Date: Fri, 20 Jun 1997 19:40:56 -0600 (CST)
Subject: MB: surreal turn-st(y)le.




On Thu, 19 Jun 1997, Edward Moore wrote:

> Lucio Privitello wrote:
> > 
> > + _______________________________(   )________________________________ -
> >                                    |
> >                                    |
> >         Communications crumbling walls that we scale. One can even taste
> > the dirt, which falls upon our lips as we seek to tell of the disaster.
> > Yet, there's Moore. Have you, Edward, traced the falling in/out which
> > encircled this and the Bataille list (connected as they are)? The event
> > itself - (and here I will point to surrealism via Blanchot) - showed how
> > "...he had the particular power not of being the _one_ any more than the
> > others, but of making surrealism each one's Other, and in the attraction
> > of this Other taken as a living presence-absence (a _beyond the day_ at
> > the horizon of a space unknown and without a beyond), of living it with
> > friendship in the most rigorous sense of this exacting term: making the
> > surrealist affirmation, in other words, a presence or a work of
> > friendship." (Blanchot, _Infinite Conversation_, 408). What more.......?
> >                                   |
> >                                   |
> >          Shall it be taken from there....?
> >                                    \
> >                                     \
> >                                      \Given again?
> >                                      /
> >                                     /
> > entre chien et loup dans ----------/
> > lalangue trespasses,               \
> > Lucio Angelo Privitello             \------------Then turn-st(y)le......
> 
> The idea of an "infinite conversation" involves a continuous turning of
> style, a twisting and turning... adaptation, one might call it.  And
> Surrealism, as a definable something, cannot even be called an "Other"
> or an "affirmation," since it involves a dissolution BEFORE THE (F)ACT,
> a loss of self in automatic response to stimuli...  Thank whatever gods
> there be for small blessings... like the first chap who ever carved on
> stone or bark under ancient skies, I created a hole in my personal
> universe, my inner void (the only possible void) that allows influences
> to gather AROUND it only like pretty crystals, adornments. 
> Communication is a turning of style to meet the onslaught of influences
> against the perfect realm when there are no guards...  A peaceful
> "synthesis" because it is not permanent... even the _godhead_ dissolves
> in vapor, or in a coffee can... just ask Lovecraft.
> 
> Edward
> 
   Just a curious question to locate this Lovecraft by email perhaps, may 
I ask him? Do these automatic responses do away with the form or the 
formality of form ( good form ) that makes art a craft? Does the 
automatic lend itself to the neurotic in the gallery? I've been reading 
something like this that helps to liberate these categories, that sees in 
the sheltered images of everyday life shards of dream and delusion that 
fracture its secure surfaces and make something else possible, new 
insights that don't appear by decree carefree and senseless but are far 
ahead the others, into new paradigms of formal thinking ( but this is 
problematic ). What should be opposed to the surreal impulse? What are 
the prison walls? Does solitude begin? Does it have a border? Does it 
inclose something and does it implode in non-communication? Is it 
something contingent spreading its materiality? Does it matter? Does it 
make room for the "synthesis", ...of what? communication/communion? What 
does it overflow? Is it the inner truth? Outside are the others, the 
social, political animals. Are they connected in a movement? Or an 
inertia perhaps? Is there relevance to this surrealism and if so for 
whom? Is that a profitless approach? Are the stakes somewhere else 
perhaps? Are there materialists in the crowd? So again, what matters? 
What awakens the slumbering eye? As a boy they told me I had beautiful 
eyelashes ( the women ), now I'm just an ordinary man. What has 
happened? These are my curious questions to begin a thread or two on 
Blanchot and the surreal, does it exist? Can it be defined? Will 
communication engender thoughts that we might trace from one posting to 
the next? If so, will this be the work of friendship? What is this 
infinity of the conversation? In more detail I will continue to read in 
the hope of finding my way through these labyrinthian bibliomanias. In 
the open air I will share a clear word or two with whatever creature is 
there at the end of an opening, with whoever spreads the logos and 
responds to the hale ...  

ciao,
Leo Raggo//\\//\\//\\
         \\//\\//\\//
            \/  \/