Tag Archives: art

I – PROPHETESS


I – Prophetess!
I wade onto the devils’ blasphemy
Chiseled inside
The womb of the Sphinx
Where dead Oedipus
Murders father-Chronos
Tied to the flute of Pan
from which the
(un)maker Logos
does not reach.
I – Prophetess!
Mock the cross
And the Chosen Ones
Beaten ribs
His saint-peter-esque
Descendents of the new
Tower of Babylon that quarters
Unborn children.
I – Prophetess!
I urinate into Lethe
Scattered in the heads
Of Pandora’s bastards
I kiss the wound of Caesar
As predicted by Genesis.

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The Artists


‘I’ve carefully gone through your text of Wagner, madam. Quite passionate, a tour de force. This is precisely why I don’t call myself a Wagnerian, you will permit me (I hope) to provide some of my critical input.’

Mary Lynne allowed herself a minute smile and crossed her legs at the table.

The man tried his hardest not to look at her lovely, thin legs.

‘You start the text off strong, with a title that cuts to the chase, that doesn’t wander. The readers think that you will…that you’ll…’ His frowning face softened. ‘As early as the first, then the second paragraph to expand upon, to provide arguments to the qualification you laid…laid out, oh dear, I’m losing myself…in the title, yeah, that’s the word, IN THE TITLE! He gathered his wits for a second and started banging his head on the table – and yet nothing.’

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Vincent D’Onofrio (Cholo) with Mathilda May (Stephanie) in the movie Naked Tango the end of the film.

https://www.etsy.com/il-en/listing/276627324/black-and-white-nude-acrylic-painting

‘You say that he bullied his colleagues, and also that you cannot cite a single example, because there is nothing written, or disclosed. Funny, one would wonder: where did the daring claim come from that the man was a witnessed sadist when there are neither examples nor evidence of this? ’

The man extended his hands towards her. ‘Oh, Maryyyy…I will strangle youuuuu! With a wire string, dude!’

The man panicked. He grabbed her throat. He screamed. ‘I’m panicking! I’m panicking! I have to jump!’

And he jumped at her mumbling how truly unhappy he is.

‘Look at her, how easily she gives herself to me! You are no longer so prideful! Get yourself up you low-browed dunce! Oh if only a wind could blow right now to lift your skirt up, and here I am having to put up the effort, they’ll even call this rape!’

‘And it would’ve been romantic’ Mary Lynne said coquettishly.

‘Right, like in Tannhäuser. Sing to me, sing to me, be my…Wilhelmina Schroeder!’

‘Is that like Venus?’

He lifted her leg in lieu of responding as if he were ploughing a field. He flung it over his left shoulder.

Venus sang.

‘Do forgive me never more will IIIIIIIII

Come to me if fortune’s what you seeeeeeeek’

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Sophie Koch as Venus in Tannhäuser

‘My fortune…’ He uttered between heavy panting and then flung her left leg over his right shoulder (where the other one went, he wasn’t sure). ‘My fortune lies in Mary!’

And he added:

‘I also think that the text would have had more impact if Hitler hadn’t been mentioned. What, there’s no bloody way that Stalin, who was none the lesser a monster and a murderer than Hitler, didn’t love Glinka or Borodin, or more likely Mussorgsky. That does not mean that these composers were vile men. There is a sizable possibility that Idi Amin loved Tartini or Paganini, why not. There are counterexamples as well. Beethoven loved Napoleon for years, he even devoted ‘Eroica’  to him, after which he got disappointed, gave up on Bonaparte.’

‘There.’ Mary said, after an explosive finish a la Eroica. ‘Now, will we do some Wilhelm Friedman for me, sweet lover?’

‘Start!’ With Mary’s dress at an arm’s reach, he quickly put on a dress and made-up and groomed in a manga style he lifted his hairy legs up high, swearing that the Cliven depilatory cream was not handy.

‘You know how much I care for hygiene!’ He wept.

‘Cold waxing is the best with the Tiger tire glue.’ She smiled. ‘Now have a listen…’

‘Oof…’

Between Expressions by Hamish Blakely

‘Wilhelm Friedman was spat upon to the point of pain. A boozehound died poor…(SIGHING) They then admit that he was the greatest instrumentalist of his age. The dude hit the clavier, not a single person could challenge him. A biography that on the surface looks like the buckish bios of notable rock musicians. Oy vey, there was a movie as well, I think the title of it is, in fact, Wilhelm Friedman, where he, apparently, suffers and struggles (SHE SIGHS LOUDER AND MORE PASSIONATELY) as a gifted son of a well-known father. The catch is that his father was nowhere near as noteworthy when Friedman was playing, and his problem was neither living in his father’s nor in his brother’s shadow (Mozart said about Carl Philip Emanuel: ‘He is the father, we are all his children’ (OH GOD!!!!), which reckless historians transposed as Mozart talking about Bach, and he didn’t.) (BOTH SIGH AND MOAN), but with all those flies, fleas and planktons that make up life and make up us humans, like a living organism, dead center in that life itself. Leopold Mozart, Wolfgang’s pops, picturesquely and colloquially described the habitus of Friedman Bach. ‘A remarkable musician, an unrivalled composer, but a heavy, heavy drinker.’’

He was panting. ‘I love Händel a lot. I have some undocumented version of his Water Music, therefore I do not know either who performed it or when, and the version is, just, it’s the balls, it tears ass… I listened to various different versions, but most of them are shit, can’t even come close to what I have. Händel and Telemann, by the way, I view as bigger composers than Bach. ’

Lars von Trier’s Antichrist was playing in the background during all of this. An erect phallus added to the magic and romance of the two. Candles were too much with all of these other stimuli. At the peak of arousal, they were slapping each other, arguing which composer is better.

antichrist

‘Boozehound, spendthrift, died poor, boozehound, spe…e…eh, dear husband, I think that will do for the evening.’

And while he was putting on man’s clothing, Mary Lynne sang Messiaen: Turangalîla-Symphony (Joie du sang des étoiles) in front of the mirror, the director of the Artist’s Trilogy Ron Gabe Bonester went upsy-daisy and with a ‘Camera, cut!’ he marked the end of the shoot.

‘I gave you too much freedom! None of that was in the script!’ He paused for thought. ‘Now you, kid, get Mary a gun to blow your brains out!’

The actress went upstart. ‘That wasn’t the deal!’

Bonester shouted in response to this. ‘Nobody questions my authority! For two hours behind that there…glass compartment…the Australian minister of culture is sitting and waiting for the script which will present his arduous devotions at the Art Conference focusing on non-profit management. Our country cannot develop economically without innovation in that particular field. And education! Who do you think you are? Who bought me this Canon EOS 6D to shoot you guys? Get serious, woman, and continue the oral, along with Chopin and your husband.’

‘But…we are ARTISTS!’

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‘An overrated term. I do not exchange my ideas with the personnel. We directors laud a vibrant and growing creative economy!’

Then both He and She approached him and pounded him into the ground, while Bonester slid on the floor in his oversized suit.

‘Shall we continue where we left off?’

‘You mean…while the Minister Behind the Compartment observes?’

‘And then a gun to the head, like Romeo and Juliet. Or was it poison? But let’s not split hairs.’

‘That would probably be a mistake, but…as I said… we are artists, dear colleague, and a happy couple in Art. We cannot live on without the drama.’

‘And voyeurs,’ someone whispered, sat in a chair where the now unconscious director lay and followed this up with a thunderous applause.

Then the trio continued the show agreeing that the Husband should be given any old name.

Mary’s gaze flew up and she said: ‘He will be named Frederic. Like our unborn son.’

Nobody objected, therefore Frederic could begin.

The Minister, who physically reminded one of the head electricians, would record something with an expensive video camera. But under the condition that he played Chopin.

‘Bah bah, the Best Boy.’ Both send passionate kisses to him. Then, with an erotic play, they embraced.

‘Artists, such artists,’ mumbled the Mysterious Traveler, the Spectator, the Third Without Whom You Can’t Go On, from the artistic Kingdom of Heaven.

But Mary Lynne and Frederic were in their own world, wreathed in music and gifted with a gift worthy of the Gods.

The camera buzzed. Reflectors flashed.

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SCENE 25:

‘I’ve carefully gone through your text of Bach, madam. Quite passionate, a tour de force. This is precisely why I don’t call myself a Bachian, you will permit me (I hope) to provide some of my critical input.’

SCENE 26:

‘…as far as the Bach family is concerned, I love Wilhelm Friedman and Carl Philip Emanuel, they rule, each in their own way, but I dug up some other guys as well – for instance, Johann Bernhardt Bach is also excellent. In the classical era, Johann Christian Bach stood out. Imagine that wondrous family tree, this beast of a family, which branched out during a good hundred-and-so-year period, and bore nothing but interesting musical fruit. Crazy.’ (SCREAM)

CUT.

21st Century – Salieri’s revenge


In the 21st century music is no longer a friend of the muses. It has become a tool for “good” entertainment and for money -making exclusively, and those “goals” are the only criteria for its existence. Don’t even get me started on the visual arts and literature. (It’s tragic) The question remains: what is a writer (painter, musician) to do in such a climate, where even he is despised as a selfish, ridiculous creature who “lives in his/her own world” not having a clue about “real life”, the one whose art is mainly a cheap mask as an excuse for laziness (well, not all that cheap…)
It is irrational to think that art can be more than a hobby for a woman or a man unless it is eventually paid for. And in order to be paid, in cash or by credit card, it is necessary for you, my dear friend and colleague, to have a big shiny house and to be financially more than secure and possibly a lord or a count. Then all of it makes some sense! This is a typical relativization of a pondering mediocrity.
What to do? What could be done in a climate like this? The answer is: No matter what, the artists should refuse to listen to the shrill voice of this unhappy, materialistic, desolate era, removed from all of humanity. Their work must be done in silence, for the next who will accept it with a smile or refuse it with burst into laughter.

joshkutchai_salierisrevenge

Happy Birthday, Eva Green!


Metaphorical, picturesque written saga about personal demons, through the prism of the monsters of British and Irish fantasy in the dark, dirty, mysterious, dangerous, exciting, poetic and exceptional way, with a phenomenal atmosphere… but, “Penny Dreadful” is much more than that.
Eva Green has completely nailed her role. Transformations through which she has gone through are completely incredible showing her exceptional acting talent.
On several occasions, her performance was completely astonishing and if there was an Oscar for the main female role in the series, she would be without competition.

Writer


When you have stories, you always have your family. They will always be your priority. Your responsibility. And a writer… a writer writes. And he does it even when he’s not appreciated.. or respected… or even loved. He simply bears up,.. and he does it… because he’s writer.

www.facebook.com/leilasamarrai7

The signs along the path are the only thing left for you, “The darkness will understand”, Leila Samarrai


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You do not grasp – the spilled blood is chiming
From unveiling you wrongfully dread
In agony of you yourself
While we pine atop Grecian terraces.

Daughter
Still rivers are audible in endeavor
And at that conjoined

In mirrors is the road to land of dead
And worshippers of the chronometer
And the unachievable bloom of summer

Put the pigeon on the fire my daughter
We are going to satiate ourselves
Grasshoppers as well my daughter
Before they abandon us through the windows

I forefeel that the unreliable man
quiets his breath and embarks on the way
of Beauty, Ordinance and Wars

The signs along the path are the only thing left for you