My essay on Surrealism
Matt Eckhaus
This is an article I wrote for our university newspaper (which is
having an edition on the theme "Surrealism"). I'm very nervous about
it; I don't know if it is good or if it's shit. I doubt that I will
submit it to the newspaper. I don't think that people at my university
will like it. I suppose I only wrote it to try and upset people
anyway.
Matt.
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WHAT IS SURREALISM?
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Surrealism is an artistic movement originating in Europe at the end of
World War One. Unlike previous artistic movements, in which artists
attempted to either accurately represent reality (Classicism, Realism),
or attempted to recreate our fleeting visual impressions of reality
(Impressionism), surrealism, as its name suggests, attempted to
circumvent, avert, abrogate reality in all its pernicious forms.
Surrealist painters, writers and photographers were encouraged to
eliminate all conscious control of their work and allow the
subconscious to guide them absolutely. Techniques such as "automatic"
writing and painting were practiced, deeply influenced by the
philosophies of Jung and Freud. As may be expected, viewing surrealist
art was a shocking experience for the bourgeois audiences of the time.
Patrons at surrealist exhibitions were accustomed to wander aimlessly
through dark rooms where incomprehensible scenes (perhaps very violent,
perhaps sexual), were projected onto the walls. Shrill, disturbing
screams, as of small animals being strangled, could be heard echoing
distantly. Fights broke out, pitched battles were fought with
splintered chair-legs and broken bottles. In surrealism, the artist is
not expected to have respect for the sensitivities or prejudices of the
viewer of the work; instead he or she may expect to be abducted, raped,
murdered. In surrealism, the basic mode of discourse is scraping nails
along a blackboard. Other techniques, such as replacing paint with
flesh, ichor, mucus, could occasionally be acceptable. In surrealism,
artists and patrons run together like pack animals, frothing at the
mouth. The weak are pulled down and disappear into a frenzy of
flailing limbs and snapping jaws. Middle class couples lie in their
bedrooms, tenderly caress each other while their houses are swept out
to sea. Salty water floods in through the windows, clumps of seaweed
drape themselves over the curtains. In the surreal, the male is female
and the female male. Down is up and up is also up. In the surreal,
nothing is bought, everything is stolen. Nothing is traded, everything
is taken. People file into the temple, talk, mutter, chat, find their
seats, open their prayerbooks. The virgin is led out onto the altar.
The entire congregation is sacrificed, blood runs through the aisles.
The priest worships the congregation, the god worships the priest, the
children worship the lawnmower, the parents worship the dog. Father
arrives home from work early to find Mother guiltily eating excrement
off the kitchen floor. Mother accidently discovers Father in the
backyard shed, mutilating his genitals with the power tools. Christ is
crucified on an inverted cross; he laughs, wine bubbles out of his
mouth. Christ is buried, his body rots in the ground. His crucifix is
raised up, paraded in front of the disciples. In the surreal, nobody
watches a movie; the movie watches them. Patrons wander into the
cinema, find their seats. He and she giggle, flirt, chat. But why is
the Coke in the popcorn container and the popcorn in the Coke cup?
Nothing is right. They are disturbed, afraid. He starts to cry, she
starts to cry. The movie begins. The patrons are in their seats,
terrified screaming. The movie continues, they want to leave, can't,
they are secured to their seats with psychiatric straps. . . They
writhe, yell, shriek. Metal caps are lowered, shock therapy is
applied. In the surreal, the sacrificial victim is castrated,
menstrual blood drips from the gaping hole between his legs. In the
surreal, 18th century ships arrive to the shores of Africa. Scores of
white men tumble out onto the beach, begging to be enslaved.
Scientists in white coats, examining petri dishes through microscopes,
have the uneasy feeling that they are being watched. Rich people stand
on street corners. Poor people hurry by, refusing to listen to their
pleas. In the surreal, the victim thanks the murderer, sobs with
gratitude and kisses his trouser cuffs, leaving a red wet stain.
An elephant paints Dali turning into a swan. A goat paints Chagall
playing the fiddle. A woman's body and a man's body float downstream,
bump together, drift apart again. In the surreal, the brave warrior
leaves his village, defeats many dangerous monsters, returns home
triumphant only to have his penis bitten off by a vagina dentata. Two
Captain Cooks arrive at Australia. One is a generous, wise liberal; he
establishes a community of educated men of science in harmony with the
gentle natives. The other screams with terror as, stripped naked and
sodomized, he is tied to a burning eucalyptus tree by savage
cannibals. One dreamed the other, but which? In the surreal, Queen
Victoria whips Albert viciously with a cat o' nine tails. D'Israeli
peeps from behind a red velvet curtain, masturbating furiously. In the
surreal, you find yourself conversing fluently with strangers in a
language that you don't understand. You can remember the names of all
objects, but you can't remember the objects themselves. In the
surreal, the shelves of libraries are stacked with wet fish. Human
limbs are sold at the market in wicker baskets. Elaborate mansions are
surrounded by ponds filled with hair, teeth, shredded skin. Tendons
dangle from a bus stop, waving in the breeze. In the surreal, flowers
blossom with gaping, wet, red mouths. Tall vines bud, sprout, grow
metres overnight, are gone the next morning. In the surreal, birds
with big, fleshy, feet are known to swoop low and grasp precious
objects, fly off with them, never return. In the surreal, a beast
creeps, never seen, glimpsed, lurking behind a red velvet curtain. In
the surreal, a stone obelisk standing in a vast plain casts a long,
cold shadow. Children, huddled in small groups, begin to tremble &
weep. In the surreal, pleasure, unthought of, unthinkable, spreads like
a wet red stain across a white linen tablecloth bedsheet wedding
dress. In surreal, heavy objects often fall, smash, crush fleshy
tubers to a pulp. Crawling insects scuttle under beds, down
drainpipes. Filthy water gushes. Red leaves descend slowly, circling.
Coloured beads of glass scattered in gravel. Animals howl & whine;
golden fur glimmers in moonlight. Surreal breaking cracks open milk
splashes. Linoleum blood worm razor white glistens fingernail weep
surreal tear grasp shriek lick toothed drag sob open blossom laugh
dance pink gasp edge sharp hard soft surreal falling panting dilated
eaten excreted surreal real surr sur ru sr s s s
AjD
Surrealism is the common private language.
Surrealism is a hoax played on the art world, as a collaborative dada piece.
Surrealism is your mother, only beautiful.
Surrealism is strong on pronouncements, but fades on the home stretch.
Surrealism is the linking of non sequiturs to pleasing effect.
Surrealism is an orange, you are an ape with trimmed fingernails.
AjD
--
a...@oit.itd.umich.edu
"he wrote beautifully of things which were neither wholesome nor inspiring."
Christine Nicole Valley
yourself. No, do not submit this to the newspaper, would be my
advice. I would be interested to see what you could write
about the most lovely things you know, because your sensitivity
is so intense I should think that would be pleasant to read.
I am a none-computer person, and this is my first time in
this "PCNews" stuff. Is this how it all is?
e
Aaron V. Humphrey
No. Some people are on computers other than PCs. Some people, in fact,
use computers on days other than the nones; it takes too much disk space
to save news articles in the interim, usually.
Perhaps you, yourself, should try to write with a surrealist spirit on
talk.bizarre. It would be a start. Or at least a transition.
--
--Alfvaen(Editor of Communique)
Current Album--Love & Rockets:Earth Sun Moon
Current Read--Antony Swithin:The Nine Gods of Safaddne
"pretend the needle thickens." --lstewart
intlvi...@delphi.com
again. The farm controls our time like spotted bugs and the beaurocrat
fieldmice comingle with skeletal machinery of morning in Brisbane's
spectral crescent. Gnash. Fear the leg. She weaves a milky syrup of
marjoram aroundthe maypole in the city center where animals die and
banks retire to whimper in larval puddings; royalty, scourge, concierge,
magnesium, tee hee hee, iron age, flourish, houseplant, old Ronald,
and then...
who still considers himself very likeable.