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All that is solid melts into air.
To put out a manifesto, you must want A, B,
C to fulminate against 1, 2, 3.
To fly into a rage, and sharpen your wings
to conquer and disseminate little A, B, C's and big A,
B, C's, To sign, shout, swear.
To prove you're nonplus ultra.
To organize prose into a form of absolute
and irrefutable evidence.
I'm against action.
I'm for continuous contradiction,
for affirmation,.
Too I am neither for nor against.
And I do not explain because I hate common sense.
I'm writing a manifesto because I have nothing to say.
I speak only of myself since I do not wish to convince.
I have no right to drag others into my river.
I oblige no one to follow me.
And everyone practices his art in his own way,
if he knows the joy that rises like arrows
to the astral layers, or that other joy
that goes down into the minds of corpse
flowers and fertile spasms.
Does anyone think he has found a psychic base
common to all mankind?
How can one expect to put order into the chaos
that constitutes that infinite and shapeless variation...
Man?
Want to do it again?
Do it again. Yes.
This is so much fun.
An old world is dying.
A new one is being born.
Capitalist civilization, which has dominated
the economic, political, and cultural life of continents,
is in the process of decay.
It is now breeding new and devastating wars.
The prevailing economic crisis is placing greater and greater
burdens upon the mass of the world's population,
upon those who work with hand or brain.
The present crisis has stripped capitalism naked.
It stands more revealed than ever
as a system of robbery and fraud, unemployment
and terror, starvation and war.
The general crisis of capitalism is reflected in its culture.
The economic and political machinery of the bourgeoisie
is in decay.
Its philosophy, its literature, and its art are bankrupt.
In this period of change, the role of the artist
can only be that of the revolutionary.
It is his duty to destroy the last remnants
of an empty, irksome aesthetic, arousing
the creative instinct still slumbering
unconscious in the human mind.
Our art is the art of a revolutionary period,
simultaneously the reaction of a world going under,
and the herald of a new era.
We glorify the revolution aloud
as the only engine of life.
We glorify the vibrations of the inventors.
Young and strong, they carry the flaming
torch of the revolution.
This is the place where the virtuous
of spirits, the and the..
Ah, be off with ya'.
My friends and I stayed up all night
debating at the utmost boundaries of logic
and filling up masses of paper with our frenetic writings.
At long last, all the myths and mystical ideas are behind us.
We believe that this Wonderful world has been further
enriched by a new beauty...
The beauty of speed.
We want to sing about the love of danger,
about the use of energy and recklessness
as common daily practice.
We intend to glorify aggressive action...
Life at the double, the slap, and the punching fist.
We wish to glorify war and beautiful ideas
worth dying for.
The suffering of a man is of the same interest to us
as the suffering of an electric lamp.
We will destroy the cult of the past, the obsession
with the ancients and academic formalism.
We want our country free from the endless number
of museums that everywhere cover her like countless graveyards.
Shit to Florence, Montmartre, Munich.
Shit to dictionaries, good tastisms, orientalism,
academicism.
Shit to Dante, Shakespeare, Tolstoy, Goethe,
beshitted dilettantisms.
Shit to Montagna, Wagner, Beethoven,
Whitnam and Baudelaire.
Look at us.
We're not exhausted yet.
Our hearts feel no weariness, for they feed on fire,
on hatred, and on speed.
Let the reign of a divine electric light begin at last.
Make room for youth, for violence, for daring.
How day will eventually break...
Who knows'?
But we can feel the morning.
We are no longer moonstruck Wanderers roaming dreamily
in the pale light of history.
A cool, early morning wind is blowing around us.
He who doesn't want to shiver must stride out.
And we, and all of those striding with us,
see, in the distance, the early light of the awakening morning.
Glassy and bright, a new world shines out in the early light.
It's sending out its first rays, the first gleam
of jubilant dawn.
Decades, generations, and the great sum of art
will begin its victorious course.
Today, more than ever, we believe
in our will, which creates for us the only life value.
And that value is ever lasting change.
Time to get up, love.
Se ya', love.
See ya', Mom.
We fight without respite
against traditionalist cowardice.
We no longer feel ourselves to be the men of the cathedrals,
the palaces, and the podiums.
We are the men of the great hotels,
luminous arcades, straight roads and beneficial demolitions.
Let us overturn monuments, pavements, flights of steps.
Let us sink the streets and squares.
Let us raze the level of the city.
We must invent and rebuild it, like an immense
and tumultuous shipyard...
Agile, mobile, dynamic in every detail.
And our houses must be like gigantic machines.
Above the tempest of our week days,
across the ashes and cinded homes of the past,
before the gates of the vacant future, I proclaim today,
to you artists...
Painters, sculptors, musicians, actors, poets-
to you people to whom art is no mere ground for conversation,
but the source of real exultation...
My word and deed.
I have transformed myself in the zero of form,
and have fished myself out of the rubbishy sloth
of academic art.
Objects have vanished like smoke.
I have destroyed the ring of the horizon,
and gone out of the circle of objects...
This accursed horizon ring that has imprisoned the artist,
and leads him away from the game of destruction.
Forms move and are born.
And we are forever making new discoveries.
What we discover must not be concealed.
It is absurd to force our age into the forms of a bygone age.
Life must be purified of the clutter of the past
so that it can be brought to its normal evolution.
Art should not advance towards abbreviation or simplification,
but towards complexity.
The Venus de Milo is a graphic example of decline.
It's not a real woman, but a parody.
Angela's David is a defamation.
All the masters of the Renaissance
achieved great results in anatomy.
But they did not achieve veracity in their impressions
of the body.
Those artists were officials making an inventory
of nature's property.
The living was turned into a motionless, dead state.
Come and find me.
Got you.
You're cheating.
Here, we cast anchor in rich ground.
Ghosts, drunk on energy, we dig the trident
into unsuspecting flesh.
We are a downpour of maledictions, as tropically
abundant as vertiginous vegetation.
Rubber and rain are our sweat.
We bleed and burn.
We thirst.
Our blood is vigor.
I say unto you, there is no beginning.
And we do not tremble.
We are not sentimental.
We are furious wind, tearing the dirty linen of clouds
and prayers, preparing the spectacle of disaster, fire,
decomposition.
We will put an end to mourning, and replace
tears by sirens screeching from one continent to another.
Pavilions of intense joy and widowers
with the sadness of poison.
To lick the penumbra and float in the big mouth
filled with honey and excrement.
I spread demoralization wherever I
go, and cast my hand from heaven to hell,
my eyes from hell to heaven.
One dies as a hero or as an idiot, which is the same thing.
The only word that is not ephemeral is the word death.
You probably enjoy life, but you've got some bad habits.
You're too fond of what you've been taught to be fond of.
Cemeteries, melancholy, the tragic lover,
Venetian gondolas.
You shout at the moon.
If you weren't so cowardly, sinking under the weight of all
those lofty thoughts or non-existent abstractions
you've been forced into, all that nonsense dressed up
as dogman, you'd stand up straight and play the massacre
game, just like we do.
But you're too scared of no longer believing.
You don't understand that one can be attached to nothing
and be happy-
We see everything.
We love nothing.
I am against systems.
The most acceptable system is, in principle, to have none.
Abolition of logic, Dada.
Abolition of memory, Dada.
Abolition of archeology, Dada.
Abolition of the future, Dada.
Dada is still shit, but from now on...
From now on we want to shit in different colors,
to decorate the art zoo with all of the consular flags.
Dada is neither madness, nor wisdom, nor irony.
Dada means nothing.
And you are all idiots.
You know, you're all complete idiots made from the alcohol
of purified sleep.
You're like your hopes, nothing.
Like your paradise, nothing.
Like your idols, nothing.
Like your political men, nothing.
Like your heroes, nothing.
Like your artists, nothing.
Your religion, nothing.
No more painters.
No more writers.
No more musicians.
No more sculptors.
No more religions.
No more Republicans.
No more royalists.
No more imperialists.
No more anarchists.
No more socialists.
No more Bolsheviks.
No more politicians.
No more proletarians.
No more Democrats.
No more bourgeois.
No more aristocrats.
No more armies.
No more police.
No more fatherlands.
Enough of all these imbecilities.
No more anything.
Nothing.
Before I come down there among you,
to tear up your rotten teeth, your scab-filled ears,
your canker-covered tongues...
Before I rip off your ugly, incontinent, cheesy
little dick...
Before all of that, we're gonna have
a great big bath in antiseptic.
And we're warning you, it's us who
are the murderers of all your little, newborn babies.
What we need IS works of art that
are strong, straight, precise, and forever
beyond understanding.
The best and most extraordinary artists
will be those who, every hour, snatch
the tatters of their bodies out of the frenzies cataract
of life.
Who with bleeding hands and head,
hold fast to the intelligence of their time.
To sit in a chair for a single moment is to risk one's life.
Children, lunch is on the table.
Darlin', lunch is ready.
Thank you, Alice.
Robert, could you please feed Poppy?
Yes, Mama.
Children, lunch is ready.
Did you brush your hair?
Darlin'?
John?
Where's Daddy?
I don't know.
Well, we'll just begin without him.
I am for an art that is political,
erotical, mystical, that does something other than sit
on its ass in a museum.
I am for an art that grows up not
knowing if it is art at all.
I am for an art that embroils itself with the everyday crap
and still comes out on top.
I am for an art that imitates the human,
that is comic if necessary, or violent,
or whatever is necessary.
I am for an art...
I am for an art that takes its form from the lines of life
itself, that twists and extends, and accumulates and spits,
and drips, and is heavy, and coarse, and blunt, and sweet
and stupid as life itself.
I am for an art out of a doggy's mouth
falling five stories from the roof.
I am for an art that a kid licks after peeling away the wrapper.
I'm for an art that is smoked like a cigarette,
smells like a pair of shoes.
I'm for an art that is put on and taken off like pants, which
develops holes like socks, which is eaten like a piece of pie,
or abandoned with great contempt like a piece of shit.
I say to all: abandon love.
Abandon aestheticism.
Abandon the baggage of wisdom, for in the new culture,
your wisdom is ridiculous and insignificant.
Only dull and impotent artists fail their work with sincerity.
Art requires truth, not sincerity.
In the distance shines our tomorrow.
Hurray for the transparent, the clear.
Hurray for purity.
Hurray and hurray again for crystal,
for the fluid, the graceful, the angular, the sparkling,
the flashing, the light.
Hurray for everlasting architect.
Architecture has to be cavernous, fiery, smooth, hard,
angular, brutal, round, delicate, colorful, obscene,
lustful, dreamy, attracting, repelling,
throbbing, alive or dead.
If cold, then as cold as a block of ice.
If hot, that as hot as a blazing wind.
Architecture must blaze.
For the electric chair with..
Blue discharge of car exhausts scented
with the dynamic modernity has exactly
the same emotional value as the beloved talents
of our exquisite modernists.
I mean, man is not a systematically balanced
clockwork mechanism, is he?
I mean, ideas often run off the rails.
They never follow on continuously from one another.
But they're simultaneous, and, you know, intermittent.
Because logic- logic is a mistake.
And the right to wholeness is a monstrous, fucking joke.
I mean, the whole world is conducted like a fucking
amateur fucking band.
I mean, who raised the question of sincerity?
Oh yeah.
Just a moment, ladies and gentlemen,
while we shovel out more coal.
Who of is the most sincere?
Those of us who purify and crystallize ourselves
through the filter of personal emotions?
- Leave me be. - Or what?
All of those artists whose only concern is
to ingratiate themselves with the amorphous
crowd and scanty audience.
Audience of fucking retrograde, fucking idiots,
fucking fucking art dealers.
My madness has not been reckoned with.
Truth never occurs outside our own selves.
Life is but a system, open to the rains
that fall at intervals.
Things have no conceivable intrinsic value.
And the poetic parallels only flourish in an inner dimension.
We seek truth, not in the reality of appearances,
but in the reality of thought.
We must create.
Man no longer imitates.
He invents.
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.
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 bitch 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.
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?
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 fucking 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.
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.
Cate.
I see.
And what about conceptual art?
It is the objective of the conceptual artist
to make his work mentally interesting to the spectator.
And therefore, usually, he would want
it to become emotionally dry.
Now, Cate, there's no reason to suppose
however, that the conceptual artist
is out to bore the viewer.
Cate, once it's out of his hand,
the artist has no control over whether the viewer
will perceive the work.
Now, different people will understand the same thing
in different ways.
For instance, art critics use a secret language
when communicating with each other
through the medium of art magazines.
Primary structures, reductive, ejective, pool or mini art.
Well, mini art sounds interesting.
Must refer to very small works of art,
or maybe the mini artist is a very small person.
Thanks very much, Cate.
You're welcome.
Thank you.
So conceptual art is one way of making art.
Other ways suit other artists.
Conceptual art is good only when the idea is good.
Idea, form, context.
Idea, the existence...
Good.
Of an idea is necessary and sufficient
for the existence of art.
For the existence of form
is necessary but not sufficient for realizing an idea.
I said it.
We call upon all honest intellectuals, all writers
and artists, to abandon the size of the treacherous notion
that art can exist for art's sake.
Art.
That the artist can remain remote
from the historic conflicts in which all men must take sides.
We call upon them to break with the bourgeois ideals which seek
to conceal the violence and fraud, the corruption and decay
of the capitalist society.
We urge them to create a new art which
shall be a weapon and a
For a new and superior world.
Imagine an eye unruled by man
made laws of perspective.
An eye unprejudiced by compositional logic.
An eye which must know each object
encountered in life through an adventure of perception.
How many colors are there in a field
of grass to the crawling baby unaware of green?
How many rainbows can light create for the untutored eye?
How aware of variation in heat waves can that eye be?
Imagine a world alive with incomprehensible objects,
and shimmering with an endless variety of movement
and innumerable graduations of color.
Imagine a world, before the beginning was the word.
Allow so-called hallucinations to enter
the realm of perception.
Accept dream visions-day dreams or night dreams.
There is no need for the mind's eye
to be deadened after infancy.
OK.
Class, is everyone listening?
Now, nothing is original.
OK?
So you can steal from anywhere that resonates with inspiration
and fuels your imagination.
OK?
OK.
And you can devour old films, new films, music, books,
paintings, photographs, poems, dreams, random conversations,
architecture, buildings, bridges, you know, trees,
cloud formations, bodies of water, you know,
even... even light and shadows.
Now, I want you to select only those things to steal from that
speak directly to your soul.
All right?
Now if you do this, your work... and your theft...
Will be authentic. All right?
Now, authenticity is invaluable.
OK?
Now originality is non-existent.
So don't bother trying to conceal your thievery.
You can celebrate it, you know, if you feel like it.
But in any case, I want you to remember what John
Luke Goddard said, all right'?
All right.
It's not where you take things from,
it's where you take them to.
Mm hmm.
The shooting must be done on location, OK?
Props and sets must not be brought in.
No, no.
Music must not be used unless it occurs
where the scene is being shot.
OK?
OK.
Mm hmm.
The camera must be hand-held.
And the film must be in color.
See?
And special lighting is not acceptable.
Now optical filters are forbidden.
All right?
Yes.
Oh, and also, the film must not
contain any superficial action.
OK?
OK.
No, genre movies are not acceptable.
OK?
And the director must not be credited.
All right?
It's very important.
I swear to refrain from personal taste.
I am no longer an artist.
I swear to refrain from creating a work,
as I regard the instant is more important than the whole.
My supreme goal is to force the truth out
of my characters and settings.
I swear to do so by all the means available,
and at the cost of any good taste and
any aesthetic considerations.
Fact creates norms, and truth illumination.
OK, John?
Next time.
There are deeper
strata of truth in cinema.
And there is such a thing as poetic, ecstatic truth.
It is mysterious and elusive, and can
be reached only through fabrication and imagination
and stylization.
I am at war with my time, with history,
with all authorities that reside in fixed and frightened forms.
I am one of millions who do not fit in, who have no home,
no family, no doctrine, no firm place to call my own,
no known beginning or end.
I declare war on all icons and finalities.
On all histories that would chain me with my own falseness,
my own pitiful fears.
I know only moments, and lifetimes that are as moments,
and forms that appear with infinite strength
then melt into air.
I am a constructor of worlds, a sensualist who
worships the flesh, the melody.
A silhouette against the darkening sky.
I cannot know your name, nor can you know mine.
Tomorrow, We begin together the construction of a city.
Intuitive forms should arise out of nothing.
Such forms will not be repetition of living things
in life, but will themselves...
To those who don't understand us properly,
we say with an irreducible scorn,
we of whom you believe yourself to be the judges,
will one day judge you.
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