Minus human
A recipe for masterpiece.
Take one dog. One living dog. Tie it inside an art gallery. Leave it there without food or water. Invite visitors, even place an entrance fee perhaps. Let the dog die. Call it art.
A Costa Rican scumbag, self-titled ‘artist’, has put this into practice. Some have claimed his work puts art’s limits into discussion. No, it puts humanity’s boundaries to the test. When can one be called a ‘human’? And for which reasons? For the mere possession of two arms and legs? For having opposable thumbs? It appears so…
The Neanderthal dog-slayer had the aberrantly sadistic idea of writing, with dog biscuits, ‘You are what you read’, on the wall behind the dying dog. People passed by, gazed at the macabre sight in front of them, saw the inscription on the wall, and nodded sagely. I’m pretty sure some remarks such as ‘He’s a genius’ have been uttered too in that slaughter gallery. Furthermore, the psychopath behind all this, Guillermo Vargas Habacuc, has been selected to represent his country in an international festival, subsequent to his despicable ‘exhibition’. No-one seemed to notice the sheer inhumanity and bestiality behind it all. Another ‘artist’ was widely praised some years ago for his photo of a crucifix submerged in urine… Taboos and rules may not be welcomed, but there is one rule which is a must – being human. Up to this extent can art be called art – having the inner obliging dignity of proving that more than a finger distinguishes you from an amoeba…
And the servants of the cross…
Everything’s wondrous if you live in Bucovina. If it’s a sacred edifice we’re talking about, then the description is surely hyperbolical. Sometimes it’s best not to approach the myth too carefully, and surely not critically… I went to the Humor Monastery, but to my surprise it was locked, although the wall’s door was open. Seeing me trying to enter the monastery, one of the nuns says to me: ‘It’s closed, but this one’s open’, pointing to a smaller church nearby. Seeing me falter, she said, as if she were advertising on TV: ‘Go in, we’ve got holy relics too’. I was expecting some offers and discounts – ‘Buy three candles, get one free!’ or ‘Pictures with the saint’s bones’, but none was presented. The Church needs to work on its marketing…
This happened several years ago. I was inside the famous, cliché-interred Voronet Monastery. While I was kneeling in front of the altar, the Mother Superior walks by me towards the stacidia where the choir would normally sit. I watched her surreptitiously slip her hand under the cushion on one of the armchairs. I didn’t quite get the gist of the gesture, as nothing seemed to be concealed by that pillow. Yet she had such a certain hand I was assured the divine empowered her. To my greatest awe and praise of the Lord, the nun drew from underneath the latest Metro catalog… Hallowed be cash&carry’s name…
Best before… Best?
A usual scene in the classroom – a game of cards. To chase away his boredom and to enhance mine, one of the players takes out his hi-tech mobile phone, mp3 included. So, a dull, syncopated and monotone rhythm floods the class. ‘House’, they called it. Or ‘trance’, or ‘drum ‘n bass’… My lack of (quasi-) musical culture is obvious in this domain.
Under these auspices I heard the following reaction of one of my classmates, some seconds after the song had started. ‘This song is sooo old’… It wasn’t the fact that the song could be recognised at all, and furthermore so easily, that bewildered me. No, what truly puzzled me was the age statement. ‘So old’ meant 6 months old.
To me it was a revelation. The axiological dimension of music is strictly perfunctory nowadays. Musical quality bears the stigma of ‘being fresh’. A sort of ‘best before’ label is attached to every trendy song. 3 months have passed. The song’s ’so last summer’. Half a year gone, the melody’s entombed. On the other hand, the utter lameness exhibited shamelessly on MTV and other ‘hit music stations’ has triggered this sort of reaction. Songs are seldom really good, therefore their only fitfully given attribute is freshness. I guess it’s a form of natural selection, as in biology. Just that nature’s law does not apply here. The weak and untalented do not perish, they resurface, again and again… One ear-scorching masterpiece after another. And, all in all, why did Body’n Soul have to vanish, for instance? To let Morandi rule today?
Welcome Home (Sanitarium)
More than a month has passed since the last entry. Everyone needs a settling time, and I have truly been in need of it. Since I tend to defy the general “blog” trend – write daily, provided the subject (or not) – this lack of rhythm suits me.
I feel as if I have become immune to the Romanian nonsense. My rage has a constant autochthone support, but everything gets weary in the end… Fear not, my fervent readers, I will be back soon with irated pages! I’m sure I can rely on my beloved country to supply me with the daily ration of aberrations.
After all, how could I be enraged when I’ve just found out I’m going to a Leonard Cohen concert?
