An Artist’s Offering

Rosanna Albertini, Friday, July 25.      Death is first among the news, one more time and all over the world. Children, women, old people under shells in Gaza; migrants sinking in the water Ulysses thought was the edge of the earth and is now a mediterranean pool filled with corpses and sunken boats; atrocities in Iraq, in Syria, in Ukraine, and in Northern Korea; in the U.S. death penalty doesn’t do the job, the executed survives too long. Like Simone Forti, I sit among the news wondering if I really feel the mountain of tragedies, spines around my head. I would die if I could.  

A vague nostalgia comes up looking back at the smart cynicism of the sixties, covering with concepts the impotence of humans. “Art corrupts”, said Johen Gerz, “Intelligence will kill us.” Really? I, maybe we, are far from that. What do we really understand? We see the news. Three machine-guns are pointed, three of them at the same time, at the head of baby, a year old? He must be a Sunni, or a Shia , who knows? He looks surprised.        

Tell us, they’ll say to me. / So we will understand and be able  / to resolve things. / They’ll be mistaken. It’s only the things you don’t  /  understand that you can resolve.  / There will be no resolution.  (Peter Hoeg, 1993)

1959                     by Gregory Corso

Uncomprising year — I see no meaning to life.

Though this abled self is here nonetheless,

either in trade gold or grammaticness,

I drop the wheelwright’s simple principle —

Why weave the garland? Why ring the bell?

Penurious butchery these notorious human years,

these confident births these lucid deaths these years.

Dream’s flesh blood reals down life’s mystery —

there is no mystery.

Cold history knows no dynastic Atlantis.

The habitual myth has an eagerness to quit.  

. . .

Lies! Lies! Lies! I lie, you lie, we all lie!

There is no us, there is no world, there is no universe,

there is no life, no death, no nothing — all is meaningless,

and this too is a lie — O damned 1959!

Must I dry my inspiration in this sad concept?

Delineate my entire stratagem?

Must I settle into phantomness

and not say I understand things better than God? 

LAUREN LAVITT, an artist from Los Angeles, just sent a piece she made for this blog

her OFFERING IN 2014