Friday, June 27, 2014

ponderous

Prisoners - Denis Villeneuve
Nobody ever wrote or painted, sculpted, modeled, built, invented, for another reason than to exit from hell.
Each paint brush touch/strike (coup de pinceau) on the canvas is worst than an event.
As this not for this world
it has never been for this earth that we have all always worked,
fought
screamed of horror, hunger, misery, hatred, scandal or aversion,
that we have all being poisoned
although we have been subjugated by it
and that we have eventually suicide ourselves
as aren’t we all like the poor Van Gogh himself, suicided by society!
I see, while writing those lines, the painter’s blood red face coming to me, in a wall of gutted sunflowers,
in a formidable blaze of opaque hyacinth embers and lapis-lazuli pasture.
All that, in the middle of a bombing like an atoms meteoric that would reveal itself grain by grain,
proof that Van Gogh thought of his canvas as a painter, yes, and only as a painter,
but who would,
by this very fact,
a formidable musician.
What is it to draw? How de manage to do so? That is the action to create a path through an invisible iron wall that seems to be situated between what we feel and what we can. How should we go through this wall? It is useless to hit strongly, we have to sap this wall and go through it with a file, slowly and, in my opinion, with great patience.

original version from Antonin Artaud. Van Gogh Le Suicidé de la Société. Paris: Gallimard 2001