Manifesto Page #4

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Is the dream any

less restrictive

or punitive than the rest'?

The mind of the man who dreams

is fully satisfied by what

happens to him.

Look at children.

They set off each day

without a worry in the world.

Everything is near at hand.

The Worst material

conditions are fine.

The woods are white or black.

One will never sleep.

Dashing down into the

street, pistol in hand,

firing blindly as

fast as you can.

Pull the trigger into the crowd.

Kill, fly faster.

Love to your heart's content.

Let yourself be carried along.

And if you should die, are you

not certain of re-awakening

among the dead'?

I believe in the future

resolution of these two states,

dream and reality, into a

kind of absolute reality,

a surreality.

Reason does not create.

In creating shapes,

it is subordinate

to the subconscious.

The subconscious... that

magnificent well of images

perceived by the mind...

Harbors the notion that

makes up man's nature.

The subconscious

shapes, composes

and transforms the individual.

I believe in the

pure joy of the man

who sets off from

whatever point he chooses,

along any other path...

Save a reasonable one...

And arrives wherever he can.

Farewell to absurd choices,

the dreams of the dark abyss,

to rivalries that

prolonged patience.

Farewell to the

flight of the seasons,

the artificial order of

ideas, to the ramp of danger,

to time for everything.

May you only take the

trouble to practice poetry.

This summer, the roses are blue.

The wood is of glass.

The earth, draped in

its verdant cloak,

makes as little impression

upon me as a ghost.

It is living, and

ceasing to live,

which are just

imaginary solutions.

Existence is elsewhere.

Maintenance is a drag, you know?

It takes all the f***ing time.

Clean your desk.

Wash the dishes.

Clean the floor.

Wash your clothes.

Wash your toes.

Change the baby's diaper.

Finish the report.

Correct the typos.

Mend the fence.

Keep the customer happy.

Throw out the stinking garbage.

Watch out you don't put

things in your nose.

What shall I wear?

I have no socks.

Pay the bills.

Save the sting.

Wash your hair.

Change the sheets.

Go to the store.

Say it again.

Go to work.

Clear the table.

Call him again.

Flush the toilet.

Stay young-

Now, I will simply do these

maintenance, every day things,

and flush them up to

consciousness as art.

Everything I say is art, is art.

Everything I do is art, is art.

Everybody.

Everybody, please.

I demand the principle of

equal rights for all materials.

Equal rights for

able-bodied people.

Idiots, whistling, wire

netting, and thought pumps.

Take gigantic surfaces.

Cloak them in color and

shift them menacingly.

Bend the drilling part of

the void infinitely together.

Paste smoothing surfaces

over one another.

Make lines fight and caress one

another in generous tenderness.

Flaming lines, creeping

lines, surfacing lines.

Let points burst like

stars among them,

and dance the whirling round.

I demand the total

inclusion of all materials,

from double track welders

to 3/4 inch violins.

Even people can be used.

I demand the complete

mobilization of the forces

- to create a total work of art.

- Over.

You have five minutes.

Go.

GO, go! go! 90'.

None of them shine.

Go.

Go.

My directions of aquatic giants.

I'm for regular priced art.

Spend less art.

Eat better art.

Ham art.

Pork art.

Chicken an.

Tomato art.

Banana art.

Apple art.

Turkey art.

Cake art.

Cookie an.

I am for an art

that is come down,

and that is hung from each ear,

that is shaved from the legs,

that is brushed on the teeth,

that is fixed on the thighs,

and that has

slipped on the foot.

Square which becomes blobby.

Darling, could

you help me carve?

Thank you, Alice.

Robert, would you

serve the vegetables?

Well, the

weather's fine outside,

so I think you boys could

play ball after lunch.

Martin, can you east your

greens, please, Sweetheart?

Ideas can be works of art.

In conceptual art, the idea...

Or concept... is the most

important aspect of the work.

When an artist uses a

conceptual form of art,

it means that all of the

planning and decisions

are made beforehand,

and the execution

is a perfunctory affair.

The idea becomes a machine

that makes the art.

This kind of art

is not theoretical,

or illustrative of theories.

It is intuitive,

and is purposeless.

No matter what form the work

of art may finally have,

it must begin with an idea.

What it looks like

isn't so important.

It is the process of

conception and realization

with which the

artist is concerned.

Once given physical

reality by the artist,

the work is open

to the perception

of all, including the artist.

Remote unit,

are you guys out there?

Can you get on that?

Number 1, in please.

You don't think

I'm a little shiny?

Just a little.

A little bit to the right.

There's a little bit of

glare off-stage left.

Thanks, guys.

And we're in 20.

Cate, you ready news desk?

Yeah.

Here we go, guys.

Let's get our truth faces on.

And 9, 8, 7, 6, 5, 4, 3, 2.

Good evening,

ladies and gentlemen.

All current art is fake.

Not because it is copy,

appropriation, simulacra,

or imitation, but because

it lacks the crucial push

of power, guts, and passion.

All of man is fake.

All of man is false.

Not only because he cheats

and lies with charming ease,

and hates and kills

with determined speed,

but also because man's new

cyber form is man as god.

Speed is over time and place.

Speed is power.

Speed permits misinformation,

disorients time and place,

and is a fierce and

uncompromising ruler.

Our obsession with

high speed leaves

no time or place for return.

It is now already too late.

And today is yesterday with

its memory already lost.

Cate, how can we go forward

when action is to watch action?

When the eyes are

locked in a fixed gaze?

When knowledge

becomes information?

When words are stumbling

blocks and have

lost their representation?

When discourse is opinion?

When you don't have

to know anything,

and you think you

know everything?

When to reflect is

gazing in the mirror?

When to contemplate is, well,

thinking about yourself?

Cate?

Well, Cate, perhaps

this could all

be dealt with if man was

not facing a black hole,

the realization that

his absolute function,

his primary sense of being,

has been snatched from him.

Now, man was once the original.

He held and contained

a certain authenticity.

But now, all of that

is dead and finished.

So man is disposable

and dispensable.

And what about art?

I mean, can it hold

up these harsh blows?

Cate?

Well, certainly not, Cate.

For art is what surrounds you.

Now, art does not come from

nowhere, or, for that matter,

anywhere.

So creativity does

not pop into the head.

Now there are grounds...

Forces, powers... that

create and make art

a hazardous journey

of leaps, crevices,

errors, daring and courage.

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