Tuesday, December 20, 2011

Toot Toot...oldies goldies...


Poetry comes alive only when recited; plays when put on stage —without voice both seem dead on paper. That's why, sometimes, a mediocre poet, but who can deliver his lines will sound brilliant.  Is there anything more boring and pointless —reading a play?

For the best readers were jazz musicians, Jack of course, first among the equals...

Joseph Beuys:  'I call everything drawing'. True.

The hideous painted dreck of Baselitz, Penck, Anselm Kiefer and other post-culture buffaloes. Not for me, thank you very much.

 Indeed, the emperor of the 20th century art, since ca. 1950, hath neither shame nor royally resplendent robes.


Ein Ruf haben. To have a purpose.   Heidegger

Talent is common; original talent is hare.   Hoffman

There seems to be something that you can do so much with paint; after that you murder it.  Franz Kline


One of the loveliest little canvases—in the collection of the Univ. of Iowa Art Museum.  Obscure painter named Erbsloch; an oil sketch of tennis players ca. 1910 —the Innocence before Darkness.


"We get more precious as the years pass"  Johnny Hallyday (from 'Man on the Train').  True, we become more interesting once we pass fifty. Women become more beautiful; men start coming into their own.  Youth is greatly overrated, violent and stupid.  Glad you can't remain stuck in that cloud of Ego stupidity. But, yet terror of it being incessantly rammed down our throats through the Orwellian Hollywood sewer lines...

The Ontario bathroom insight:

Function supersedes frills (decoration).

Zen of the Quick (The Quick and the Dead):

"Congo" by Bill Baziotes

It came From Zen Actually not from "Phil Jackson" (roll eyes)...

Just do it!

All rights withheld,

Boris Gregoric 2011

Monday, December 5, 2011

Nobody at the Pool

Something needs to be said in favor of writers' passions, the passions outside of twriting, outside of their ‘fame’.  In fact, we don’t even want to discuss the objectively —clunker like, big fat dense-headed like —famous (like Norman Mailer say).  The big guns. For famous authors are rich, and rich authors are —almost with no exceptions —finished. (Not necessarily en corpora...) It is a course of human events that one naturally quite naturally bites the hand that feeds it, prickly... Let us just say that those others, daily authors, the working members as if of this oft despised and ill-paid class —that they have to have passion to the side, so to speak. Just not to go nuts...

Say Henry: he played ping-pong and painted watercolors. Another Miller, my friend Charles. A poet,  not famous at all —but loves swimming. First thing in the day, he's up at the pool up on the East Side High.  Nothing beats that morning dip when there are no assorted water buffaloes, no toddler swimming classes, no  'meets', no championship chasers, no track hogs —only a few unhurried geezers, wondrously wrinkled, shriveled —yet what bliss! Kaboom splash splash.

© 2011 —Boris Gregoric: Ian T.Brill  (nome de plume) All Rights Reserved

Saturday, November 26, 2011

The Armchair


Nothing meshed. When one saw only the negative side to everything—nothing meshed. A universe reared its ugly, obstinate face.  It is but mirror of ourselves this universe —what we are is what we most often see. And to Mona, the universe was a derelict armchair, cheaply upholstered, stubborn, hard to move.      An armchair she spent the past twenty years in. An armchair in which her late husband, the exiled politician Frump was stricken by aneurysm.        An armchair was Mona’s sanctum, a place to cuss and bitch, to cast aspersions, to weep and blame, to play victim and martyr games —endlessly. It was an unending succession of flares and bursts of anger, of violent curses, of the old prophets’ world in which everything is perceived opaquely and menacingly, in which humans beings are enemies and everything is hostile.        In this Biblical world, this almost Old Testament like world, wave after wave of negativity wash the shores of the distraught mind. Then —one Friday, Mona already at the threshold of eighty —after twenty years of exile in a hotel room with the same derelict crimson armchair —the chair was there no more …


© 2011 Boris Gregoric, All Rights Reserved

Thursday, November 10, 2011

The Pissoir


For Pisanello and Leonardo

Your pissoir ended the charade hundred plus years ago to this day, you, the man of the highest bourgeois echelons,  the murderer of art or –simply –the pisseur.

Yes, you could have continued, like so many others, more or less of equal ability, could have painted competently, even excelled in a few major styles and mannerisms transmitted through the art history of the West –but instead you chose to play chess —and piss it all away.

 You, a revolutionary, albeit well-endowed, an anarchist, a Bakunin of arts, or rather a Proud’homme of arts —the proud instrument of a fateful negation. Either way, it was pissed away, then flushed – and it had to be.  A pissoir is a pissoir is a pissoir.

Years passed and you traveled around the world.  You hated  the fatuity of Los Angeles, of Hollywood etc. Kept playing chess: perhaps once or twice even with the young Jean Vigo (Jean Vigo, the great white hope of the silver screen) while all along you refused to grow up.  Your parents must have despaired, albeit the dividends accrued handsomely. Besides, it is safer to play chess, than to hop about in the trenches of Verdun and Ypres....not to mention it is always better to doodle, and whittle, and diddle all life long, rather than cobble  the hard macadam'd rues de Montparnasse  

In the end, in the dispatch we send out,  like so many famed artists,  basically you were born with a silver spoon in hand —and how could it have been your fault?  Those Montparnasse heights, those lovely Montparnasse heights that gave birth to many famous art movements, to many sidewalk cafés, so many urinals in each  —only one of them to become the famous objet d'art Moderne sneaked out of a cafe not far from the Montparnasse Cemetery, where everybody who is somebody gets buried — not you however, for you, Marcelo, rest  at the Rouen public cemetery — the literary reference of which will surely not be missed by many.  No, sire, no madame,  the reference will surely not be lost —

And now, don’t mention a thinly disguised feudal caste-system of the so-called modern democracy, no sir.  For the famous scions and masters of the urinary fountains might sniff at the fact. After all they have to pretend to be busy.  If nothing else busy to be 'making' the so-called money.

Alas!  A chicken one day comes home to roost! The Conceptual Art!

© 2011 —Boris Gregoric, All Rights Reserved