun shining on the Dame’s bricks,
Clochards selling paintings.
Guards letting tourists do their
Iconoclastic thing;
Mêmes les concièrges

Where is all of this going?

Seemingly, the ketchup faced,
Happy hour cocktail drinking drunkards
Care about the beauty that surrounds them;
Invested thirty-two Euros in order to
Whore around from the Louvre to the Pompidou
And back backwards. Again.
But really, how far will they get
With all that grease and alcohol in their heads?

Strung out guitars,
Re-opening bars,
Faces on the tar.
I’ve lost my museum pass –
Do you know where it is?
Do you know where we are?
All I know is I’m falling in
The footsteps of Belmondo,
Godard, and Seberg;
Mêmes les concièrges.

French intermezzo: FIRST FEARSOME FEW

First fearsome few
A vision of the Pompidou
Blasted out of sight.
Reminds of days when Adolf
Thought to have seen the light.
When insecurity gains power,
What will be our fate?
In the end it will surely kill itself,
But won’t it be too late?
Won’t its actions meet the streets
Just as it wipes them clean;
Won’t these actions clear the memory
Of the beauty that we’ve seen?
I fear the worst…

French rhyme: NO BEGINNING

No beginning
The traveler’s tree is
A bookstore I’ve seen.
Been wanting to meet
With Hemingway and his team.
His words should be here founded,
The cobblestones tell me.
Seller of trees hasn’t
The faintest idea.
Raindrops wipe footsteps clean
And earnest.
His words should be here founded,
No doubt in my mind;
Even the blind can see
The magic of culture,
Hiding between real life
And the next.
Too bad they can’t share their
Vision on facebook.
A canvas, sure,
But a blog would be better…

The age makes for the fantasy –
Hemingway’s right there.
His hair much shorter,
Much more acne,
Yet the signs cannot be missed.
This must be the great man’s tavern,
Although surrounded by ten more:
Place de la Contrescarpe
Home to talking boulders.
The pen I’m using for this record,
This futile seeming account,
Does as it pleases, leaving me
A liar homeward bound.
It won’t be coming out tonight,
That record-breaking piece,
L’oeuvre poétique that will
Savor what we seek.
…And Hemingway is gone…

An intoxicated fool cries:

Art, art, art,
Your genius resounds –
An artist’s heart pounds
In the streets.
Wee-ooh, wee-ooh…
But when those sonic waves
Will wade and fade under
Diplomatic pressure,
Not laissez-faire but
Disrespectful leisure,
There’ll be no-one left to meet.
Beards will we beards,
And wine will be weird,
As history repeats itself
And the artist genius flees.

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…

ANNOUNCEMENT: Reflections on the Creativity Crisis for Real Humans

A lifetime ago, about several months, this loose figure figured he would go worldwide on us, and spam us with his words on the wonderful. Wanted to write about art, artists, and artistry, before it would all be blown away by the storm of Negligence and Foolishness that is headed in human kind’s way. So we stepped in and offered him a ride on this thing in reality, we told him, that we call a blog. An enthusiastic start (see the mission statement, entry one) soon near-died to become a digital carcass that could only be brought back to life by some magical whirlwind.

There were indeed some hitches along the road. But tonight at midnight, IG Karfield will finally be read. And magic in the form of unfounded madness has swept by.

If you love art, and don’t mind a few inspired lines of incoherent psychobabble about European art on a (nearly) daily basis, please subscribe to this nifty nutter’s blog by entering your email address under the title ‘Spam from a Poet,’ and find a new entry of prose or poetry in your mailbox every 36 hours or so.

For those of you that have been patiently awaiting this moment here announced, we thank you for your perseverance and appreciation of the romantic nature of this writer of wrights…out of nowhere, and hope that you will find what you have been waiting for.

Spearhead art editor

Word from the unworld

We’ve just received a telegram from the writer, in which he explains that he unfortunately hasn’t been able to update us regularly on his findings during his journey through Europe. On one hand, there is the problem of having to adapt to our modern forms of communication; as stated above, Mr. Karfield uses telegrams, etc. to reach us.
A more fundamental issue, however unexpected, is a sort of linguistic, existentential crisis as he explains in the following writing he sent us by air mail:

More quiet than the lights can tell,
I sip on my liquor and spell out
Words that even ants can read.
English not my native tongue indeed,
But Dutch crawls underneath my skin;
To explain my disgust I cannot begin.
Don’t get me wrong, there’s plenty works
That proves the language is for clerks
To spend their lives on copying;
To reproduce for kids to read,
Or ants, in so far as they please.
And even greater works of art
Have been created in the Northern parts
Of the lower, darker, starker lands of Europe,
Two boarders up from France.
And that’s the key precisely, the creator.
Masterpieces, see you later.
See you when your father rises –
To Adam, God held no surprises.
But Eve was appalled to hear of fruits,
And how their juices changed her roots.
She had to lure him into odd behavior,
Hoping he would be her savior.
Hoping he would come to bless her,
After he set out to test her.
An inherent contradiction here,
But Eve could never see so clear;
What God had made her for to do,
Like poems in Dutch by me and you:
To suffer from the well known source
That, since our birth, has been our force.
Yet somehow, we just can’t seem to cope.

Since Mr. Karfield has always written in his own, undefined language, there is reason to believe that this crisis may be the result of a severe case of homesickness. Please remember that his first steps into the real world are an experiment, and one of a spontaneous nature. Where Mr. Karfield comes from, a Tower of Babel type of incident hasn’t occurred, and having to choose a language to write in is novel to the writer. We do hope you will appreciate or at least respect this, and together with us can find the patience to await his correspondence concerning the stated mission.
It might just be so that his first writings, by now, are well underway. It is also probable that Mr. Karfield has long finished his journey through the cultural real world, and is on his way back home. However, from the telegram and air letter we received we can only deduct that he has thus far visited the following places; in this order:
Paris, France;
Montpellier, France;
Barcelona, Spain;
Figueres, Spain;
Marseille, France;
Rome, Italy;
Athens, Greece.

We, as much as you hopefully, would like to have received some poems or short stories by this time. Yet we do need to keep in mind the writer’s fundementally different nature as a fictitious being. We will do our very best to update this site again, or have Mr. Karfield update it himself, as soon as possible.

Thank you for your interest, and hopefully we will receive more of your subscription requests in the next weeks.

Pax et ars

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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