mandag 20. desember 2010

Les Parapluies de Cherbourg * The Umbrellas of Cherbourg *(English and ...

Èn film om dagen i èn måned

Èn film om dagen i èn måned fom. 16. desember.

Det er vinter, forferdelig kaldt, ingen grunn til å gå ut og ikke minst (!) akkurat 10 år siden jeg gjorde det sist. På tide å gjenta suksessen. Hvis noen har forslag til hvilke filmer jeg absolutt bør se; gi beskjed.

Sist gang (januar 2001 (samme måned som jeg brakk foten, hadde stålskinne og stafylokokker)) tok jeg hele Star Wars serien, samt Tarkovskji og Almodovar +++.

Denne gangen har jeg såvidt begynt på de resterende Godard filmene jeg enda ikke har sett, Michelangelo Antonioni og I am Love som var irriterende melodramatisk. Hittil beste: A bout de Souffle: Breathless (Godard). Det kommer mer. I kveld skal jeg se For Ever Mozart. Og i natt: In Treatment sesong II, som er suggererende.
Breathless

lørdag 18. desember 2010

fredag 17. desember 2010

torsdag 16. desember 2010

isolert sett (tilbake i Oslo)

jeg har bein å stå på, men de går bare ikke fremover

onsdag 15. desember 2010

mandag 13. desember 2010

3. natt søvnløs. holder på å bli gal.

ja, jeg sover jo ikke så da
http://treeunit.blogspot.com/
og alt er sånn litt vagt og vakkert,
Jeg kom til å tenke på dette diktet av Inger Hagerup i 4 tiden i natt. Et dikt jeg kan utenat fordi jeg var sykelig forelsket i 15 års alderen. Jeg kjente ham ikke, jeg hadde drømt om ham, og han fikk selvfølgelig aldri vite om det. Eller, hva vet jeg.
To tunger

To tunger har mitt hjerte
To viljer har mitt sinn
Jeg elsker deg bestandig,
og jeg blir aldri din

Dypt i det røde mørket
fikk livet dobbel form
der kurrer det en due
der hvisler det en orm

To tunger har mitt hjerte
Hør på det likevel
Bli hos meg og gå fra meg
og frels meg fra meg selv
Og her er hva faren min sa da jeg fortalte ham om han jeg trodde jeg elsket, men aldri hadde snakket med, som 15 åring: "Problemet Bobbi, det er nemlig alltid slik; er at du er forelsket i èn, som er forelsket i en annen, som er forelsket i en annen, som er forelsket i en annen. Det er kjærlighetens natur." Og jeg tror ikke han sa det for å skåne meg.

Nerver

Wow! Enda en søvnløs natt! I dag tror jeg det er nervene for å komme hjem. Derfor skal jeg lage enda en liste. Dette gleder jeg meg til:
  1. Atelieret!
  2. Gitaren
  3. Treffe dere som gidder å lese mitt slarv her
  4. x
  5. x
  6. x
Ja, det var visst det.
Richard Hawley – Just Like The Rain

fredag 10. desember 2010

Håpløse timer i erosjon

Uendelig tålmodighet

Dortmun!%d!b!o!d!e!g!åa

Allan Pettersson Barfotasånger



Her er teksten, men det er hva jeg husker, dvs. garantert ikke skrevet riktig:

Min längtan
Min längtan är en underlig fågel
Som pickar på fönstret hver natt
Och skulle jeg oppna den flög som besatt
Den er fri under himlens lys
Den flyger i mot og med
Over mennesker och by
Tills den en dag skjutes ned
Min längtan

Min längtan er en vingskjuten fågel
Som lagt seg ner for at dø
I en stigløs skog
I en bottenløs sjø
Den ville flyga mot en stjernas ljos
Men man skjuter alt som flyg og fär
Ifrån menniskjornas hus
Fast stjernan brinner lika klar
Forstås
(!)?!()

Denne fikk jeg på mail i dag fra en ny venn

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torsdag 9. desember 2010

Underwater Sculpture

onsdag 8. desember 2010

Åh, nå begynner det å bli så bra her at jeg gruer meg til å reise. For noen verdifulle måneder! Jeg trives så godt nå at jeg lurer på om jeg må komme tilbake etter jul. Selv om det ikke blir det samme.

Vi redigerer video og det er så fantastisk gøy denne gangen. Kanskje jeg poster et stillbilde en gang, men ikke enda. Jeg liker jo å tenke at dette er veldig anonymt. as if.

søndag 5. desember 2010

fredag 3. desember 2010

Stas, maskinen er fikset igjen. Stas! 1 uke uten. Bra kur. Men huff så flaut det er å lese nedover her nå.

Utrolig mikrobe øker sjansene for liv i rommet

http://www.aftenposten.no/viten/article3931038.ece

torsdag 2. desember 2010

SING INTO MY MOUTH
TALL DARK STRANGER

A LUNG IN BETWEEN
MIND THE GAP

tirsdag 30. november 2010

Bang Bang

Det fine med ä väere nettlös er at det ikke er sä mye annet ä gjöre enn ä lese og tegne. Gud hjelpe meg endelig ferdig med Kierkegaard: for en nitrist affäere. Nä blir det Doctor Zhivago; og noen av diktene i slutten av boken er sä ufattelig vakre.

Ellers:
Vi har truffet noen regissörer som skal hjelpe oss med ä filme en performance samt noen jeg kan diskutere Sokurov med. Alt löser seg. eller kanskje ikke. men akkurat nä ser det lyst ut til tross for ubehjelpelig hangover.

mandag 29. november 2010

Utrolig hva man venner seg til

Maskinen er ödelagt. Det kommer til ä ta tid hvis den kan repareres i det hele tatt, hvilket jeg selvfölgelig häper. Selv om jeg i starten tenkte at det kanskje var like greit at halve livet mitt bare forduftet. Ikke nä lenger.

Jeg har imidlertid vendt meg til nettcafeer, og vet alt om hvilke priser og ekstratjenester som tilbys pä de ulike stedene i PLB. Dessuten har jeg lärt meg ä takle hikking, smatting og höy pust i nabobäsen. Alle er paranoide, ingen vil at noen skal se hva de gjör pä sin maskin. Det gjör meg selvfölgelig enda mer nysgjerrig. Det ser stort sett ganske uspennende ut.

Jeg er snart ferdig med "The seducers diary", men i dag kom jeg over noe:
I say with Palnatoke.
I rub it day and night,
But I do not erase this dark shadow.
 Det er feil bok ä lese nä, helt feil, men nä har jeg kommet sä langt at det er for sent ä snu.

torsdag 25. november 2010

(...)Der var du igjen, i skumringstimen, med blanke, store uforstilte øyne, utemmet, (...)samtidig kontrollert, vaktsom, en fryd å betrakte deg(...), betagende, om enn på avstand, du ser på meg, og jeg undrer hva du egentlig tenker, hva du ser, i dette øyeblikk(et). Du kommer tilbake for så å springe i vei som om fanden var etter deg, eller kanskje du bare viser deg, viser din spenst, din styrke, din uavhengighet, ja, din skjønnhet, men i kveld kom du igjen, listet deg forsiktig nærmere, tydelig var mitt nærvær, det er merkelig den enhet vi har, på en måte fortrolig, kjent og intim, på en annen måte avstand, distanse og fremmedhet, så nær, så fjern

(...)
You love the sun, don’t you?

- Yes, the sun. And the moon and the stars…

And the sea?

- Yes, the sea. Guess I love the sea the most of all, but I’m afraid of it too.

Guess we’re all a little afraid of what we love

(hentet fra en obskur blogg som jeg ikke aner hvordan jeg rotet meg inn i http://autonomotpol.wordpress.com)

so sick of lovesongs

I dag skinner solen og jeg tenker at jeg har hørt på for lite klassisk musikk i det siste og at det er derfor jeg har vært så disharmonisk. Plutselig er jeg takknemlig for oppveksten min og for at jeg får så fine meldinger på Facebook som fortsatt suger, men som gir noe. Alle har tvil, alle lengter etter noe mer.

Og dette er ikke begravelsesmusikk for meg, tvert i mot.
Gustav Mahler – Symphony No. 5 In C Sharp Minor: IV. Adagietto

tirsdag 23. november 2010

R. Strauss: Vier Letzte Lieder - Jessey Norman

Mail fra Josef

Men disse fikk jeg fra Josef for en uke siden, og de er ikke så verst de heller. Han skriver forresten som Kierkegaard, det har jeg skjønt nå.

"For gamle dager:"


"For nye dager:"


-og plutselig føler jeg meg så ufattelig heldig, som kjenner så mange fine folk.

mandag 22. november 2010


når du er der
hvisker jeg
så lavt at du ikke hører det

og når foten din
streifer min
merker du det ikke

håpefullt setter jeg meg nærmere
mens du leer på fingeren

vent

med knærne opptil haken
skjelvende under bordet
leter jeg etter pusten din
som skulle ha vært i øret mitt

hvordan kan hjernen være så uøkonomisk
hvordan kan lengselen være så sterk

når du reiser deg
og går
i motsatt retning

det er alltid noen som venter 
på trappen utenfor


--------------
det er så fint å lengte

og vite
at det en dag
skal bli du og jeg

vi skal flyte
i kroppstemperert vann

ett dupp
to dupp

lett
under sommerdyne

grådig
langsomt

vask meg ren
 

Nancy Sinatra "Bang Bang"

"Bang Bang""Bang Bang""Bang Bang""Bang Bang""Bang Bang""Bang Bang""Bang Bang""Bang Bang""Bang Bang""Bang Bang""Bang Bang""Bang Bang""Bang Bang""Bang Bang""Bang Bang""Bang Bang""Bang Bang""Bang Bang""Bang Bang""Bang Bang""Bang Bang""Bang Bang""Bang Bang""Bang Bang""Bang Bang""Bang Bang""Bang Bang""Bang Bang""Bang Bang""Bang Bang""Bang Bang""Bang Bang""Bang Bang""Bang Bang""Bang Bang""Bang Bang""Bang Bang""Bang Bang""Bang Bang""Bang Bang""Bang Bang""Bang Bang""Bang Bang""Bang Bang""Bang Bang""Bang Bang""Bang Bang""Bang Bang""Bang Bang""Bang Bang"

Alexander Sokurov

I dag har jeg sett to filmer av Alexander Sokurov i regnværet. Hvorfor har jeg ikke hørt om ham før?

I formspråket er han åpenbart inspirert av Tarkovskij. Bildene er blasse, nesten morfet og lyden har plutselige brudd. Kjærlighetsrelasjonene er sjeldent godt skildret. Nærheten og avhengigheten mellom mor/sønn og bestemor/barnebarn er intime på grensen til incestuøse. Men rollene er byttet om, vi ser en sønn som mater moren med tåteflaske og en bestemor som sikter med barnebarnets gevær i en tanks. Dialogen forteller om hvor fremmede de er for hverandre, samtidig som den fysiske kontakten virker helt forløst.

søndag 21. november 2010

Isa Genzken’s Artistic Cornucopia

Hmm. Lurer på om det er fullmånen som gjør at jeg ikke får sove.


Arts.21 | Isa Genzken’s Artistic Cornucopia
Hochgeladen von deutschewelle. - Unabhängige Web Videos.

Oi! Det her er friskt

Jeg leser jo aldri blogger, lager bare denne materialebanken. Forferdelig pretensiøst! (og hva skal det brukes til? Kunne jeg ikke heller bare lagret alt som bokmerker?) Nei! Fordi etter bruddet har jeg ingen å dele med, så da må jeg dele med hele verden.

Men søren, hun her er frisk!
http://www.linniiie.com/

Dette er morsommere

- enn court drawings.
Særlig når jeg ikke får sove.

12 Most Bizarre Police Sketches Ever
http://www.oddee.com/item_96832.aspx
&
http://www.vincentchow.net/1936/thai-police-release-helmet-bank-robber-sketch

lørdag 20. november 2010

Chapman brothers' Hell

STEVEN ARNOLD (1943 - 1994)

Impulskjøp på antikvariatet etter å ha sett en fantastisk samling i dag, som var noe helt annet enn dette. Men uansett- Steven Arnold; tipper nesten over, men jeg begynner å savne scenekunst og har lyst til å se filmene hans.

Frank Stella

Denne må du også låne (K).

The seducers´s diary, Kierkegaard.
-Det er sant at man kan leve gjennom bøker og det vet du alt om allerede.

fredag 19. november 2010

torsdag 18. november 2010

Joyce Carol Oates (1938 -)

Black Girl White Girl (2006)
I'll Take You There (2003)
For andre gang på rad denne uken løp jeg igår lykkelig nedover Prenzlauer Allè med en ulest Joyce Carol Oates roman under jakken. Det er rart å ha funnet en ny forfatter, jeg tror ikke jeg har vært så begeistret siden jeg oppdaget Don DeLillo (1936 -) for to år siden. Hans subtile, men presise skildringer ble så sterke for meg at jeg ikke holdt ut å lese ham.

Jeg har hittil bare lest to bøker av henne, men erfarer at språket er poetisk, friskt, og samtidig så vanvittig vondt fordi det går rett til kjernen av identiteten, min! Can I live this life? Am I strong enough? Den siste romanen handler om en filosofistudine og den inneholder nydelige sitater av Wittgenstein og Spinoza som jeg ikke kan gjengi etter hverandre her fordi det bare vil virke plumpt.

Det føles som å være forelsket. Amerikansk samtidslitteratur er åpenbart min greie.
----------

Ok, jeg klarer ikke la være:
The limits of my language are
the limits of my world
Wittgenstein

Court drawings

Fikk plutselig så lyst til å lage en liten samling av court drawings fra nettaviser nå rett før frokost (egentlig bare ett søk på google, så det finnes sikkert bedre materiale). Kanskje er det noe fint der ute, eller kanskje en idè til ett eller annet slags eget prosjekt en gang. Mer abstrahert. Jeg vet ikke.

onsdag 17. november 2010

hvem skulle ha trodd?

Scheiße!
http://www.wikihow.com/Quit-Facebook

Jeg må le litt av dette fordi jeg skjønner at jeg ofte bruker ufine ord i kommentarene mine, men det er alltid godt ment. Det som kanskje bekymrer meg litt er at den avgjørende kommentaren var noe jeg ytret i en privat samtale med 2 andre. Er ikke det litt i overkant til sensur?

Uansett er det sikkert bra med en blokkering nå så jeg får roet ned facebook aktiviteten.
Tidstyv!

tirsdag 16. november 2010

http://betweenthebars.org
hmm. lurer på om dette er ekte og om det vil fungere.

"Arrivederci" - Chet Baker

Denne er til deg igjen (K)unstability. Jeg skjønner ingenting, men det ser unektelig veldig hyggelig ut.

mandag 15. november 2010

onsdag 10. november 2010

No Shadow

I can live like this. Fast-moving, casting no shadow.
– Joyce Carol Oates


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Günter Brus - igjen

Jeg tror det er på tide med litt dårlig musikk

Verre enn englevinger, men bra for humøret.

Og dette kunne ha vært så mye: Beyonce, Timberlake, Winehouse etc.
Det ble denne (soft):
John Legend – Once Again
(-og dust at jeg unnskylder det egentlig)
«Skal man være performancekunstner, må man mislike teater. Teater er en bløff … Verken kniven, blodet eller følelsene er ekte. Performance art er stikk motsatt: kniven er ekte, blodet er ekte, og følelsene er ekte.» 
Marina Abramović 

Oderbruch


Vorschau Neulewin Oderbruch

Webcam Neulewin Oderbruch

Fluxus Film: Zen For Film (Nam June Paik, 1962-1964)

tirsdag 9. november 2010

Julia Margaret Cameron



Forferdelig banalt, men akk så vakkert I. (jada, jeg har mer på lager)
A picture held us captive. And we could not get outside it, for it lay in our language and language seemed to repeat it to us inexorably.
Wittgenstein

gammelt tidsfordriv

gammelt tidsfordriv

søndag 7. november 2010

Mor til datter, begge håper at faren skal komme hjem til Thanksgiving og telefonen ringer:
- "Don't answer, baby! The fucker will only break our hearts."
Joyce Carol Oates, Black Girl White Girl (2006)

Apropos:
you see we are blind
(hvorfor lar jeg ham få snike seg inn her nå?)

Ieri, Oggi, Domani (parte 1) - film completo in Italiano

(K)unstability denne er spesielt til deg. Hele filmen (6 klipp):

“There are only two ways to live your life. One is as though nothing is a miracle. The other is as though everything is a miracle.” — Albert Einstein
Hilsen Rita Gledesspreder på Facebook.

lørdag 6. november 2010

Buster Keaton in "College"

Charlie Chaplin - City Lights

Avreagering tror jeg. Sluttscenen.

fredag 5. november 2010

Hellfire

Fra NRK: http://www.nrk.no/nyheter/verden/1.7355609

Den lange versjonen finnes på youtube, veldig sterke greier:

Wikileaks leaked video of Civilians killed in Baghdad - Full video 

(http://www.youtube.com/verify_age?next_url=http%3A//www.youtube.com/watch%3Fv%3Dis9sxRfU-ik%26feature%3Dplayer_embedded)

torsdag 4. november 2010

vashti bunyan - winter is blue

tirsdag 2. november 2010

Ways of seeing, Episode 2, Woman in Art (1972)


http://www.ubu.com/film/berger_seeing2.html

Notes by Nick Currie: The second episode, about the female nude, has some particularly troublesome and interesting things to say about structural narcissism ("men dream of women, women dream of themselves being dreamt of"), the difference b...etween nakedness and nudity, and the institutionalised misogyny deep in our culture -- the tendency of men to desire women and simultaneously blame them for provoking that desire. Berger traces this back to the biblical tale of the expulsion from Eden. There's a great discussion at the end with a group of highly articulate women, including the writer Eva Figes.
The silent bullet

mandag 1. november 2010

lørdag 30. oktober 2010

A stroll in the park



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John Dean "Jeff" Cooper (May 10, 1920 - September 25, 2006) was recognized as the father of what is commonly known as "the Modern Technique" of handgun shooting, and one of the 20th century's foremost international experts on the use and history of small arms.[1]

7 days too long (Dexys Midnight Runners)

fredag 29. oktober 2010

“As We Are So Wonderfully Done With Each Other,” Kenneth Patchen

As we are so wonderfully done with each other
   We can walk into our separate sleep
On floors of music where the milkwhite cloak of childhood lies

O my lady, my fairest dear, my sweetest, loveliest one
Your lips have splashed my dull house with the speech of flowers
    My hands are hallowed where they touched over your
       soft curving.

It is good to be weary from that brilliant work   
It is being God to feel your breathing under me

A waterglass on the bureau fills with morning …
    Don’t let anyone in to wake us.

(Enda en gang hentet fra http://icketmaster.tumblr.com/)

(There's no such thing as trouble, only humans)

torsdag 28. oktober 2010

PROGRESSIVE

Human, All Too Human By Friedrich Nietzsche

Preface

1
Often enough, and always with great consternation, people have told me that there is something distinctive in all my writings, from The Birth of Tragedy to the most recently published Prologue to a Philosophy of the Future. All of them, I have been told, contain snares and nets for careless birds, and an almost constant, unperceived challenge to reverse one`s habitual estimations and esteemed habits. "What`s that? Everything is only--human, all too human?" With such a sigh one comes from my writings, they say, with a kind of wariness and distrust even toward morality, indeed tempted and encouraged in no small way to become the spokesman for the worst things: might they perhaps be only the best slandered? My writings have been called a School for Suspicion, even more for Contempt, fortunately also for Courage and, in fact, for Daring. Truly, I myself do not believe that anyone has ever looked into the world with such deep suspicion, and not only as an occasional devil`s advocate, but every bit as much, to speak theologically, as an enemy and challenger of God. Whoever guesses something of the consequences of any deep suspicion, something of the chills and fears stemming from isolation, to which every man burdened with an unconditional difference of viewpoint is condemned, this person will understand how often I tried to take shelter somewhere, to recover from myself, as if to forget myself entirely for a time (in some sort of reverence, or enmity, or scholarliness, or frivolity, or stupidity); and he will also understand why, when I could not find what I needed, I had to gain it by force artificially, to counterfeit it, or create it poetically. (And what have poets ever done otherwise? And why else do we have all the art in the world?) What I always needed most to cure and restore myself, however, was the belief that I was not the only one to be thus, to see thus--I needed the enchanting intuition of kinship and equality in the eye and in desire, repose in a trusted friendship; I needed a shared blindness, with no suspicion or question marks, a pleasure in foregrounds, surfaces, what is near, what is nearest, in everything that has color, skin, appearance. Perhaps one could accuse me in this regard of some sort of "art," various sorts of finer counterfeiting: for example, that I had deliberately and willfully closed my eyes to Schopenhauer`s blind will to morality, at a time when I was already clear-sighted enough about morality; similarly, that I had deceived myself about Richard Wagner`s incurable romanticism, as if it were a beginning and not an end; similarly, about the Greeks; similarly about the Germans and their future--and there might be a whole long list of such Similarly`s. But even if this all were true and I were accused of it with good reason, what do you know, what could you know about the amount of self-preserving cunning, of reason and higher protection that is contained in such self-deception--and how much falseness I still require so that I may keep permitting myself the luxury of my truthfulness?
Enough, I am still alive; and life has not been devised by morality: it wants deception, it lives on deception--but wouldn`t you know it? Here I am, beginning again, doing what I have always done, the old immoralist and birdcatcher, I am speaking immorally, extra-morally, "beyond good and evil:"

2
Thus I invented, when I needed them, the "free spirits" too, to whom this heavyhearted- stouthearted book with the title "Human, All Too Human" is dedicated. There are no such "free spirits," were none--but, as I said, I needed their company at the time, to be of good cheer in the midst of bad things (illness, isolation, foreignness, sloth, inactivity); as brave fellows and specters to chat and laugh with, when one feels like chatting and laughing, and whom one sends to hell when they get boring--as reparation for lacking friends. That there could someday be such free spirits, that our Europe will have such lively, daring fellows among its sons of tomorrow and the day after tomorrow, real and palpable and not merely, as in my case, phantoms and a hermit`s shadow play: I am the last person to want to doubt that. I already see them coming, slowly, slowly; and perhaps I am doing something to hasten their coming when I describe before the fact the fateful conditions that I see giving rise to them, the paths on which I see them coming?

3
It may be conjectured that the decisive event for a spirit in whom the type of the "free spirit" is one day to ripen to sweet perfection has been a great separation, and that before it, he was probably all the more a bound spirit, and seemed to be chained forever to his corner, to his post. What binds most firmly? Which cords can almost not be torn? With men of a high and select type, it will be their obligations: that awe which befits the young, their diffidence and delicacy before all that is time-honored and dignified, their gratitude for the ground out of which they grew, for the hand that led them, for the shrine where they learned to worship--their own highest moments will bind them most firmly and oblige them most lastingly. For such bound people the great separation comes suddenly, like the shock of an earthquake: all at once the young soul is devastated, torn loose, torn out--it itself does not know what is happening. An urge, a pressure governs it, mastering the soul like a command: the will and wish awaken to go away, anywhere, at any cost: a violent, dangerous curiosity for an undiscovered world flames up and flickers in all the senses. "Better to die than live here," so sounds the imperious and seductive voice. And this "here," this "at home" is everything which it had loved until then! A sudden horror and suspicion of that which it loved; a lightning flash of contempt toward that which was its "obligation"; a rebellious, despotic, volcanically jolting desire to roam abroad, to become alienated, cool, sober, icy: a hatred of love, perhaps a desecratory reaching and glancing backward, to where it had until then worshiped and loved; perhaps a blush of shame at its most recent act, and at the same time, jubilation that it was done; a drunken, inner, jubilant shudder, which betrays a victory -a victory? over what? over whom? a puzzling, questioning, questionable victory, but the first victory nevertheless: such bad and painful things are part of the history of the great separation. It is also a disease that can destroy man, this first outburst of strength and will to self-determination, self-valorization, this will to free will: and how much disease is expressed by the wild attempts and peculiarities with which the freed man, the separated man, now tries to prove his rule over things! He wanders about savagely with an unsatisfied lust; his booty must atone for the dangerous tension of his pride; he rips apart what attracts him. With an evil laugh he overturns what he finds concealed, spared until then by some shame; he investigates how these things look if they are overturned. There is some arbitrariness and pleasure in arbitrariness to it, if he then perhaps directs his favor to that which previously stood in disrepute--if he creeps curiously and enticingly around what is most forbidden. Behind his ranging activity (for he is journeying restlessly and aimlessly, as in a desert) stands the question mark of an ever more dangerous curiosity. "Cannot all values be overturned? And is Good perhaps Evil? And God only an invention, a nicety of the devil? Is everything perhaps ultimately false? And if we are deceived, are we not for that very reason also deceivers? Must we not be deceivers, too?" Such thoughts lead and mislead him, always further onward, always further away. Loneliness surrounds him, curls round him, ever more threatening, strangling, heart-constricting, that fearful goddess and mater saeva cupidinum --but who today knows what loneliness is?

4
It is still a long way from this morbid isolation, from the desert of these experimental years, to that enormous, overflowing certainty and health which cannot do without even illness itself, as an instrument and fishhook of knowledge; to that mature freedom of the spirit which is fully as much self-mastery and discipline of the heart, and which permits paths to many opposing ways of thought. It is a long way to the inner spaciousness and cosseting of a superabundance which precludes the danger that the spirit might lose itself on its own paths and fall in love and stay put, intoxicated, in some nook; a long way to that. excess of vivid healing, reproducing, reviving powers, the very sign of great health, an excess that gives the free spirit the dangerous privilege of being permitted to live experimentally and to offer himself to adventure: the privilege of the master free spirit! In between may lie long years of convalescence, years full of multicolored, painful magical transformations, governed and led by a tough will to health which already often dares to dress and disguise itself as health. There is a middle point on the way, which a man having such a fate cannot remember later without being moved: a pale, fine light and sunny happiness are characteristic of it, a feeling of a birdlike freedom, birdlike perspective, birdlike arrogance, some third thing in which curiosity and a tender contempt are united. A "free spirit"--this cool term is soothing in that state, almost warming. No longer chained down by hatred and love, one lives without Yes, without No, voluntarily near, voluntarily far, most preferably slipping away, avoiding, fluttering on, gone again, flying upward again; one is spoiled, like anyone who has ever seen an enormous multiplicity beneath him--and one becomes the antithesis of those who trouble themselves about things that do not concern them. Indeed, now the free spirit concerns himself only with things (and how many there are!) which no longer trouble him.

5
Another step onward in convalescence. The free spirit again approaches life, slowly, of course, almost recalcitrantly, almost suspiciously. It grows warmer around him again, yellower, as it were; feeling and fellow‑feeling gain depth; mild breezes of all kinds pass over him. He almost feels as if his eyes were only now open to what is near. He is amazed and sits motionless: where had he been, then? These near and nearest things, how they seem to him transformed! What magical fluff they have acquired in the meantime! He glances backward gratefully--grateful to his travels, to his severity and self-alienation, to his far-off glances and bird flights into cold heights. How good that he did not stay "at home," "with himself" the whole time, like a dull, pampered loafer! He was beside himself: there is no doubt about that. Only now does he see himself--and what surprises he finds there! What untried terrors! What happiness even in weariness, in the old illness, in the convalescent`s relapses! How he likes to sit still, suffering, spinning patience, or to lie in the sun! Who understands as he does the happiness of winter, the sun spots on the wall! They are the most grateful animals in the world, the most modest, too, these convalescents and squirrels, turned halfway back to life again--there are those among them who let no day pass without hanging a little song of praise on its trailing hem. And to speak seriously, all pessimism (the inveterate evil of old idealists and liars, as we know) is thoroughly cured by falling ill in the way these free spirits do, staying ill for a good while, and then, for even longer, even longer, becoming healthy--I mean "healthier." There is wisdom, practical wisdom in it, when over a long period of time even health itself is administered only in small doses.

6
About that time it may finally happen, among the sudden illuminations of a still turbulent, still changeable state of health, that the free spirit, ever freer, begins to unveil the mystery of that great separation which until then had waited impenetrable, questionable, almost unapproachable in his memory. Perhaps for a long time he hardly dared ask himself, "Why so apart, so alone? Renouncing everything I admired, even admiration? Why this severity, this suspicion, this hatred of one`s own virtues?" But now he dares to ask it loudly, and already hears something like an answer. "You had to become your own master, and also the master of your own virtues. Previously, your virtues were your masters; but they must be nothing more than your tools, along with your other tools. You had to gain power over your For and Against, and learn how to hang them out or take them in, according to your higher purpose. You had to learn that all estimations have a perspective, to learn the displacement, distortion, apparent teleology of horizons, and whatever else is part of perspective; also the bit of stupidity in regard to opposite values and all the intellectual damage that every For or Against exacts in payment. You had to learn to grasp the necessary injustice in every For and Against; to grasp that injustice is inseparable from life, that life itself is determined by perspective and its injustice. Above all you had to see clearly wherever injustice is greatest, where life is developed least, most narrowly, meagerly, rudimentarily, and yet cannot help taking itself as the purpose and measure of things, and for the sake of its preservation picking at and questioning secretly and pettily and incessantly what is higher, greater, and richer. You had to see clearly the problem of hierarchy, and how power and justice and breadth of perspective grow upward together. You had to--." Enough, now the free spirit knows which "thou shalt" he has obeyed, and also what he now can do, what he only now is permitted to do.

7
That is how the free spirit answers himself about that mystery of separation and he ends by generalizing his case, to decide thus about his experience. "As it happened to me," he tells himself, "so must it happen to everyone in whom a task wants to take form and `come into the world."` The secret power and necessity of this task will hold sway within and among his various destinies like an unsuspected pregnancy, long before he has looked the task itself in the eye or knows its name. Our destiny commands us, even when we do not yet know what it is; it is the future which gives the rule to our present. Granted that it is the problem of hierarchy which we may call our problem, we free spirits; only now, in the noonday of our lives, do we understand what preparations, detours, trials, temptations, disguises, were needed before the problem was permitted to rise up before us. We understand how we first had to experience the most numerous and contradictory conditions of misery and happiness in our bodies and souls, as adventurers and circumnavigators of that inner world which is called "human being," as surveyors of every "higher" and "one above the other" which is likewise called "human being," penetrating everywhere, almost without fear, scorning nothing, losing nothing, savoring everything, cleaning and virtually straining off everything of the coincidental--until we finally could say, we free spirits: "Here is a new problem! Here is a long ladder on whose rungs we ourselves have sat and climbed, and which we ourselves were at one time! Here is a Higher, a Deeper, a Below-us, an enormous long ordering, a hierarchy which we see: here--is our problem!"

8
No psychologist or soothsayer will have a moment`s difficulty in discovering at which place in the development sketched out above the present book belongs (or is placed). But where are there psychologists today? In France, certainly; perhaps in Russia; surely not in Germany. There are sufficient reasons for which the present-day Germans could esteem it an honor to be such; bad enough for a person who is constituted and has become un-German in this respect! This German book, which has known how to find its readers in a wide circle of countries and peoples (it has been on the road for approximately ten years), which must understand some kind of music and flute playing to seduce even unreceptive foreign ears to listen--precisely in Germany has this book been read most negligently, heard most poorly. What is the cause? "It demands too much," has been the reply, "it addresses itself to men who do not know the hardship of crude obligations; it demands fine, cosseted senses; it needs superfluity, superfluity of time, of bright heavens and hearts, of otium in the boldest sense--all good things which we Germans of today do not have and therefore cannot give." After such a polite answer, my philosophy counsels me to be silent and inquire no further, especially since in certain cases, as the saying suggests, one remains a philosopher only by--being silent.

Nice, Spring, 1886.

tirsdag 26. oktober 2010

European Nihilism - THE WILL TO POWER - NIETZSCHE

21 (Spring-Fall 1887; rev. 1888)
The perfect nihilist.-The nihilist's eye idealizes in the direc-
tion of ugliness and is unfaithful to his memories: it allows them
to drop, lose their leaves; it does not guard them against the
corpselike pallor that weakness pours out over what is distant and
gone. And what he does not do for himself, he also. does not do
for the whole past of mankind: he lets it drop.

16 (Nov. 1887-March 1888)
If we are "disappointed," it is at least not regarding life:
rather we are now facing up to all kinds of "desiderata." With
scornful wrath we contemplate what are called "ideals"; we despise
ourselves only because there are moments when we cannot subdue
that absurd impulse that is called "idealism." The influence of
too much coddling is stronger than the wrath of the disappointed.

18 (1883-1888)
The most universal sign of the modern age: man has lost
dignity in his own eyes to an incredible extent. For a long time
the center and tragic hero of existence in general; then at least
intent on proving himself closely related to the decisive and es-
sentially valuable side of existence-like all metaphysicians who
wish to cling to the dignity of man, with their faith that moral
values are cardinal values. Those who have abandoned God cling
that much more firmly to the faith in morality.'o

(...)The most extreme form of nihilism would be the view that
every belief, every considering-some thing-true, is necessarily false
because there simply is no true world.(...)

42 (March-June 1888)
First principle:
The supposed causes of degeneration are its consequences.
But the supposed remedies of degeneration are also mere
palliatives against some of its effects: the "cured" are merely one
type of the degenerates.
Consequences of decadence: vice-the addiction to vice;
sickness-sickliness; crime-criminaIity; celibacy-sterility; hys-
tericism-weakness of the will; alcoholism; pessimism; anarchism;
libertinism (also of the spirit). The slanderers, underminers,
doubters, destroyers.

43 (March-June 1888)
On the concept of decadence.
1. Skepticism is a consequence of decadence, as is libertinism
of the spirit.
2. The corruption of morals is a consequence of decadence
(weakness of the will, need for strong stimuli).
3. Attempted cures, psychological and moral, do not change
the course of decadence, do not arrest it, are pbysiologically
naught:
Insight into the great nullity of these presumptuous "re-
actions"; they are forms of narcotization against certain terrible
consequences; they do not eliminate the morbid element; often
they are heroic attempts to annul the man of decadence and to
realize the minimum of his harmfulness.

Joanna Newsom - Easy (with lyrics)

Take Me To Your Leader! The Great Escape Into Space

Museet for samtidskunst 16. oktober–30. januar 2011

M.bl. Børre Sæthre, Elise Storsveen, Jone Kvie og Adolph Denis Horn. Medverkande utanlandske kunstnarar er Ilya Kabakov, John McCracken, Mike Kelley, Bjørn Dahlem, Sun Ra, Ellen Gallagher / Edgar Cleijne, Jimmy McBride, Katrin Plavčak, H.R. Giger, Veli Granö og Jarmo Ylänen, Julieta Aranda, Stan VanDerBeek, Nathalie Melikian, Kerry James Marshall, Maya Schweizer / Clemens von Wedermayer, Ride1 og Daniel McDonald.

Jeg skulle gjerne ha sett utstillingen på samtidsmuseet nå. Billedkunstneren Adolph Denis Horn var innom galleriet jeg jobbet for ca. ett år siden og viste meg nettsiden sin. Det kunne vært interessant å se bildene hans  i virkeligheten. Men ikke bare det, resten av utstillingen også.


http://home.online.no/~adolph/adolph-0.htm

nyhetsbildet

gunsite

Så lenge varte pausen

Apropos: Flekkdoktoren
I doktoravhandlingen The Tache as a Sign in Nineteenth-Century Painting (Universitetet i Oslo, 2010), ser kunsthistoriker Øystein Sjåstad (f. 1980) nærmere på hvordan kunstnerne i perioden 1860-1900 utvikler en estetikk basert på flekker, samtidig som hver kunstner utvikler en individuell flekk.
http://www.billedkunstmag.no/Content.aspx?contentId=2004

søndag 24. oktober 2010

Highlights from the Cologne KunstFilmBiennale in Berlin

17. – 31.10.2010
KUNSTWERKET

Mye bra video. Først og fremst iscenesatt video og de jeg har snakket med har vært enige om at den overordnede tematikken må være mennesket i møtet med naturen.

Uansett. Jeg finner selvfølgelig ikke de jeg liker best på nettet. Men noe annet:

lørdag 23. oktober 2010

fredag 22. oktober 2010

“The Inquiry,” Weldon Kees

Do you wear a web over your wasted worth?
I wear a web

You fear the keyhole’s splintered eye?
I fear the eye

Can you hear the worthless morning’s mirth?
I hear it

The broken braying from whitening skies?
Yes I hear it yes

To spend the end and feed the fire
Is day’s insistence, night’s demand:
To pay the unrequested fare
And wave the wavering wand.

The streets are full of broken glass,
Sparkling in this frenzied noon.
With naked feet and bandaged eyes
You’ll walk them—not just now, but soon.

http://icketmaster.tumblr.com/

mandag 18. oktober 2010

Da de omsider fikk smøget seg ut av armene på hverandre, og bak ryggen på hverandre fikk skylt munn og spist halspastill og stelt seg, følte de begge en usigelig lettelse. De hadde klart å skjule for den andre hvor ekle de egentlig var …
Kari Bøge: Hver sin lyst (1989)
(Morgenbladet sist uke)

(denne teksten fikk jeg på mail for noen måneder siden. takk N.A.)
Rilke
Malte Laurdis Brigges opptegnelser  

Etter forkledning og masker og klær har overtatt han, dog netop i dette højtidelige øjeblik, hørte jeg dempet gennem min forkledning, ganske naer ved, en mangeartet sammensat støj. Meget forskrækket mistede jeg det væsen derinde af syne og blev fælt forstemt ved at opdage at jeg havde væltet et lille, rundt bord med himlen maa vide hvad for sandsynligvis højst skøre genstande. Jeg bukkede mig, saa godt jeg kunde, og fandt min værste formmodning bekræftet: det saa ud, som om alt var gaaet i stykker. De to overfllødige grøn violette porcellænspapegøyer var naturligvis slaaet itu, hver på sin ondskabsfulde maade. En daase, ud af hvilken der rullede bonbons, der saa ud som silkeindpuppede insektet, havde slænget sit laag langt bort fra sig, man kunde kun se den ene halvdel den anden var overhovdet ikke til at finde. Men det allerærgeligste var en flakon, der var knaldet i tusing smaabitte skaar, og ud af hvilken resten af en eller anden gammel essens var sprøjtet der nu havde lavet en motbydelig plet paa det klare parkettgulv, jeg tørrede den hurtigt op med et eller andet der hang ned fra mig, men den blev kun endu sortere og ubehageligere. Jeg var rigtig ked af det. Jeg rejste mig og ledte efter noget, hvordmed jeg kunde gøre det godt igjen. Men jeg fandt ingenting. Og jeg var ogsaa saa besværet i at se og i hver bevegelse at der opsteg et raseri i mig imod min meningsløse tilstand, som jeg ikke mer kunde fatte. Jeg rev alting, men det trakk seg kun tættere sammen. Kappens snore var ved å kvele meg, og tøjet om mit hoved trykkede, som om der stadig kom mere til. Og dertil var luften bleven uklar og ligesom dugget af den spildte vædskes overgemte lugt.

Varm og vred styrtede jeg hen til spejlet og saa med møje igennem masken, hvordan mine hænder arbejdede. Men det havde han bare ventet paa. Gengældelsen øjeblik var kommet for ham. Men jeg prøvde å sno mig ud af forkledningen, tvang han meg til å se opp og diktere et bilde, nei en virkelighed, en fremmed ubegripelig monstrøs virkelighet, som imod min vilje gennemsivede mig, for nu var den sterkest og jeg var spejlet. Jeg stirrede paa denne store skrækkelige ubekendte foran mig, det forekom mig forferdelig uhyggeligt å være alene med ham. Men i samme øjeblik som jeg tenkte dette skjedde det at jeg ble fullkomment meningsløs.

søndag 17. oktober 2010