Manifesto Page #4

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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 sh*t.

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, f***ing joke.

I mean, the whole world is

conducted like a f***ing

amateur f***ing 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.

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