Complete second footnote to previous post entitled --
why is Ray Smith revisiting Picasso?
A Rant
2. You don't want to get this essay over with, you want to get stuck in this essay forever.**
**this essay being two thousandth version -- that's how many tries it typically takes to invent the light bulb -- of my art history dissertation on the origins of perspective in a fresco by Giotto -- the one that long ago melted into the first version of this interdisciplinary, illuminated thesis in creative (I prefer to call it receptive) writing, art history, and philosophy. You don't recognize the fresco, reader? Did the restoration that severely ruin it? Fie on those hacks! Professor Beck will not rest in peace until a restoration practitioner supervising all such future projects ascends to the department head, not that even Beck would recognize a thing you can't see until you close your eyes and sing -- as Picasso advises -- in order to draw it.
Alas, should you too deploy this tool not only of assimilating relativity in the bone, but of recognizing and disseminating other such tools, you too will be forced to hand over to the inquisitors a plate heaped high with the luridly lucid, x-ray vision, self-multiplied eyeballs accrued in such dutifully devout multiple re-drawings of this particular, terrible (That goody two shoes, Michelangelo, rushing in his Easter bonnet to the front row seat in church, doesn't know from terribilita.) fresco by Giotto, in which -- even Leo the lion couldn't handle this, and please don't tell the pope, let me break it to him myself -- Saint Francis, offered a private viewing, is fixated on the genitals, as visible as a Botticelli grace behind a wind blown diaphanous gauze, of Christ on the Cross.*
After you turn over your multiplied eyeballs, you too will thenceforth grope around blindly, singing and drawing, feeling up the world with your memories, busy wandering hands, intuitions, and empathy -- just a blind lady having tea with Frankenstein, but what a blind lady! -- having noticed and assimilated Giotto's noticing and assimilating of the ubiquitous relevance of the relativity of the visual field. And that's just the tip of the iceberg. (Don't get me wrong. THIS FLAMBOYANTLY IMPROVISED PERFORMANCE NO LONGER HAS ANYTHING TO DO WITH A SCORE BY GIOTTO SO ARTFULLY WRITTEN IN PICTOGRAPHS AND EMOTICONS IT ALSO FUNCTIONS, ARGUABLY, AS THE FIRST AND LAST WORK OF MODERN ART FOR ART'S SAKE.) Given the importance of the finding, I took more time (twenty years), so I wrote a shorter thesis, but I guess an advisor's verdict probably still holds:
"My dear, you've become an artist, and we're very proud to have produced you, but if you think you're going to get a doctorate for this project, you are truly not a socialized person."
And my verdict, suspected from and articulated in childhood, still holds too -- that I'm rubber and you're glue, the names you call me stick to you, and when they find their proper target, they are corrected, honed, and clarified. My dear art history department, you've become a wolverine data-collection machine in sheepish wooly mouthed clothing that reduces art to illustration of one of your self-contradictory theories, and I'm very proud to have deduced it, but quite ashamed to have produced you, where victims tend to be co-producers of their own oppressors, though not all are Houdini's, but still, if you see something, say something, then turn it over to the cops. I mean the ones shown on the previous post, the gorgon ladies who kill with their stares. Their gazes (especially the youngest (the "baby"), we are the holy terrors responsible for all revolutions) say -- if you think you can get away with this forever, you are not only not a socialized person, you are a fool.
Everybody knows. You are an empathy and joy bereft sociopath that betrayed the humanities, and that includes humanity. to pander to data worship that is now called, but is unworthy of the name, science -- out of, among other things, sheer cowardice. The machine can check your facts, so you never have to risk being wrong. The late Leo Steinberg was the last to attempt a swoop-fest through the mountain peaks in a flying squirrel suit -- pow pow! did Caroline Bynum, blindfolded, shoot him down! -- of an art historical interpretation. Wait! Don't get me wrong. THIS ESSAY HAS NOTHING TO DO WITH THE ART OF RAY SMITH. (When you hold to the credo, from each according to his ability (in your case limited), to each according to his need (in your case, nothing) I'm with you machine, the more so for refusing to pretend I AM you.)
In other words, PLACE the pendulum ball in the center, don't hurl it back down to fly back and forth and drive all sane people over to the business school to be converted to sociopaths. Sanity becomes the humanities, and even science, but as it stands, j'accuse! I accuse you of criminal insanity. These cases filed as "suicide" are under review. There are many, but I know personally of two -- the best friend of Callisto's rescuer in undergraduate, and another, a colleague of mine in graduate school. The stuff you push is more empathy and joy numbing than Tylenol, and those who, lacking forked tongue, we who can't separate saying, being, and doing are food before it's food drenched in shellac dried and placed in the window to advertise food drenched in shellac dried and placed in the window to advertise HELP! where's the food???? -- need to breathe oxygen, not just oxymorons. Convenient to your ongoing rule, we must either fly or die.
Pioneer assimilators of relativity in the bone, we're the avant garde (those calling it dead are looking in a mirror) today only seeming to go backward, but that's only because as revolutionaries, we're the wheel not the wagon it's pushing forward. ALL THIS REVOLUTIONARY ART AND PHILOSOPHY (THE WHEEL) HAS NOTHING TO DO WITH LIFE. (THE WAGON) Why would the wagon want a r-e-v-o-l-u-t-i-o-n, when that means just going around in circles, and for a wagon that includes somersaulting into a ditch? Restore the mychorrizae, repair the torn roots to revive language with an open heart, as Confucius teaches, and watch everything turn green as gold in autumn going quite miraculously backwards.
Meanwhile -- this could be a wrap up in a Shakespeare comedy like "Love's Labor Lost" being performed in Riverside Park with Callisto watching patiently and happily running from hill to hill with the other spectators as the spotlights rise on the different scenes staged over a block length of the park. She thus obediently plays her assigned part in the interactive staging, including, in the closing scene, patiently watching and listening, as many of the characters light up and enjoy a smoke, and others doze off. Turns out she's the only one of all of us not only following all the convolutions by which the guilty are brought to justice, and all the plot lines are unraveled and sewn into a toasty warm geometric quilt, but -- by now she's on her toes, no longer at "sit!" the wheels of her mind spinning spinning -- checking to be sure it works. As the star of the show -- the hero who stays awake to avoid being body snatched -- she then trots out to join the cast at the curtain call -- by which she earns the somewhat icky sticky nickname Shirley for Shirley Temple, but I finally was able to remove it -- Sherlock always gets her man. In this Perry Mason reversal, the seat of protest harbors the chief honchos of the protested against -- Trump is their puppet -- cushioned by twenty-something, suckling infants bred to marry and make more of this, government supported mafia as they all cry -- money money money the green eyed Frankenstein monster that destroys men's souls! -- their mothers on the phone with the dean shrieking -- stop stop stop that muck racker! She's upsetting my precious darling Carlos, your bread basket.
The drama is over. The verdict is too obvious to include in the script. You're re-classified as a suspected, somnambulistic serial killer, so don't try to leave town, or skip any treatments. This Achilles, meanwhile, doesn't buy the zombie alibi. She's perpared to lay you low and drag your corpse through the dust until the gods withdraw their go ahead. Publish more rubbish and perish. Or, given the salutary effects of rifles pointed to one's head, notice the fortuitous ubiquitousness of those lovely ladies up there. We're due for a shotgun graduation.
*Relax Francis. "Of course mystics use sexual imagery; sex is what people have to love with." (Simone Weil)
why is Ray Smith revisiting Picasso?
A Rant
2. You don't want to get this essay over with, you want to get stuck in this essay forever.**
**this essay being two thousandth version -- that's how many tries it typically takes to invent the light bulb -- of my art history dissertation on the origins of perspective in a fresco by Giotto -- the one that long ago melted into the first version of this interdisciplinary, illuminated thesis in creative (I prefer to call it receptive) writing, art history, and philosophy. You don't recognize the fresco, reader? Did the restoration that severely ruin it? Fie on those hacks! Professor Beck will not rest in peace until a restoration practitioner supervising all such future projects ascends to the department head, not that even Beck would recognize a thing you can't see until you close your eyes and sing -- as Picasso advises -- in order to draw it.
Alas, should you too deploy this tool not only of assimilating relativity in the bone, but of recognizing and disseminating other such tools, you too will be forced to hand over to the inquisitors a plate heaped high with the luridly lucid, x-ray vision, self-multiplied eyeballs accrued in such dutifully devout multiple re-drawings of this particular, terrible (That goody two shoes, Michelangelo, rushing in his Easter bonnet to the front row seat in church, doesn't know from terribilita.) fresco by Giotto, in which -- even Leo the lion couldn't handle this, and please don't tell the pope, let me break it to him myself -- Saint Francis, offered a private viewing, is fixated on the genitals, as visible as a Botticelli grace behind a wind blown diaphanous gauze, of Christ on the Cross.*
After you turn over your multiplied eyeballs, you too will thenceforth grope around blindly, singing and drawing, feeling up the world with your memories, busy wandering hands, intuitions, and empathy -- just a blind lady having tea with Frankenstein, but what a blind lady! -- having noticed and assimilated Giotto's noticing and assimilating of the ubiquitous relevance of the relativity of the visual field. And that's just the tip of the iceberg. (Don't get me wrong. THIS FLAMBOYANTLY IMPROVISED PERFORMANCE NO LONGER HAS ANYTHING TO DO WITH A SCORE BY GIOTTO SO ARTFULLY WRITTEN IN PICTOGRAPHS AND EMOTICONS IT ALSO FUNCTIONS, ARGUABLY, AS THE FIRST AND LAST WORK OF MODERN ART FOR ART'S SAKE.) Given the importance of the finding, I took more time (twenty years), so I wrote a shorter thesis, but I guess an advisor's verdict probably still holds:
"My dear, you've become an artist, and we're very proud to have produced you, but if you think you're going to get a doctorate for this project, you are truly not a socialized person."
And my verdict, suspected from and articulated in childhood, still holds too -- that I'm rubber and you're glue, the names you call me stick to you, and when they find their proper target, they are corrected, honed, and clarified. My dear art history department, you've become a wolverine data-collection machine in sheepish wooly mouthed clothing that reduces art to illustration of one of your self-contradictory theories, and I'm very proud to have deduced it, but quite ashamed to have produced you, where victims tend to be co-producers of their own oppressors, though not all are Houdini's, but still, if you see something, say something, then turn it over to the cops. I mean the ones shown on the previous post, the gorgon ladies who kill with their stares. Their gazes (especially the youngest (the "baby"), we are the holy terrors responsible for all revolutions) say -- if you think you can get away with this forever, you are not only not a socialized person, you are a fool.
Everybody knows. You are an empathy and joy bereft sociopath that betrayed the humanities, and that includes humanity. to pander to data worship that is now called, but is unworthy of the name, science -- out of, among other things, sheer cowardice. The machine can check your facts, so you never have to risk being wrong. The late Leo Steinberg was the last to attempt a swoop-fest through the mountain peaks in a flying squirrel suit -- pow pow! did Caroline Bynum, blindfolded, shoot him down! -- of an art historical interpretation. Wait! Don't get me wrong. THIS ESSAY HAS NOTHING TO DO WITH THE ART OF RAY SMITH. (When you hold to the credo, from each according to his ability (in your case limited), to each according to his need (in your case, nothing) I'm with you machine, the more so for refusing to pretend I AM you.)
In other words, PLACE the pendulum ball in the center, don't hurl it back down to fly back and forth and drive all sane people over to the business school to be converted to sociopaths. Sanity becomes the humanities, and even science, but as it stands, j'accuse! I accuse you of criminal insanity. These cases filed as "suicide" are under review. There are many, but I know personally of two -- the best friend of Callisto's rescuer in undergraduate, and another, a colleague of mine in graduate school. The stuff you push is more empathy and joy numbing than Tylenol, and those who, lacking forked tongue, we who can't separate saying, being, and doing are food before it's food drenched in shellac dried and placed in the window to advertise food drenched in shellac dried and placed in the window to advertise HELP! where's the food???? -- need to breathe oxygen, not just oxymorons. Convenient to your ongoing rule, we must either fly or die.
Pioneer assimilators of relativity in the bone, we're the avant garde (those calling it dead are looking in a mirror) today only seeming to go backward, but that's only because as revolutionaries, we're the wheel not the wagon it's pushing forward. ALL THIS REVOLUTIONARY ART AND PHILOSOPHY (THE WHEEL) HAS NOTHING TO DO WITH LIFE. (THE WAGON) Why would the wagon want a r-e-v-o-l-u-t-i-o-n, when that means just going around in circles, and for a wagon that includes somersaulting into a ditch? Restore the mychorrizae, repair the torn roots to revive language with an open heart, as Confucius teaches, and watch everything turn green as gold in autumn going quite miraculously backwards.
Meanwhile -- this could be a wrap up in a Shakespeare comedy like "Love's Labor Lost" being performed in Riverside Park with Callisto watching patiently and happily running from hill to hill with the other spectators as the spotlights rise on the different scenes staged over a block length of the park. She thus obediently plays her assigned part in the interactive staging, including, in the closing scene, patiently watching and listening, as many of the characters light up and enjoy a smoke, and others doze off. Turns out she's the only one of all of us not only following all the convolutions by which the guilty are brought to justice, and all the plot lines are unraveled and sewn into a toasty warm geometric quilt, but -- by now she's on her toes, no longer at "sit!" the wheels of her mind spinning spinning -- checking to be sure it works. As the star of the show -- the hero who stays awake to avoid being body snatched -- she then trots out to join the cast at the curtain call -- by which she earns the somewhat icky sticky nickname Shirley for Shirley Temple, but I finally was able to remove it -- Sherlock always gets her man. In this Perry Mason reversal, the seat of protest harbors the chief honchos of the protested against -- Trump is their puppet -- cushioned by twenty-something, suckling infants bred to marry and make more of this, government supported mafia as they all cry -- money money money the green eyed Frankenstein monster that destroys men's souls! -- their mothers on the phone with the dean shrieking -- stop stop stop that muck racker! She's upsetting my precious darling Carlos, your bread basket.
The drama is over. The verdict is too obvious to include in the script. You're re-classified as a suspected, somnambulistic serial killer, so don't try to leave town, or skip any treatments. This Achilles, meanwhile, doesn't buy the zombie alibi. She's perpared to lay you low and drag your corpse through the dust until the gods withdraw their go ahead. Publish more rubbish and perish. Or, given the salutary effects of rifles pointed to one's head, notice the fortuitous ubiquitousness of those lovely ladies up there. We're due for a shotgun graduation.
*Relax Francis. "Of course mystics use sexual imagery; sex is what people have to love with." (Simone Weil)
