Kaüzpellaplatz

Contemporary man expects to be entertained. His active participation is almost nonexistent. Art, whatever it is, is something of which it is sometimes even proud to flaunt an attitude of invincible ignorance. This sorry state of affairs is unconsciously sanctioned by the stubborn philistinism of our cultural institutions. Museums have approximately the same hours of business as churches, the same sanctimonious odors and silences, and a snobbish presumption in direct spiritual opposition to the vital men [sic] whose works are closeted there. What have those silent corridors to do with Rembrandt and the "no smoking" signs to do with Van Gogh? Beyond the museum, the man in the street is effectively cut off from art's naturally tonic influence by the fashionable brokerage system which, incidentally, but of economic necessity, has more to do with the emergence and establishment of so-called "art-forms" than is generally realized. Art can have no existential significance for a civilization that draws a line between life and art, and collects artifacts like ancestral bones for reverence. Art must inform the living; we envisage a situation in which life is continually renewed by art, a situation imaginatively and passionately constructed to inspire each individual to respond creatively, to bring to whatever act a creative comportment. We envisage it. But it is we, now, who must create it. For it does not exist.

A alternância esquizofrénica em que nos deitamos Como aquele tufo no qual me enrolo para me apaziguar Porque vos amo a revolta que teima em não chegar Companheir@s do mundo que já está dentro de nós O materialismo de dádiva que nos liga Dissipa-se nesta neblina que ,bastante incómoda, não nos deixa sentir o Sol. Das nossas sombras nos levantamos E nelas inscrevemos a nossa sinapse Sem fogo que nos atormente Somos o archote que tudo incendeia.

“Não há lágrimas no Outono"

Sinto o teu peito a minha alcova,