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Johnny Noiπ Aug 2018
Already, a conscious courage is coming to life.
Here are some of the painters: Picasso, Braque,
Delaunay, Le Fauconnier; they are highly enlightened,
& do not believe in the stability of any system,
even if it were to call itself classical art.
Their reason is poised between the pursuit
of the fleeting and a mania for the eternal.
Quote of Jean Metzinger Note sur la Peinture (1910)
[the Cubist painters who]              continued to paint objects motionless, frozen, &                                                   all the static aspects of Nature;
they worship the traditionalism of                  w:Poussin, of w:Ingres, of Corot,     ageing & petrifying their art
      with an obstinate attachment to the past,
      which to our eyes remains totally incomprehensible;
                            Is it indisputable that several aesthetic
declarations of our French comrades
[the Cubists in Paris] display
a sort of masked academicism.
It is not, indeed, a return to
the Academy to declare that
the subject, in painting, has
a perfectly insignificant value?
To paint from the posing model
as an absurdity, and an act of
mental cowardice, even if the model
be translated upon the picture in linear,
spherical and cubic forms;
Quotes by Boccioni in his text
of 'Les exposants au public' - exh.
Cat. Galerie Bernheim-Jeune,                      February 1912, pp. 2, 3
Get all the information you can about the Cubists,
                 & about Georges Braque and Pablo Picasso. Go to Kahnweilers' art gallery. And if he's got photos of recent works –
                              produced after I left -,
buy one or two. Bring us the Futurists in Italy,
like Boccioni himself;                          back all the information you can get.
Quote of Boccioni,                                in a letter to Gino Severini,
staying in Paris in the Summer of 1911;                     as quoted in Futurism,
ed. Didier Ottinger; Centre Pompidou /
5 Continents Editions, Milan, 2008, p. 27.
We [the Futurists] must smash,
demolish and destroy our traditional harmony,
which makes us fall into a 'gracefullness'
created by timid and sentimental cubs
[this denigrating word refers to the French Cubists].
Quote by Boccioni in his 'Sculptural Manifesto' of 1912;
as quoted in Futurism, ed. By Didier Ottinger;
Centre Pompidou / 5 Continents Editions, Milan, 2008                    Is it indisputable that several aesthetic declarations
of our French comrades the Cubists display a sort of masked
academicism;   It is not, indeed, a return to the Academy
   to declare that the subject, in painting,
        has a perfectly insignificant value?
To paint from the posing model as an absurdity,
& an act of mental cowardice, even if the model
be translated upon the picture in linear,
                    spherical and cubic forms;
Quote of Boccioni, in 'Les exposants au public' - exh. Cat. Galerie Bernheim-Jeune, February 1912 pp. 2, 3.
The square is not a subconscious form.
It is the creation of intuitive reason. The face of the new art.
The square is a living, regal infant. The first step of pure creation in art.
Quote of Kazimir Malevich,
in 'From Cubism and Futurism to Suprematism: The New Realism in Painting' (November 1916)
Unless we are to condemn all modern painting,
we must regard cubism as legitimate, for it continues modern methods,
& we should see in it the only conception
of pictorial art now possible.
In other words, at this moment cubism is painting.

Quote of Albert Gleizes, Jean Metzinger,
in Du "Cubisme", Edition Figuière, Paris, 1912
(First English edition: Cubism, T. Fisher Unwin, London, 1913)
To understand Cézanne is to foresee Cubism.
Henceforth we are justified in saying that
between this school and previous manifestations
there is only a difference of intensity,
& that in order to assure ourselves
of this we have only to study the methods
of this realism, which, departing from the superficial
reality of Courbet, plunges with Cézanne
into profound reality, growing luminous
as it forces the unknowable to retreat.
Quote of Albert Gleizes, Jean Metzinger,
Du "Cubisme", Edition Figuière, Paris, 1912 (First English edition: Cubism, T. Fisher Unwin, London, 1913)
Mateuš Conrad Mar 2016
i've learnt that the greatest
prompt and subsequent
impromptu to yet another poem
is to be constantly dissatisfied
with one's output,
because there's hardly a solemn
care for so little with so much
intent: prose writers are due
respect for hammering
so many little and big words into
novels with an odd flash of
poetic genius, poets are always
left dissatisfied because of this,
their open-plan scribbles are
the compensation odes to the bulk
of bulging plotted out scenarios
of fiction - i too wish i had the
capacity to write so much, bound
by 21 volumes of a Dickens or a Balzac,
but whereas they have their endless
stream of words and compensate
very little in terms of poetic economics,
i can:

                              do this


    do that

                                             and revel

    in the blank trimmings

                                             of a rim


    of a canvas:                    
                                                 with each dispute

    the white, the snow

                                            grin of defeat;

or like the chinese poets said: haiku yin-yang

                 the poem must be,

                     less mechanism of anything,

more association of mechanisms as you elsewhere;


      well less art more ****: make each poem

a yin-yang assimilation - x-ray the renaissance paintings

    and the impressionists, and the still-life

painters and the cubists and realists and the pre-raphaelites...
Alessander Jul 2016
Your childhood dream
Your teenage dream
Your 20s dream
Your 30s dream
Your 40s dream
Your 50s dream

Measure them in decades
Transfixed before a distorted hall of mirrors

A cycling fun-house

While presidents come and go
Parachute pants, bomber jackets, bangs

When you’re drifting off to sleep
What feeling awakens in your heart?

What small feet run across your translucent landscapes
Cubists blocks of what might have been

Twisting , reforming…, parallax

Like Etcher in motion, Inception

Dark cities floating overhead while eclipses burn red

Do your hands tremble with rage or with despair?

Or do you lie perfectly still, resigned

Practicing for your casket

Selfies of your head sinking into starched pillows

You’re responsible now

Clerks and coroners pat you on the back

The least you can be is responsible

Hunting down dreams in dreary forests
With bow knives and bandanas

Is foolish

Better to fill out your W2s

Calculate your interest and help with homework

Don’t be selfish


Let others burning with madness, desire and discontent

Dream for you

Shape the future for you

Preferable to be content

An anti-pioneer   To Nest in paperclips and razors

Satisfied with consolation prizes, Ms. Congeniality

To sink silently down the toilet of trivialities
Floating listlessly like a ****
Flushed out into the polluted ocean of time

But let us not dwell on dreams

Let us drill, let us dance, let us down

Korean BBQ and snap-shot sunsets

Never mind the shadows swirling

Through you, deepening with every tock

Civilization calls  - You must be integrated.

Not like days of yore

On the hunt

But wrenched into a mechanical maelstrom

Input into a coded vision

An alien incubator zooming through metallic tubes


You are an app

Of Aborted dreams

Of pragmatic passiveness
  

Fingered by millions of strangers

To **** time and hope
whatever comes to mind

#
Taite A Feb 2011
what if you were the architect
and i was just the dreamer, dissociative,
passing seamlessly through the clumsiest portions
of someone’s mind

and we were both cubists
kissing ourselves when we were
supposed to be in love

the confusion came easily when i
in your eyes was no different from you
and a talk was the same as a touch

if you were standing in my way i
could always step around you and thus
be right back where i started with my hands
always on my own throat, always
irinia Feb 2017
portraits in sepia crowding the table
no mirror path, no sugar
we drink our coffee black
deserted roads are blossoming in our eyes
under the table - disgust
some well disguised hatred
dinner is never served
cause the cubists reinvented the atom
I stay by the window counting widow-days
wondering
how many motherless women
can teach their children what to say
to the never day
Mateuš Conrad Mar 2016
that's nice, mm, that's nice,
cover it up, keeping up appearances,
let's smooth it over, butter it up,
mm, slimy pistons moving
easily greased? indeed, for someone
who is to master the names of
many things, you seem overly
concerned over-using pronouns,
so you can't get coordinates,
you're abstracting basically,
smoothing things out, you're the easiest
to spot abstracting via a censor methodology,
i know you're not a philosopher
a snake eating its own tail with verbiage
of having thought out so much you
could claim to be a miner, but buckling
to a pancaked face when told to do rhetoric...
they really really do want to steal that
page from your hands, it's not a set-list,
you're supposed to be a trained monkey,
white paper and stages don't work
unless they're hidden...
but **** me, eroding your memory like that,
you must really love your work
to remember it like prayers...
i don't get it, politicians get away with it,
it's not heartfelt, it's autocued...
poetics promo... but why is it promo (reveal),
so abstracting means revealing?
i thought it was more like hiding something
and getting caught *******...
poetics occulto? so which is it, abstracting
is a way of revealing something or hiding something?
i mean, overusing pronouns and not engaging
in proper noun usage seems a bit futile
in a multicultural scenario of cubists using
african face masks for inspiration, excessive bloom
of lips and nose sharpened by the artists's eyes
into needle thin contorts - africans don't like
things being bouncy and bubbly... they like sticks
it would seem.
Mateuš Conrad Dec 2015
write and you will see azure or aquamarine in blue, and as man is almost hue blind in order to make him a decent painter (even though his technique came from the raphaelite school, it’s undermined by childish endeavour of the cubists), so too woman is blind to forms and makes her an adequate child of virginia woolf; i concede, the delicacy of sushi and the subsequent frailty of the tongue is epitomised by complex layring of letters to avoid stressors above, below or in them (theta), and this frailty is no more apparent than now... among the english-speaking youth; why? they have an outlet... the internet... i didn’t have that in my youth... the only outlet i had was in thought.
Charles Sturies Oct 2018
Designs like the cubists do
Or the calculus involved in Andy Warhol's
Campbell's tomato soup can
You my new imaginary lover, Cady C
can slip down the ladder of one art
Work to another
Letting your nice skirt
And nice feminine deodorant
Smell in the cool breezes of summer
Glancing at your female
Wristwatch , blowing me a cart
Of kisses beside the hallucination
Of Judy Garland as Dorothy in the
Wizard of Oz movies on a tree swing
And land with dark legs
On the planet earth.
Ovrtey
They're see later men
*** Calleome curly.
Bruce Levine Jul 2018
The Renaissance
The Enlightenment
The Baroque
The Romanesque
The Classical
The Neo-classical
The Romantics
The Avant-Garde
The Dark Ages
The Middle Ages
The Federalists
The Philanthropists
The Modernists
The Cubists
The Minimalists
The Impressionists
The Imperialists
The Rationalists
The Surrealists
The Transcendentalists
The Gilded Age
The Industrial Age
The Golden Age
The Space Age
The Age of Reason
The Age of Mediocrity
Johnny Noiπ May 2018
If I could move backwards in time from snooch to snooch
Until the I reached the beginning of time,
The beginning of all snooch, the very first snooch,
What would I see when I emerged from it?
Would I see that past star filled night
Or would I see the sun newly blazing—
Will she see a delicious **** made of metal
Newly emerged from space
Between her hairy thighs,
Will she be fat or skinny, having never eaten but how—
Anorexic flies buzzing around thriving on what oxygen—
Would Jehovah be waiting there for me with a beer?
Will her cross be made of electric diamonds?
Girl in a business suit dining like a cat
While I sit smoking my pipe in space—
Loving her like I love the sun I **** your mother on videotape
My world is an extraordinary machine,
The American nun who was an angel
Fillating me to seventh heaven was only eighteen,
Blinded by the sky’s mask of flesh—
I hear ***** scratching at the door,
Her rubbery lips delicious like hot sausage—
Death is no reason not to **** her,
The British **** their dead all the time, the queen is dead—
He paints huge squares of paper and sells them framed
Or rolled or cut up into rough squares—
They are like flags of nonexistent nations—
The Chinese Barnett Newman,
I say Chinese and not Han deliberately,
Because Baudelaire wasn’t impressed by blondes—
The Impressionists followed Delacroix
And the Cubists followed Cezanne,
The Expressionists followed Van Gogh
And the Minimalists followed the Abstract Expressionists,
I would **** an old woman in the mouth
If she gave me twenty dollars—
Then I would write a poem about her—
Called “Portrait of the artist as a young sadist”,
And it would be all about her ***** feet and sagging *******,
The lines on her face and her candy colored ****
As tight as a little girl’s—
As if I could move backwards in time from **** to ****
Until I reached the beginning of time, the motherless ur-****—
That is the beginning of all snooch, the first snooch
Before which there was no snooch—

— The End —