Manifesto Page #3

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He adds to the

facts of the world.

Born in nature's breast, new

facts, born in his head...

A poem, a painting, a statue,

a steamer, a car, a plane...

We must create.

That's the sign of our times.

Impose aesthetic limits.

Create art from

one's own abilities.

Don't reincorporate old

values, but create anew.

The past, we are leaving

behind us as carrion.

The future, we leave

to the fortunetellers.

We take the present day.

No more retrospection.

No more futurism.

Everyone's silent open

mouths miraculously

illuminated by the vertiginous

light of the present.

Unique and

electronically sensitized

to the upwardly moving eye.

Forever renewed, yet

forever the same.

Let us honor the avant garde.

Let us love our

unparallelled century.

Our egotism is now supreme,

our confidence unswerving.

Swabbing In my

glorious isolation,

lam illuminated by the marvelous

incandescence of my

electrically charged nerves.

A great era has

begun, the spiritual awakening.

The increasing tendency

to regain lost balance.

The inevitable necessity

of spiritual plantings.

We are standing at the threshold

of one of the greatest epochs

that mankind has

ever experienced.

The epoch of great spirituality.

Art, literature, even exact

science are in various stages

of change in this new era.

They will all be overcome by it.

We are freeing ourselves

of the impediments

of memory, association,

nostalgia, legend, and myth.

We are creating images whose

reality is self-evident,

both sublime and beautiful.

Instead of making cathedrals

out of Christ, man, or life,

we are making them

out of ourselves,

out of our own feelings.

The sublime is now now

picturesque or amusing

for the sentimentalist,

or the romantic.

And the rich are boors,

without exception.

Oh yes, yes.

Good point.

I think it's time.

Ladies and gentlemen, long

live the great art vortex.

Thank you, Darling.

Our vortex is not

afraid of the past.

Well, in fact, it's

forgotten its existence.

With our vortex, the present

is the only active thing.

Life is the past and the future,

but the present is ought.

We stand for the

reality of the present.

Not for the sentimental future,

or for the past.

Now in their gush over

machines and airplanes,

et cetera, the

futurists, for instance,

are, at present, the most

romantic and sentimental

of the so-called moderns.

Now we don't want to go

about making a big hullabaloo

over, you know, motorcars,

any more than knives and forks

or elephants or gas pipes.

I mean, elephants are

very big, and cars

go very fast, but so what?

We want to leave

nature and man alone.

We need the unconsciousness

of humanity,

their stupidity,

their animalism,

and of course, their dreams.

The art instinct is

permanently primitive.

So, thank you all

so very, very much.

Raise your glass.

Yes.

Thank you for all

your support, Darling.

I really appreciate it.

Back from Hanover?

Or was it Lisbon'?

Oh, Darling.

So lovely to see you.

Oh.

Oh, Darling.

Thank you.

Thank you.

Thank you.

I'm for an art, for a pocket

from deep channels of the ear,

from the edge of the

knife, from the corners

of the mouth, stuck in the

eye, or worn on the wrist.

I'm for an art that you can kiss

like a pet dog, which expands

and squeaks like an accordion,

which you can spill your dinner

on like an old tablecloth.

I'm for the white art

of refrigerators and the

muscular openings and closings.

I am for the art of hearts,

funeral hearts, and sweetheart

hearts, full of nougat.

I'm for the art of

teddy bears and guns,

exploding umbrellas,

burning trees, fire

cracker ends, chicken

bones, and boxes

with men sleeping in them.

No to spectacle.

No to virtuosity.

No to transformations of

magic and make-believe.

No the blunder and

transendency of the star image.

No to the heroic.

No to the anti-heroic.

No to trash imagery.

No to involvement of

performer or spectator.

No to style.

I swear that b*tch loses

a hundred sequins a night.

Mm hmm.

I've been getting blisters

putting those things back on.

Yeah.

Did you see Jessie's top?

No.

You mean the pink one'?

No to camp.

No.

Not on this side.

Check the wardrobe on the left.

OK.

No to seduction of spectator

by the wiles of the performer.

I cannot wait for

this season to be over.

- I tell you.

- Why's that?

No to eccentricity.

It is working deep down..

Julian, in line.

Fall in line.

No to moving or being moved.

And lift.

Is on the beat, on the beat.

And lift, lift.

No, they're too slow.

On the beat.

Lift together on the beat.

Flat hands.

Flat hands.

No, this is too slow.

That's too slow.

OK.

Life is an artwork

and the artwork is life.

The more we know, the less we

understand, the better it is.

I welcome whatever happens next.

Fluxus is a way of doing things

and a way of life and death.

Fluxus is inside you.

It is part of how you are.

Fluxus is bigger than you.

Fluxus has made an art of

nothing and vice versa.

No, he's in the wrong position.

Again, in the wrong position.

Fluxus

makes absolutely no sense.

Fluxus hasn't even

taken place yet.

Fluxus is a pain in art's ass.

Purge the world of

intellectual, professionalism

and commercialized culture.

Purge the world of dead art.

Imitation art.

Artificial art.

Abstract art.

Illusionistic art.

Mathematical art.

Promote non art reality to

be grasped by all peoples,

no, no, no, not

just the critics.

Dilettantes, professionals.

Promote a revolutionary

flood and tide in art.

Promote living art,

anti-art, anti-art.

The love and imagination.

What I most like in you

is your unsparing quality.

The mere word freedom is the

only one that still excites me.

Among all the many misfortunes

to which we are heir,

we are at least

allowed the greatest

degree of freedom of thought.

Imagination alone offers me

some intimation of what can be.

And this is enough to devote

myself to it without fear

of making a mistake.

We are still living

under the reign of logic.

The absolute rationalism

that is still in vogue

allows us to consider

only facts relating

directly to our experience.

Under the pretense of

civilization and progress,

we have managed to

banish from the mind

any kind of search for truth

which is not in conformance

with accepted practices.

From man's birth

until his death,

thought offers no

solution of continuity.

Yet a part of our mental world

has finally been brought back

to light, the dream.

An ordinary observer

attaches so much

more importance to waking

events than to those

occurring in dreams.

Thus the dream finds itself

reduced to a mere parenthesis,

as is the night.

When will we have

sleeping magicians,

sleeping philosophers?

I would like to sleep in

order to surrender myself

to the dreamers,

in order to stop

imposing, in this realm, the

conscious rhythm of my thought.

Can't the dream also

be used in solving

the fundamental

questions of life?

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