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Arp on Arp: Poems, Essays, Memories
English, French (translation)
574 pages, Hardcover
First published February 24, 1972
1 person is currently reading
96 people want to read
About the author
Jean Arp
99 books12 followersAlsatian artist Jean Arp or Hans Arp, particularly noted for his abstract reliefs and three-dimensional sculptures, founded of Dada.
This German-French painter and poet used other media, such as torn and pasted paper.
Arp spoke in German and then referred as "Hans" and in French then referred as "Jean." Following the war, France ceded the area, known as Lorraine, to Germany in 1871; afterward, a French mother in Strasbourg bore this son to a German father during the period.
He left the École des Arts et Métiers in Strasbourg in 1904, afterward went to Paris, and published his poetry for the first time. Arp from 1905 to 1907 studied at the Kunstschule in Weimar, Germany, and in 1908 went back to Paris and attended the Académie Julian.
Arp, a member of the Moderne Bund in Lucerne, joined in their exhibitions from 1911 to 1913. In 1912, he went to Munich and called on Wassily Kandinsky, who encouraged his researches; he exhibited with the Der Blaue Reiter group. Later in that year, he took in a major exhibition in Zürich alongside Henri Matisse, Robert Delaunay, and Kandinsky. In Berlin in 1913, Herwarth Walden, the dealer and magazine editor at that time of the most powerful figures in the European avant-garde, took him.
Following the return to France at the end of World War I, law determined his name, Jean.
In 1915, he moved to Switzerland to take advantage of Swiss neutrality. Arp later told the story: he reported to the German consulate and then avoided draft into the Army. People gave him the paperwork, which he took and wrote the date in the first blank. He then wrote the date in every other space as well, then drew a line beneath them, and carefully added them. He then took off all his clothes and went to hand in his paperwork.
In Europe, the fondation Arp in Clamart preserves the atelier, where Arp lived and worked for most of his life; two thousand visitors tour the house in each year. Marguerite Arp-Hagenbach, second wife of Arp, started the Fondazione Marguerite Arp-Hagenbach in Locarno, Switzerland. Johannes Wasmuth, the dealer, in 1977 established and dedicated the Stiftung Hans Arp und Sophie Taeuber-Arp e.V. to the late Jean Arp in consultation with Marguerite; this entity owns the largest collection of his works and holds the copyright of all his works. From the remote town of Rolandseck, west Germany, it aimed to relocate to a new research center and office in Berlin in 2012 to raise its profile.
This German-French painter and poet used other media, such as torn and pasted paper.
Arp spoke in German and then referred as "Hans" and in French then referred as "Jean." Following the war, France ceded the area, known as Lorraine, to Germany in 1871; afterward, a French mother in Strasbourg bore this son to a German father during the period.
He left the École des Arts et Métiers in Strasbourg in 1904, afterward went to Paris, and published his poetry for the first time. Arp from 1905 to 1907 studied at the Kunstschule in Weimar, Germany, and in 1908 went back to Paris and attended the Académie Julian.
Arp, a member of the Moderne Bund in Lucerne, joined in their exhibitions from 1911 to 1913. In 1912, he went to Munich and called on Wassily Kandinsky, who encouraged his researches; he exhibited with the Der Blaue Reiter group. Later in that year, he took in a major exhibition in Zürich alongside Henri Matisse, Robert Delaunay, and Kandinsky. In Berlin in 1913, Herwarth Walden, the dealer and magazine editor at that time of the most powerful figures in the European avant-garde, took him.
Following the return to France at the end of World War I, law determined his name, Jean.
In 1915, he moved to Switzerland to take advantage of Swiss neutrality. Arp later told the story: he reported to the German consulate and then avoided draft into the Army. People gave him the paperwork, which he took and wrote the date in the first blank. He then wrote the date in every other space as well, then drew a line beneath them, and carefully added them. He then took off all his clothes and went to hand in his paperwork.
In Europe, the fondation Arp in Clamart preserves the atelier, where Arp lived and worked for most of his life; two thousand visitors tour the house in each year. Marguerite Arp-Hagenbach, second wife of Arp, started the Fondazione Marguerite Arp-Hagenbach in Locarno, Switzerland. Johannes Wasmuth, the dealer, in 1977 established and dedicated the Stiftung Hans Arp und Sophie Taeuber-Arp e.V. to the late Jean Arp in consultation with Marguerite; this entity owns the largest collection of his works and holds the copyright of all his works. From the remote town of Rolandseck, west Germany, it aimed to relocate to a new research center and office in Berlin in 2012 to raise its profile.
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Displaying 1 - 3 of 3 reviews
January 11, 2019
4.5 stars. This is a great, very large anthology of selected poetry, memoirs, and critical essays by the great Dadaist and early Surrealist Jean "Hans" Arp. The size of the volume is its only downfall; the essential, 5 star material from his early period is definitely dragged down by much of his postwar writing, which shares little of the continuing ability to astonish much of his postwar art and sculpture still demonstrated. Still, though, great.
January 18, 2022
alas our good kaspar is dead.
who will conceal the burning banner in the cloud's pigtail now and blackly thumb his daily nose.
who will run the coffee grinder in the primeval cask now.
who will entice the idyllic deer out of the petrified bag.
who will blow the noses of ships umbrellas beekeepers ozone-spindles and bone the pyramids.
alas alas alas our good kaspar is dead. goodness gracious me kaspar is dead.
the hay-fish in the bell-barns chatter heartbreakingly whenever his first name is uttered. that's why i keep on sighing his surname kaspar kaspar kaspar.
why hast thou forsaken us. into what shape has your great wonderful soul migrated. are you a star now or a chain of water on a hot cyclone or an udder of black light or a transparent brick on the moaning drum of craggy existence.
now our crowns and our soles are drying up and the fairies are lying half-charred at the stake.
now the black bowling alley is booming behind the sun and no one is winding the compasses or the handbarrow wheels any more.
who will eat with the phosphorescent rat at the lonesome barefoot table.
who will drive out the siroccoco-devil when he tries to lure the horses away.
who will interpret the monograms in the stars for us.
his bust will grace the mantels of all truly noble men but that's no solace or snuff for a death's head.
* * *
they walk a square
a circle
a point
and turn on the point
punctually halfway around
and halfway around again
they don't want to rest
on the ironing board
on the twelfth tray
they shorten the short
they elongate the long
they thin down the thin
the fatten the fat
they wall up clouds alive
they unroll bales of water
and sweep them
they peck the the blue shingles from the lines
and cackle cluck cluck cluck
so that they may feel very wavy
and so that it may speak for no reason
under the undie
tick tock tick tock
like us clocks
* * *
but what will replace it
the wings drop from the summit of the table
like leaves of earth
before the lips
it is night in the wings
and between the wings the chanting chains are missing
the skeleton of the light empties the fruits
the body of the kisses will never awaken
it was never real
the sea of the wings cradles that tear
the bell speaks with the head
and the fingers lead us across the fields of the air
toward the nests of the eyes
there the names melt
but what will replace it
in the height of the skies
neither sleeping nor waking
for the tombs are brighter than the days
* * *
I ride in a train
that's packed
in my compartment
every seat is occupied by a lady
with a man on her lap
the air is unbearably hot
it's a tropical atmosphere
all the passengers
have a gigantic appetite
they eat nonstop
suddenly the men begin to whine
they want to be breast-fed
they unbutton the women's bodices
and clutch their breasts
and feed on good fresh milk
only I do not suckle anyone
nor am I suckled by anyone
no one sits on my lap
and I don't sit on anyone's lap
for I am a horse
I sit up straight and big
with my hid legs
on the railroad train seat
and prop myself up comfortably
with my forelegs
I neigh loudly hnnnnn
on my chest the six buttons
of sex appeal shine
nicely aligned
like the shiny buttons of a uniform
oh the world is small
oh cherries are big
* * *
we have to first let forms, colours, words, sounds grow
and then explain them.
We have to first let legs, wings, hands grow and then let them fly sing form manifest themselves.
I for one don't draw up a plan first as if I were dealing with a timetable a calculation or a war.
The art of stars, flowers, forms, colours is part of the infinite.
* * *
stop acting like a skull
in a chariot full of shining stars
wedged in between two nights I sing
as the spider sings who weaves his web
who weaves his web on the face of the air
his mirror-coloured web
hope melts like a lead-echo
in the bottomless, mirror-coloured evening
so there
while I lick my own body
as the day licks its own body
between heaven and lunch
a cannon shoots at a green soul
a sock hops about on crystal crutches
behind the bell of a mammal
that flies through the posture of the air
and whinnies like female wood
so there
there there
so I said there
or did I say so there
so there's the morning star
so there
so so
so I said so
or did I say there
there's the so morning star
the tongue is useless for speech
you'd do better to use your feet for speaking
than your bald tongue
you'd do better to use your navel for speaking
the tongue is good
for knitting monuments
for playing third or fourth fiddle
for cleaning braided whales
for fishing for polar roots
but above all the tongue is good
for hanging out of the mouth
and drifting in the wind
* * *
i am a point
and dream of a point
eternity has four corners
i launch my lance into the eye of the heart
my feet balance the air
i lick the top and the bottom
the soul of the heart flies away
and plants an animal
the animal thrives
and laughs
and carves the air into a fan
i turn red like all redheads
i turn my key
like that
i close the door
i close the round
at last water spurts up between you and me
and carries the we
here
there
this way
that way
a bell sings in my mouth
this way
that way
it's the hour of the minute
it's the hour of the air
* * *
stones are bowels
bravo bravo
stones are trunks of air
stones are branches of water
on the stone that replaces the mouth
a fishbone grows
bravo
a voice of stone
is having a tête-à-tête
toe to toe
with a gaze of stone
stones are as tormented as flesh
stones are clouds
for their second nature
dances on their third nose
bravo bravo
when stones scratch themselves
nails grow on the roots
stones have ears
to ear the exact time
on the cloud that replaced the head
a natural nose grows
the nails of the eyes scratch the roots of nature
stones grow and dance on the clouds
bravo bravo
ears grow on the roots
the third stone eats air-flesh
the second stone eats feet
bravo bravo bravissimo
fishbones have a leak
when feet dance on heads
nails grow on stones
the hours scratch themselves
bravo
bowels are roots
stones are heads
nature is exact
the feet dancing on flesh-branches
have a tormented gaze
a gaze of hour-bowels
in nature's place a foot grows
bravo bravo bravo bravo
ears noses mouths heads feet are stones
* * *
At daybreak as I awoke
I wondered:
can the stars stand tiptoe on one tip
like ballet stars standing tiptoe?
What Ariadne clew leads me to the wellspring of fluid forces
from which this sparrow-hawk movement soars up?
And does the blue-break gesture
hesitate to alight on one of its tips?
On one of its piercing rays?
Its wings radiate
rhythms that are half star and half insect
and fade in the darkness
of a philosophical ulterior motive.
The wings of the roses swarm
in this amphora dream
as in a heart
They catch fire and blaze.
The deepness erects its dream-mirrors.
Snow-leaves fall.
And the phoenix is born
and shakes its feathers
as a tree its frost-covered plumage.
* * *
humour
is water of the afterlife
mixed with the wine of this life
* * *
head down
legs up
he leaps into space
from which he came
he has no more honour in his body
his mouth is no longer stopped up with a stopper
he no longer returns greetings
he doesn't even stop if someone bows down before him
head down
legs up
he leaps into space
from which he came
like a hairy dish
like a quadruped and mammalian chair
like a dull branch of echo
half-full half-empty
head down
legs up
he leaps into space
from which he came
* * *
The light casts pearls into a garden
of lovely slender sprouts.
Pearly games.
Long live pearls!
Live svelte columns.
Cadence of stalks.
The shade and the stalk mingle.
At this point they leave the dream
and grow into the blue like swords.
It is a life of infinite instants.
From each sprout a hand crops up
and on each hand five green thumbs crop up.
Their mouths open among the memories of breaths
enveloped in a veil of vegetal stars.
Bone sockets foam and sip.
Lacework of veins.
Adam's fragrance.
Furious stalks scatter
like lightning in an immense depth of flesh.
Upper limbs rise up and leave the trunk.
Masses of fine and slender filaments,
finally fine consonants,
leave their sheathes of fragrant moon.
Well-grown tortoise-shell fans
swing not far from a shimmer of pearls.
* * *
Water the moon for me.
Brush the teeth of my ladders for me.
Carry me in your flesh valise onto my bone roof.
Cook me a thunderbolt.
Clap the earthquake into a cage for me
and pick me a bouquet of lightning.
Cut yourself in two and eat one of the halves.
Ejaculate yourself into the air haughtier than the fountains of Versailles.
Burn yourself roll yourself into a ball.
Be a ball with archaic laughter
rolling around a pill.
Stick out all your tongues at roses.
Give your tongues to the gentle rhinoce-roses.
Go stew yourself into a stew.
Toady yourself into a toad.
Append yourself as a signature under my letter.
* * *
The day is flat at times.
Try as you may
you just can't get up.
There is no room to soar.
You're forced to remain flat
on your back or on your stomach
flat as a sheet of paper
in a writing pad.
* * *
Did that dream
keep a sphinx on a leash?
Just what is that question
concerning the jingling of aromas?
What is that noise of holy negligence
in the exaltation colonnade of interior stars?
There is nothing but snow
in that white-hot stove.
Are there any white cards?
What is in those autonomous hands?
What is there?
Aren't there never-ending
memories?
What is that?
Handfuls of down
of postilion foam?
Is it some sort
of bid laughter?
Isn't it some sort of creature
more like limpid glaucous wellsprings
than human beings?
If it were merely a rifle shot
or the fall of young women from a white chair
into the hands of white roses
I would go away.
* * *
When I arrive
my friends drop everything
and dash up
to watch me nail.
My hammer and I
are one.
I can only nail nails
into a bread crumb.
But when I nail nails
into a bread crumb
I nail so well
that my friends forget everything
and are literally transported
transfigured into pure welkin.
Only gradually gradually
do they reappear
do they recover
in running azure
then in flesh and blood
after I've stopped nailing my nails
into a bread crub.
* * *
Skies and parent skies
and enemy skies
companies of picture-skies
ci-devant skies
film-making skies
made filming fictive skies
Marcus Aurelius skies
In the church of Ménilmontant
he would paint religious roses.
Births engendered
by funambulation.
A search for physical shapes
which go as prehistoric matches
till the of the human abc.
* * *
They peck between two gapings of jaws.
Their friends however
having the cape before them
charge down upon it.
Instantly the colouring of the landscape turns dark.
They continue to pour down into it
to enter into it
one strait after another.
Frogs' eggs.
Diamond hooves.
Clouds on piles.
Finally a bird-flame.
* * *
The wind pushes and pushes
its conquests further
it engulfs
members of society
memorial members
members of allobroges
lace of honey
long long and always longer members
beautiful castles
fresh pure putrid
and the gloves wind
and the antiaircrafts
and the harrisburged dandies
long live the rags
straw men
taste iron sandwiches
* * *
cities
knit
entirely
in wool
vestiges
of vertigo
on the verge
of virgo
sheep
in wolf's
clothing
Faded stars
little little ones
forgotten coffins
valleys
in a sky
mountains
standing
tirelessly
on one leg
corpses
like
dead flies
in an electric
light bulb
who will conceal the burning banner in the cloud's pigtail now and blackly thumb his daily nose.
who will run the coffee grinder in the primeval cask now.
who will entice the idyllic deer out of the petrified bag.
who will blow the noses of ships umbrellas beekeepers ozone-spindles and bone the pyramids.
alas alas alas our good kaspar is dead. goodness gracious me kaspar is dead.
the hay-fish in the bell-barns chatter heartbreakingly whenever his first name is uttered. that's why i keep on sighing his surname kaspar kaspar kaspar.
why hast thou forsaken us. into what shape has your great wonderful soul migrated. are you a star now or a chain of water on a hot cyclone or an udder of black light or a transparent brick on the moaning drum of craggy existence.
now our crowns and our soles are drying up and the fairies are lying half-charred at the stake.
now the black bowling alley is booming behind the sun and no one is winding the compasses or the handbarrow wheels any more.
who will eat with the phosphorescent rat at the lonesome barefoot table.
who will drive out the siroccoco-devil when he tries to lure the horses away.
who will interpret the monograms in the stars for us.
his bust will grace the mantels of all truly noble men but that's no solace or snuff for a death's head.
- kaspar is dead, pg. xxxiv
* * *
they walk a square
a circle
a point
and turn on the point
punctually halfway around
and halfway around again
they don't want to rest
on the ironing board
on the twelfth tray
they shorten the short
they elongate the long
they thin down the thin
the fatten the fat
they wall up clouds alive
they unroll bales of water
and sweep them
they peck the the blue shingles from the lines
and cackle cluck cluck cluck
so that they may feel very wavy
and so that it may speak for no reason
under the undie
tick tock tick tock
like us clocks
- Cluck Cluck Cluck, pg. 15
* * *
but what will replace it
the wings drop from the summit of the table
like leaves of earth
before the lips
it is night in the wings
and between the wings the chanting chains are missing
the skeleton of the light empties the fruits
the body of the kisses will never awaken
it was never real
the sea of the wings cradles that tear
the bell speaks with the head
and the fingers lead us across the fields of the air
toward the nests of the eyes
there the names melt
but what will replace it
in the height of the skies
neither sleeping nor waking
for the tombs are brighter than the days
- pg. 39
* * *
I ride in a train
that's packed
in my compartment
every seat is occupied by a lady
with a man on her lap
the air is unbearably hot
it's a tropical atmosphere
all the passengers
have a gigantic appetite
they eat nonstop
suddenly the men begin to whine
they want to be breast-fed
they unbutton the women's bodices
and clutch their breasts
and feed on good fresh milk
only I do not suckle anyone
nor am I suckled by anyone
no one sits on my lap
and I don't sit on anyone's lap
for I am a horse
I sit up straight and big
with my hid legs
on the railroad train seat
and prop myself up comfortably
with my forelegs
I neigh loudly hnnnnn
on my chest the six buttons
of sex appeal shine
nicely aligned
like the shiny buttons of a uniform
oh the world is small
oh cherries are big
- I Am a Horse, pg. 75-76
* * *
we have to first let forms, colours, words, sounds grow
and then explain them.
We have to first let legs, wings, hands grow and then let them fly sing form manifest themselves.
I for one don't draw up a plan first as if I were dealing with a timetable a calculation or a war.
The art of stars, flowers, forms, colours is part of the infinite.
- Infinite Millimeter Manifesto, pg. 96
* * *
stop acting like a skull
in a chariot full of shining stars
wedged in between two nights I sing
as the spider sings who weaves his web
who weaves his web on the face of the air
his mirror-coloured web
hope melts like a lead-echo
in the bottomless, mirror-coloured evening
so there
while I lick my own body
as the day licks its own body
between heaven and lunch
a cannon shoots at a green soul
a sock hops about on crystal crutches
behind the bell of a mammal
that flies through the posture of the air
and whinnies like female wood
so there
there there
so I said there
or did I say so there
so there's the morning star
so there
so so
so I said so
or did I say there
there's the so morning star
the tongue is useless for speech
you'd do better to use your feet for speaking
than your bald tongue
you'd do better to use your navel for speaking
the tongue is good
for knitting monuments
for playing third or fourth fiddle
for cleaning braided whales
for fishing for polar roots
but above all the tongue is good
for hanging out of the mouth
and drifting in the wind
- Fruit Free-for-All, pg. 115-116
* * *
i am a point
and dream of a point
eternity has four corners
i launch my lance into the eye of the heart
my feet balance the air
i lick the top and the bottom
the soul of the heart flies away
and plants an animal
the animal thrives
and laughs
and carves the air into a fan
i turn red like all redheads
i turn my key
like that
i close the door
i close the round
at last water spurts up between you and me
and carries the we
here
there
this way
that way
a bell sings in my mouth
this way
that way
it's the hour of the minute
it's the hour of the air
- pg. 127
* * *
stones are bowels
bravo bravo
stones are trunks of air
stones are branches of water
on the stone that replaces the mouth
a fishbone grows
bravo
a voice of stone
is having a tête-à-tête
toe to toe
with a gaze of stone
stones are as tormented as flesh
stones are clouds
for their second nature
dances on their third nose
bravo bravo
when stones scratch themselves
nails grow on the roots
stones have ears
to ear the exact time
on the cloud that replaced the head
a natural nose grows
the nails of the eyes scratch the roots of nature
stones grow and dance on the clouds
bravo bravo
ears grow on the roots
the third stone eats air-flesh
the second stone eats feet
bravo bravo bravissimo
fishbones have a leak
when feet dance on heads
nails grow on stones
the hours scratch themselves
bravo
bowels are roots
stones are heads
nature is exact
the feet dancing on flesh-branches
have a tormented gaze
a gaze of hour-bowels
in nature's place a foot grows
bravo bravo bravo bravo
ears noses mouths heads feet are stones
- Domestic Stones, pg. 183
* * *
At daybreak as I awoke
I wondered:
can the stars stand tiptoe on one tip
like ballet stars standing tiptoe?
What Ariadne clew leads me to the wellspring of fluid forces
from which this sparrow-hawk movement soars up?
And does the blue-break gesture
hesitate to alight on one of its tips?
On one of its piercing rays?
Its wings radiate
rhythms that are half star and half insect
and fade in the darkness
of a philosophical ulterior motive.
The wings of the roses swarm
in this amphora dream
as in a heart
They catch fire and blaze.
The deepness erects its dream-mirrors.
Snow-leaves fall.
And the phoenix is born
and shakes its feathers
as a tree its frost-covered plumage.
- Wings and Pheonix, for Guitou Knoop, pg. 258
* * *
humour
is water of the afterlife
mixed with the wine of this life
- pg. 276
* * *
head down
legs up
he leaps into space
from which he came
he has no more honour in his body
his mouth is no longer stopped up with a stopper
he no longer returns greetings
he doesn't even stop if someone bows down before him
head down
legs up
he leaps into space
from which he came
like a hairy dish
like a quadruped and mammalian chair
like a dull branch of echo
half-full half-empty
head down
legs up
he leaps into space
from which he came
- In Space, for Theo van Doesburg, pg. 280
* * *
The light casts pearls into a garden
of lovely slender sprouts.
Pearly games.
Long live pearls!
Live svelte columns.
Cadence of stalks.
The shade and the stalk mingle.
At this point they leave the dream
and grow into the blue like swords.
It is a life of infinite instants.
From each sprout a hand crops up
and on each hand five green thumbs crop up.
Their mouths open among the memories of breaths
enveloped in a veil of vegetal stars.
Bone sockets foam and sip.
Lacework of veins.
Adam's fragrance.
Furious stalks scatter
like lightning in an immense depth of flesh.
Upper limbs rise up and leave the trunk.
Masses of fine and slender filaments,
finally fine consonants,
leave their sheathes of fragrant moon.
Well-grown tortoise-shell fans
swing not far from a shimmer of pearls.
- Sprouts, pg. 307
* * *
Water the moon for me.
Brush the teeth of my ladders for me.
Carry me in your flesh valise onto my bone roof.
Cook me a thunderbolt.
Clap the earthquake into a cage for me
and pick me a bouquet of lightning.
Cut yourself in two and eat one of the halves.
Ejaculate yourself into the air haughtier than the fountains of Versailles.
Burn yourself roll yourself into a ball.
Be a ball with archaic laughter
rolling around a pill.
Stick out all your tongues at roses.
Give your tongues to the gentle rhinoce-roses.
Go stew yourself into a stew.
Toady yourself into a toad.
Append yourself as a signature under my letter.
- Cook Me a Thunderbolt, pg. 370
* * *
The day is flat at times.
Try as you may
you just can't get up.
There is no room to soar.
You're forced to remain flat
on your back or on your stomach
flat as a sheet of paper
in a writing pad.
- On Your Back or on Your Stomach, pg. 374
* * *
Did that dream
keep a sphinx on a leash?
Just what is that question
concerning the jingling of aromas?
What is that noise of holy negligence
in the exaltation colonnade of interior stars?
There is nothing but snow
in that white-hot stove.
Are there any white cards?
What is in those autonomous hands?
What is there?
Aren't there never-ending
memories?
What is that?
Handfuls of down
of postilion foam?
Is it some sort
of bid laughter?
Isn't it some sort of creature
more like limpid glaucous wellsprings
than human beings?
If it were merely a rifle shot
or the fall of young women from a white chair
into the hands of white roses
I would go away.
- What Is That?, pg. 389
* * *
When I arrive
my friends drop everything
and dash up
to watch me nail.
My hammer and I
are one.
I can only nail nails
into a bread crumb.
But when I nail nails
into a bread crumb
I nail so well
that my friends forget everything
and are literally transported
transfigured into pure welkin.
Only gradually gradually
do they reappear
do they recover
in running azure
then in flesh and blood
after I've stopped nailing my nails
into a bread crub.
- The Master Nailer, pg. 417
* * *
Skies and parent skies
and enemy skies
companies of picture-skies
ci-devant skies
film-making skies
made filming fictive skies
Marcus Aurelius skies
In the church of Ménilmontant
he would paint religious roses.
Births engendered
by funambulation.
A search for physical shapes
which go as prehistoric matches
till the of the human abc.
- Lucien Billy at the Furstenberg Gallery, pg. 450
* * *
They peck between two gapings of jaws.
Their friends however
having the cape before them
charge down upon it.
Instantly the colouring of the landscape turns dark.
They continue to pour down into it
to enter into it
one strait after another.
Frogs' eggs.
Diamond hooves.
Clouds on piles.
Finally a bird-flame.
- pg. 477
* * *
The wind pushes and pushes
its conquests further
it engulfs
members of society
memorial members
members of allobroges
lace of honey
long long and always longer members
beautiful castles
fresh pure putrid
and the gloves wind
and the antiaircrafts
and the harrisburged dandies
long live the rags
straw men
taste iron sandwiches
- Worlds Crumble, pg. 496
* * *
cities
knit
entirely
in wool
vestiges
of vertigo
on the verge
of virgo
sheep
in wolf's
clothing
Faded stars
little little ones
forgotten coffins
valleys
in a sky
mountains
standing
tirelessly
on one leg
corpses
like
dead flies
in an electric
light bulb
- pg. 507
January 24, 2008
This bk is mainly Jean Arps' writings. I enjoyed it very much when I read it - perhaps 30 yrs ago. This particular series was great for having the artists themselves thoroughly respresented. If you like Arp's paintings & sculpture for their flowing simplicity then you'll like his writing for much the same reason. Here's an excerpt from "The Tirolean Elephant": "When finally nothing is left of the piano beneath their hands, they rub the billions of time, they heap up electric guts in zeppelins, crown flies, and eat salted infants, phosphorous oranges, and airplane marmalade." if you liked that & cd happily read another 500pp or so like it, then you're set!
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