wienerblut

powered by viennanet.info
  • Salvation
  • ART&VIOLENCE
  • SUPPORTERS
    • „CHANGE“
  • ADVERSARIES
    • „OKTO ECKT AN . . .“
  • LEFT&RIGHT
  • TABOO&SUICIDE
    • Da-Da Ga-Ga Ca-Ca
  • QUOTES
    • PETER WEIBEL ÜBER STEPHAN KOREN
    • VALIE EXPORT Center Linz
    • Gerhard Rühm, ein letzter Universalkünstler
  • LINKS
    • CONTACT
  • DOWNLOADS

 spotlight on . . .
  Peter Weibel
  VALIE EXPORT
  Konrad Bayer
  OKTO (...eckt an!)
  Hermann Nitsch
  Günter Brus
  Otto Mühl
  Gerhard Rühm
  Andreas Mailath-Pokorny
  Otmar Bauer
  Rudolf Scholten
  Danielle Spera

 

Links

   Our Man in Vienna
   Harry´s Memoir

 

Latest

  • LEFT&RIGHT
  • -ART&VIOLENCE
  • -Die Keule/The Cudgel
  • -Gerhard Rühm, ein letzter Universalkünstler
  • Da-Da Ga-Ga Ca-Ca

Archives

  • Oktober 2022 (1)
  • Februar 2022 (1)
  • Dezember 2021 (2)
  • August 2021 (1)
  • März 2021 (1)
  • Juni 2020 (1)
  • Januar 2020 (1)
  • Oktober 2019 (1)
  • Dezember 2018 (1)
  • September 2018 (2)
  • Juni 2018 (2)
  • März 2018 (2)
  • Februar 2018 (1)
  • Januar 2018 (1)
  • Oktober 2017 (1)

Kategorien

  • Keine Kategorien

Meta

  • Anmelden
  • Beitrags-Feed (RSS)
  • Kommentare als RSS
  • WordPress.org
054691
Users Today : 19
Users Yesterday : 27
This Month : 823
This Year : 2498
Total Users : 53533
Views Today : 101
Total views : 145665
Who's Online : 2

LEFT&RIGHT

von harry am 20. Oktober 2022 um 16:26
Veröffentlicht in: Allgemein

The Master Game & Parallels

In the film The Master Game, directed by Lutz Dammbeck, he and Helmut Kohlenberger draw parallels between two quotations. One stems from a letter by the anonymous self-proclaimed perpetrator who alleged to have painted over the painted-over paintings of Arnulf Rainer: “I decided to become an Actionist.” The other is a phrase from Adolf Hitler’s Mein Kampf : “I decided to become a politician.”

Helmut Kohlenberger, philosopher: “The cultural scene in which one makes a decision to become an Actionist is the structural successor to that erstwhile regime. It is the only dictatorship that is presently allowed in this country.

Lutz Dammbeck: “In other words, in the cultural scene one can give vent to Nazi-type barbarity under a Leftist banner.”

Kohlenberger: “Here is a text that rritatingly brings to mind that there is a continuity right in the midst of the asserted discontinuity, and right where you might least expect to find it, that is among the good old leftist and anti-fascistic artists.”[3]

* * *

Das Meisterspiel & Parallele

Aus dem Film Das Meisterspiel von Lutz Dammbeck, in welchem der 1994 erfolgte und bis heute nicht geklärte Anschlag auf einige Bilder Arnulf Rainers thematisiert wird. Im Bekennerbrief kommt der Satz vor, „Ich habe mich entschlossen, Aktionist zu werden.“
Diese Worte erinnern an ein Zitat aus Mein Kampf von Adolf Hitler: „Ich habe mich entschlossen, Politiker zu werden.“

Der Philosoph Helmut Kohlenberger: „Die Kunstszene, in der beschlossen wird, Aktionist zu sein, ist ein struktureller Nachfolger (zur damalige Regierung) … Und ich glaube tatsächlich, daß in der gesamten Kunstszene eine Nachfolge dieses Regimes gegeben ist, denn sie ist die einzige erlaubte Diktatur in diesem Land.“[1]

Lutz Dammbeck: „Das heißt also, in der Kunstszene kann man unter linken Etiketten mal so richtig die Nazi-Sau ʼrauslassen.“

Kohlenberger: „Insofern ist hier ein Text entstanden, der unangenehm erinnert, daß es eine Kontinuität gibt, mitten in der behaupteten Diskontinuität und zwar gerade dort, wo man sie nicht vermutet, nämlich bei den braven, linken und antifaschistischen Künstlern.“[2]


[1] Lutz Dammbeck, Regisseur, Der Film: Das Meisterspiel, Deutschland 1998.
[2] Interview Lutz Dammbeck mit Helmut Kohlenberger aus dem Meisterspiel.
[3] Helmut Kohlenberger interviewed by Lutz Dammbeck in his film Das Meisterspiel, Germany, 1998.

-ART&VIOLENCE

von harry am 6. Februar 2022 um 12:19
Veröffentlicht in: Allgemein

Violence as Art & Art as Violence*

In art and literature it becomes more and more difficult to separate the sheep from the goats, in other words: valid artists from charlatans. It’s all a matter of opinion. (In my humble opinion, the goats gained the upper hand long ago, and their bleating is the dominant sound.) However, public “Actions” such as the flagellation of self and others, the drinking of blood and urine, the eating of feces, copulation to the accompaniment of fecal production, self-mutilation, self-immolation and tormenting animals to death are actions that I for one could not keep silent about. Examples: Valie Export poured scalding wax over live birds. Günter Brus slit his chest open with a razor blade and declared that the next step would be to cut a piece of himself off and eat it. Rudolf Schwarzkogler committed suicide in a ritualistic act of self-immolation. It is alleged that he cut his penis off before defenestrating himself.

Such excrescences are engaged in and supported by the Austrian cultural elite, la crème de la crème. They meet the approval of the powers-that-be, as well as those aspiring to power. The advocates are skillful and well-versed in the art of sophistry and have become an integral part of the anti-fascist scene.

It is revealing that those who have literally defecated on the State been sanctioned and sanctified by the State and are thus sacrosanct. They have achieved the highest status and have been awarded the most prestigious prizes and honors by the State. They are even depicted on postage stamps.

As things are, having a critical stance is tantamount to opposing the State. Speaking out means countering power and influence and can have dire consequences. Those who are not proponents or fellow travelers have been cowed and invariably keep mum.

In this topsy-turvy situation, criticism of Actionist violence does not come from the Left, but rather predominantly, nay almost exclusively from the hard Right. To have a critical view means being lumped together with unsavory political elements and being smeared with a brown brush.

The question is whether mendacity and calumny can serve a good purpose. I answer that in the negative. Clarification is long overdue. And I say: Let the chips fall where they may!

*from „Violence Under the Guise of Art“ or „Third Reich Recycling“ by Herbert Kuhner

Request for the entire text HERE

 

mailart by Padhi Frieberger

-Die Keule/The Cudgel

von harry am 18. Dezember 2021 um 10:23
Veröffentlicht in: Allgemein

Die Keule

„Die Berauschung durch Blut und das Auseinanderreißen von rohem Fleisch soll befriedigend sein … Das Töten war und ist außerhalb des ethischen Urteils.[1] Wenn es möglich wäre, würde ich durchaus lieber mit Menschen arbeiten, mit toten Menschen, nämlich mit Leichen.[2]  Ich könnte mir vorstellen, daß ein Mord durchaus Bestandteil eines Kunstwerks ist, daß aber jetzt eine andere Verantwortungsebene an den Mörder herantritt.… Also: Kunst kann auch ein Verbrechen sein, sagen wir es so.“[3]
– Hermann Nitsch

Nitsch weiter:„Mühl ist spezialisiert auf Minderjährige und Sex, und ich bin spezialisiert auf qualvolles Martern von Viechern … Ich könnte mir vorstellen, daß ein Mord durchaus Bestandteil eines Kunstwerks ist. [4] Das Töten war und ist außerhalb des ethischen Urteils.“ [5]
– Hermann Nitsch

„Der Wiener Aktionskünstler Hermann Nitsch erhält den Großen Österreichischen Staatspreis 2005. Wie Staatssekretär Morak am 5. Oktober der Öffentlichkeit mitteilte, sei Nitsch ‚eine zentrale Figur österreichischen zeitgenössischen Kunstschaffens, der in seinem Werk grundlegende Fragen des Menschseins thematisiert’“.[6]
– Bundeskanzleramt Österreich

 „Die Ehremedaille an Hermann Nitsch sei ein Signal, daß die Stadt zu dem steht, was du tust“.
Andreas Mailath-Pokorny, Stadtrat für Kultur. [7]

Herr Nitsch (l),  Herr Mailath-Pokorny

„Die Kunstszene, in der beschlossen wird, Aktionist zu sein, ist ein struktureller Nachfolger (des Nationalsozialismus) … Und ich glaube tatsächlich, daß in der gesamten Kunstszene eine Nachfolge dieses Regimes gegeben ist, denn sie ist die einzige erlaubte Diktatur in diesem Land.“
– Helmut Kohlenberger, Philosoph

„Das heißt also, in der Kunstszene kann man unter linken Etiketten mal so richtig die Nazi-Sau ʼrauslassen.“ [8]
– Lutz Dammbeck, Filmemacher,( Das Meisterspiel, 1998)

Kohlenberger: „Insofern ist hier ein Text entstanden, der unangenehm erinnert, daß es eine Kontinuität gibt, mitten in der behaupteten Diskontinuität und zwar gerade dort, wo man sie nicht vermutet, nämlich bei den braven, linken und antifaschistischen Künstlern.“[9]


„Es ist Zeit, die Würde dieses Hauses, die Würde dieses Landes; die Würde dieser Stadt ernst zu nehmen, auch ihre Geschichte, und daraus die entsprechenden Konsequenzen zu ziehen.“ [10]
– Andreas Mailath-Pokorny, Stadtrat für Kultur. Der Standard, „Auschwitz und der Fall Landbauer“, S. 46, 27/28. Janner, 2018.

 

***

 

The Cudgel

“The intoxication created by the blood and the ripping apart of raw flesh should be satisfying and enjoyable since it relieves man of his suppressed desires…. If possible I would prefer to work with human beings, with dead human beings, with corpses to be specific.”[11]I could well envision that murder could be a component of a work of art; the artist’s accountability would have another status…Thus, art can consist of a crime.”[12] Killing was and is beyond all moral judgments.”[13]
– Hermann Nitsch

 More Nitsch: “Mühl’s specialty is minors and sex, and my specialty is the agonizing torture of animals….I could well envision that murder could be a component of a work of art.[14] Killing was and is beyond all moral judgments. [15]

 „The Vienna Action Artist Hermann Nitsch receives the Grand Austrian State Prize in 2005. State Secretary Morak announced to the public on October 5th that Nitsch, a central figure of Austrian contemporary art who deals with the basic question of being in his work ‚„[16]
–
Bundeskanzleramt Österreich Internet, 10. Oktober 2005.321/5000

“This award is a signal that the city supports what you do.”
– Andreas Mailath-Pokorny, Municipal Cultural Coordinator, presenting the Golden Honorary Medal of the City of Vienna to Hermann Nitsch, City Hall Correspondence, February 2, 2005.

 “The cultural scene in which one makes a decision to become an Actionist is the structural successor to that erstwhile regime. It is the only dictatorship that is presently allowed in this country.
– Helmut Kohlenberger, philosopher:

“In other words, in the cultural scene one can use Nazi-type cudgel under a leftist banner.”
– Lutz Dammbeck, filmmaker The Master Game,1998)

Kohlenberger: “There is a continuity right in the midst of the asserted discontinuity, and right where you might least expect to find it, that is among the good old leftist and anti-fascistic artists.”[17]

„It is time to take the dignity of this house, the dignity of this state, the dignity of this city seriously and draw the proper conclusions.
– Andreas Mailath-Pokorny Der Standard, ”Auschwitz and the Landbauer Case,” 46, 27/28, January, 2018.

 

* * * * * * * * *

 

[1] Gerhard Jaschke: Das rote Tuch, aus Paula Devarney: „Nitsch: Art of Killing“, Caellian, 9. Okt. 1970.
[2] Mojca Kumerdej: „Hermann Nitsch o smrti in ziviljenju“, Delo, 3. Okt. 1992, Ljubljana; ”Im Blutrausch”, News, Nr.30/95,S.190; Sechs Tage blutiges Welttheater, News, Nr.40/96, S.190; The Devil In a Grey Beard, Interview mit Adrian Searle, The Guardian, 15. Nov. 1997, S. 17; News, Nr. 27, 5. Juli 2001, S. 7.
[3] Falter 24-30. 7, Nr. 30, 1998, S. 18.
[4] Falter 24-30. 7, Nr. 30, 1998, S. 18.
[5] Gerhard Jaschke: Das rote Tuch, aus Paula Devarney: „Nitsch: Art of Killing“, Caellian, 9. Okt. 1970.
[6] Bundeskanzleramt Österreich Internet, 10. Oktober 2005.
[7] Andreas Mailath-Pokorny, Stadtrat für Kultur, bei der Verleihung der „Ehrenmedaille der Bundeshauptstadt Wien in Gold“ an Hermann Nitsch, Rathauskorrespondenz vom 14.2.2005.
[8] Interview Lutz Dammbeck, Regisseur, Deutschland, 1998.           Das Meisterspiel,
[9] Interview Lutz Dammbeck mit Helmut Kohlenberger aus dem Film Das Meisterspiel von Lutz Dammbeck, Deutschland, 1998.
[10]Der Standard, „Auschwitz und der Fall Landbauer“, S. 46, 27/28. Janner, 2018.
[11] Mojca Kumerdej: “Hermann Nitsch o smrti in Zivljenu,” Delo, Ljubljana, Oct. 3, 1992; “Im Blutrausch,” News,, No. 30/95, p. 190; “Sechs Tage blutiges Welttheater,” News, No. 40/96, p. 190, “The Devil In a Grey Beard,” interview with Adrian Searle, The Guardian, Manchester, Nov. 15, 1997, p. 17; News, No. 27, July, 2001, p. 7.
[12] Falter 24-30, 7, No. 30, 1998, p. 18.
[13] Paula Devarney: “Nitsch – Art of Killing,” Caellian, 9. Oct. 1970; Hermann Nitsch: Das rote Tuch – Das Orgien Mysterien Theater – Im Spiegel der Presse 1960-1988, Freibord, Vienna, 1988, p. 106.
[14] Falter 24-30, 7, No. 30, 1998, p. 18.
[15] Paula Devarney: “Nitsch – Art of Killing,” Caellian, 9. Oct. 1970; Hermann Nitsch: Das rote Tuch – Das Orgien Mysterien Theater – Im Spiegel der Presse 1960-1988, Freibord, Vienna, 1988, p. 106.
[16]Bundeskanzleramt Österreich Internet, 10. Oktober 2005
[17] Helmut Kohlenberger interviewed by Lutz Dammbeck in his film Das Meisterspiel, Germany, 1998.

-Gerhard Rühm, ein letzter Universalkünstler

von harry am 18. Dezember 2021 um 10:17
Veröffentlicht in: Allgemein

Gerhard Rühm. 4.10.2017 – 28.1.2018. Das Kunstforum Wien zeigt mit Gerhard Rühm im Herbst 2017 einen der letzten Universalkünstler. Als Komponist, Pianist, Performer, Literat und bildender Künstler war der 1930 in Wien geborene und heute in Köln lebende Gerhard Rühm ein Grenzgänger zwischen den einzelnen …

Oswald Wiener: „Es war mir zum Beispiel auch nicht ganz einfach, meinen Urin zu trinken oder meine Scheiße zu löffeln … Lange vor dem Aktionismus haben Rühm und der Bayer geschrieben: Scheißen und Brunzen sind Kunsten.“[1]

Oswald Wiener: “It was not easy to drink my urine and eat my feces….

Long before Actionism, Rühm and Bayer wrote:

‘Defecation and urination are art.’”[2]

Oswald Wiener: „Wir haben schon daran gedacht, Leute umzubringen, als Kunstwerk oder so – wenn das radikal ist. Aber es ist nicht geschehen. Bayer, Achleitner, Rühm und ich haben uns zwei, drei Jahre lang fast täglich zu intensivieren Diskussionen getroffen.“[3]

 Oswald Wiener:“We thought about killing people as a work of art, or that sort of thing – if that is radical. But it did not happen. Bayer, Achleitner, Rühm and I met for intensive discussions on an almost daily basis for two or three years.”[4]

Bei einer Ausstellung der Wiener Gruppe im Museumsquartier 1998 wurden mißgebildete Säuglinge in Photokollagen von Gerhard Rühm verulkt. Eine Kollage, zeigt ein Photo eines weiblichen Säugling mit gespreizten Beinen, daneben eine Zeichnung die einen irregierten Penis darstellt.[5]

As part of an exhibit of the Vienna Group in the Museum Quarter in 1998 of photo collages of malformed infants by Gerhard Rühm. One collage shows a female infant and a tumescent male penis.[6]

Gerhard Rühm | Ausstellungen | Kunstforum Wien – Bank Austria …

* * * * * * * * *

[1] Wiener Sonderdruck, „Wiener Aktionismus“, Friedrich Geyerhofer, „Gespräch mit Oswald Wiener“, 1981, S. 58.
[2] Oswald Wiener interviewed by Friedrich Geyerhofer, Wiener Sonderdruck, Wiener Aktionismus, 1981, p. 58.
[3] Oswald Wiener: “Über Kunst, Selbstbeobachtung und Automatentheorie: Ein Gespräch mit Stan Lafleur; Textauszug aus: Eckhard Hammel, Hrsg., Synthetische Welten. Kunst Künstlichkeit und Kommunikationsmedien, Essen: Verlag die Blaue Eule, 1996, S. 199-213.
[4] Oswald Wiener: „Über Kunst und Automatentheorie: Ein Gespräch mit Stan Lafleur“; Textauszug aus: Eckhard Hammel, Hrsg., Synthetische Welten. Kunst, Künstlichkeit und Kommunikationsmedien, Essen, Verlag der Blaue Eule, 1996, p. 199-213.
[5] Die Wiener Gruppe, Kunsthalle, Museumsquartier, Nov. 13 – Feb. 21. 1999.
[6] Die Wiener Gruppe, Kunsthalle, Museumsquartier, Nov. 13 – Feb. 21, 1999.

Da-Da Ga-Ga Ca-Ca

von harry am 2. August 2021 um 0:05
Veröffentlicht in: Allgemein

Da-Da Ga-Ga Ca-Ca
(Duck! The Future is upon us)

We arrived in Berlin. The abstract painter of squares and I. We’d look for a hotel later. First we’d go to meet his friend. A leading member of the Viennese expatriate colony, one of the pioneers of neo-dada. A famous man.

 

 

We climbed the stairs to his attic apartment. In my hand I held a valise with my pajamas and precious manuscripts.

Square rang the bell and the poet came to the door middle-aged, greying at the temples. We were ushered in with backslapping. He was glad to see us.

With him was his sidekick, a slender ephebe with shoulder length blonde hair and large, sparkling, slightly mad eyes. On one wall was a poster of Trotsky, scowling behind horn-rimmed glasses and on the opposite a blown-up photo of two lesbians masturbating.
We had intruded on a garrulous conversation. But they didn’t let our advent tarnish the brilliance of their mood. The expressions and fragmentary sentences dealt with urination, ejaculation, defecation and sodomy. Various individuals were mentioned, and added to each name was Goethe’s well known Götz quote. (In the English equivalent the individual is called upon to use his lips instead of his tongue.) This spicy badinage was truncated by hearty guffaws. Unfortunately, I was too sober to appreciate the psychedelic quality of their humor.
The poet sat close to the sidekick, nudging him with his elbow, mussing up his hair and lovingly tossing him about. I had been told about the sidekick. He had provided excitement of a new and different kind. Something that had never been done before. His claim to fame was that he had publicly shat. It had happened in the hallowed halls of the University of Vienna.
After swigs of lukewarm scotch, we set off to experience the night life of Berlin. The poet led, his coat collar turned up, the sidekick at his side. Square and I followed. The poet continued to handle the sidekick. Then I knew what they reminded me of. Lear and his Fool. The poet was pushing forty, and that was ancient according to today’s standards. No, it wasn’t easy to be avant-garde and middle-aging. The Fool was allowed to accompany the great man, and he had to humor him. This he did by shouting at perfect strangers and demanding their identity. His act was met with appreciation and amusement by the rest of us. I was glad to have something to laugh at. Lear loved the Fool because he was a Mensch and everything he did was menschlich, He was a human being and everything he did was human.

We were hungry and stopped at a sausage stand for a snack. Four sausages with potato salad. The vendor was a lady, white smock open at the top. Rivers of turquoise veins travelled under alabaster skin from neck to bosom and back to neck. The Fool’s eyes were riveted to her. With mouth full, he commented on the veins and laughed, revealing potato salad and fangs. It was like a vampire in delectation over his prey,

There were the bright lights and display windows of the Ku-damm. Then dark side streets. We descended into a beat club decorated as a prison. Bars and black and white. The smoky atmosphere was bloated by red and blue rotating lights. Long-maned girls in mini, maxi and hot pants ritualistically trembled and gestured to booming music. Their partners moved as if struggling under water in front of them, against them.

Slides and bits of films were projected on the walls. Above the dance floor, behind a glass window, a topless disc jockey placed records on the turntables and whispered unintelligible nothings into a microphone. When the music became especially hectic, white lights flickered and blinked so that the dancers jerked in silent film manner.

We had not bothered to check our coats. Hot it was. Lear, his collar still turned up, picked up a partner and proceeded to dance. He flapped his arms, sprang up, balanced on one foot, then the other. The Fool jumped frenetically behind him. When one was up, the other down. The Fool whooped, but could hardly be heard above the music. But undismayed, he hog-called at the crescendo and catapulted above the spastic dancers like an imp: both seen and heard. The record had ended. There was just the scream and the Fool bathed in lights.
After that Lear and the Fool wilted. Gasping, Lear suggested we leave.

The next stop was the inner Sanctum of Cosa Nostra. It was located on a still darker side street. Only members were allowed in. A shabby wooden door with paint peeling off. It had to be opened with a key. Lear gave his key to the Fool who promptly inserted it in the lock and turned it. The door was pushed open. Inside were clouds of grey smoke. I had to blink my eyes.

Unfortunately gas masks weren’t issued. Loud music pounded from speakers. Yes background music had to be provided for everything. It made things easier. No embarrassing silence. Only it wasn’t background music. It was foreground music. It was life that was the background.
The patrons were hairy, mangy ones. One denizen next to me, holding a glass, was moving and strutting to the music as if he were alone. He probably was. It struck me as active contemplation.

As I got used to the low lights (I couldn’t get used to the smoke), I noticed the girls. It was hard to give them the once-over since they were giving me the once-over. Some of them weren’t bad, but they all had deadpan faces. The message was that they were equipped with the necessary strategic areas. They knew it and they wanted me to know it. Yes, it was lurking in the murky recesses of their clothes. But I was also to know this: strategic areas ware verboten as far as I was concerned. Make no mistake about it, fellow, their expressions relayed. It’s verboten and, you’re not going to get any of lt. The message registered. I couldn’t help but register it.

My response was that although strategic areas were fine, I was not so keen on deadpan faces. I liked a body to be alive from the neck up. What was verboten could be verboten for all I cared.

Then the attitude of the partners of the vamps came through. It went like this: You’re the new kid on the block – the rich kid. And we’re going to plaster you to the wall. I was the white missionary among cannibals and they were boiling water in the pot. I was the Earthman on Mars, and the Martians were going to gobble me up. Those hairy, mangy ones.

Lear was expounding on being human. We were all human beings. And he loved humanity and that which was human. He mussed the Fool’s hair and hugged him. Suddenly my fears became reality. A tall, chunky man stood in front of me. Rimless glasses on a bloated face. He looked like an overweight B-film sadist. And truly he was threatening to lay the bourgeois flat. Unfortunately the bourgeois happened to be me. The Sadist was renowned as a karate champion (among the artists and literati) and seemed intent on enhancing his reputation at my expense. He got into position and I expected a crippling chop at any second. Progressive writer triumphs over old-fashioned one! But even if I miraculously managed to get the better of the Sadist, the others would make short work of me. It looked like the rich kid, the white missionary, the Earthman, the bourgeois was going to bite the dust of that dirty floor. Lear, however, came to our aid. He embraced me and said that I was under his protection. I was a writer too. Maybe not quite up-to-date. But I was a wonderful human being. I was human and loved me. Then I got a wet kiss on the cheek. I did not evade it or push Lear away. At that moment a kiss was preferable to a kick.

Nor did I refuse the drinks and cigarettes that were offered to me. The smoke, like the liquor had to be swallowed I was told. Was there an alternative to accepting the hospitality of my hosts. The smoke swirled and the music pounded. One had to shout to be heard, and of course everyone shouted and no one was heard. It was pandemonium. It was Babel.

I recognized the famous ones. They all seemed to be there. The Viennese colony.

Duck! I thought. The future is upon us.

In the haze of grey clouds of smoke I saw the poet who burped and broke contrapuntally. What a talent! It wasn’t everyone who could flatulate rhythmically from both ends. Next to him was the Professor, the Big Daddy of neo-dada who had shown him the way. He had transcended language. His poems resembled the neighing of a horse and the braying of a donkey. And then there was the girlish darling of the avant-garde. Pursed expression, Long locks, petal lips, gooselike neck. Hated and envied by all because of his success. He had discovered the art of repeating meaningless phrases and substituting meaningless phrases for meaningless phrases. Then the red-faced dialect playwright. Author of Punch and Judy plays. Punch works Judy over. Judy whacks Punch. Punch strips Judy. Punch rapes Judy. Judy stabs Punch. And the film-maker and his star his moll. He, large jaw, turned-up puppet nose. Resembling the carved faces on trick corks. Or the dummy you slug in the Prater. She filmed in a pornographic pose, holding a Sten gun. They, innovators. Designers and constructors of a contraption strapped to her chest. A mini movie theater, the first feely. An audience of one reaches in through curtains and twists knobs. His scriptwriter, the mousy Maoist squirt. His masterpiece, a hundred-page tract on the female sexual organ, using the techniques of free association and montage. He liked the way they broke things up in China during the Cultural Revolution. In his briefcase he carried the writings of Mao and Disney. Mao and Mickey Mouse. Mickey Mao. Next the delicate poetess, tender love lyrics, her line. Mash you, squash you, jump on you, stomp on you. She was a walking buffet for the avant-garde. Impossible to overlook, the beautiful painter who found everyone and everything beautiful. His specialty, pink baby bottoms and lady fingers wrapped in bacon. He also sculpted. His best known work, a plastic vagina with removable parts. Then another daddy. He smeared foodstuffs on nude models. But recently he had changed his act. Symbolic defecation had made way for the real thing. Then there was his friend, another happening man. Slaughtering lambs was his act. He passed around photos his last happening. A girl lay among lamb gizzards, the model couldn’t have been more than a few months old. The happening man had squinty eyes, pointed ears and the wide toothy mouth of Alfred E. Newman, mascot of Mad Magazine – except fatter. Obesity was the order of the day. Then there was the Big Operator, the Promoter, the Monster-Maker. He brought them to the fore and foisted them on the public. He was an alchemist. He had the Midas touch. Everything he touched turned to gold, excreta though it may be.

The drinks and cigarette smoke had made me groggy. I came upon the truth. It was like a fist in the face. This was the dance around the golden calf. No it was the dance around the golden ass.

I heard a snorting and sang a giant horned head. It was the Minotaur. His shaggy beast’s body was galloping through the crowd. There was the shattering of glass. The shattering echoed and echoed. I was jolted. Square and I followed Lear and the Fool to the door. Pushing and pushing and grabbing and grabbing. Slow steps. Against them, against them. Over them and under them. Under them and over them. THROUGH THEM!

All four of us found ourselves in a cafe. Quiet as the grave. We had gotten out before the arrival of the police

Wine was downed. Lear had gone broke and invited me to invite him and the others to wine.
A tall girl with a stunning figure came in. She headed for our table and sat down. The Fool was smiling inanely. She grabbed him by the hair, pulled his head over the table and throttled him. Blinking, he begged her to stop and forgive him. It seems that the lady was his wife. She had waited for him somewhere but he hadn’t shown up. That was the reason for the going-over. He tried to placate her, expounding on his love for her. Lear came to his aid and told her what a wonderful human being her husband was. He was a dear. And she should love him. For he loved her. She too was a wonderful human being. They were both sweet people. They should love each other and be happy. Lear got up and went to the toilet, taking the Fool with him. That left the three of us at the table. Square asked the Fool’s Wife if she would take out a breast. She said that she couldn’t do it because if she did she would set Lokalverbot. But Square was stubborn and asked again. She again refused. But not on principle. The inference was that had they been in a place where it was acceptable to reveal a breast, she would have complied. But here the consequence would have been Lokalverbot. And she did not want Lokalverbot since this was her favorite haunt.

The two returned. Lear joined us. But the Fool sat down at a nearby and pounded on it. He shouted at those seated there, asked them who they thought they were and what right did they have to behave in such a manner. The occupants of the table were nonplussed They had apparently never seen him before Lear roared. It was all a joke. The Fool remained at the table with his new acquaintances.

Lear again told the Fool’s Wife what a wonderful human being she was. She was wonderful and he loved her. But he also loved her husband. He was full of love. He started to caress her, repeating his words about humanity. He felt one ample breast, and I thought that it would appear at any moment in spite of Lokalverbot. But the Fool replaced her. He sat down and she got up to go to the place he had come from. The Fool was then hugged and told how wonderful he was. I let my gaze wander and heard a sound that resembled the tinkling of the most exquisite dinner bell. When I looked, I saw that Lear and the Fool were exchanging little kisses. While they were thus preoccupied the word Mahlzeit slipped out of my mouth. I had wished them good appetite aloud, and that hadn’t gone over well. But the atmosphere was so suffused with love that anything else was secondary.

They got up and met the Wife on the way to the toilets. All three were embracing and uttering words of agape Humanity, Humanity!

Since Square and I had our overnight bags in Lear’s apartment, we had to go back with them. We hailed a taxi and piled in. It was a giggling, loving ride.
Back at Lear’s apartment. Smoke and music. Leer, the Fool and the Fool’s wife in the center. Square and I on the periphery. They standing. We sitting, Square who was nodding drunkenly, and I witnessed a ponderous minuet a trois. Leer, with a regal gesture, bared the Wife’s coveted breasts. But Square couldn’t enjoy the sight. He had passed out and slid to the floor. I bent over and tried to revive him, but it was senseless. Lear and the Wife were now nude on the floor. The Fool pranced around them whooping like an Indian, stripping and tripping as he stripped. It’s hard to discard pants while dancing.

Once the pants were off, he skipped, flinging his clothes over his head. Under him, the floundering couple. He fluttered above them, cackling, drawing back his lips and revealing the fangs. He was looking for a place to land and add himself. Then he descended, scrimmaging with them and joining their rhythm. The three of them heaved. A tangle of limbs thrashing among the smoke and the blasting music. They had become one. The mass seemed to puff up and deflate like a crazed sea monster. A sea monster that had been hurled to land where it could not return to sea.

It was a night on which I had expected murder, suicide and rape. Now all of these things were taking place. I could no longer differentiate one body from another. That thing was one body. It was a body that was committing murder, suicide and rape

It would explode. It would engulf me. I had to get out, groggy as I was. Square lay at my feet dead to the world, oblivious to everything. Or perhaps he was dreaming of that thrashing monster.

The lesbians on the wall were no longer frozen in motion but were actively masturbating. They too were groaning. And Trotsky was no longer scowling, he was smiling. No, he was throwing his head back and guffawing till the tears came.

After the publication of Da-Da I had achieved notoriety. And by taking to task what was sacred in Austrian culture, I had exposed myself as the „reactionary“ and „fascist“ that I was (and am). „You have just committed suicide“ I was told by the cultural editor of the Catholic highbrow weekly. If I was dead then, I must be doubly dead now! In most of the attacks that were directed against the story the author’s name went unmentioned. This is the traditional manner of treating a non-person. It’s quite a trick and many „critics“ are experts in pulling it off.

Oddly enough, I had also garnered a few fans. Da-Da went over well with some of neo-dada’s adversaries, and I was encouraged to continue in that vein, but The Return of Da-Da, The Son of Da-DA, The Son of DA-DA, The Bride of Da-DA and Da-Da Meets the Wolf Man were not forthcoming. I didn’t know that I’d be having another go at it in Memoirs. However, this should serve as the final swipe, the last swat, and the parting shot on the subject. When it’s done, I hope I never again need repeat myself. There’s no sense in beating a dead horse, even though the horse in question is taken for a live one in certain quarters.

-Herbert Kuhner

  • Seite 1 von 4
  • 1
  • 2
  • 3
  • 4
  • »

©2017-2022 wienerblut | Präsentiert von WordPress mit ComicPress | Subscribe: RSS | Nach oben ↑