Now that Wiley’s core identity has been un-masked by the Art Police, the forgiving of Kehinde, begins. Because Kurt Vonnegut, and Antonin Artaud provided excellent clues, they will administer absolution.
There is no judging in the Court of the Nine Muses. True artist and poets, are insane. Wiley isn’t quite there. He’s still a control freak. Where is his professed passion? He claims he has not country. Never the less, he got drafted. He was hauled off the Art Boot Camp where I lobbed fake bombs at him, and shot fake bullets over his head as he crawled through the barbed wire. This is what you get when you shake the hand of a former President of the United States – who honors you! It was that black man who drafted you Wylie, in the American Muse Hall of Fame. I’m just your Drill Sergeant.
The two paragraphs below, were dictated to me by Kurt and Artaud who are heading to the Grand Art Happening in Bozeman Montana where the end of the world might be prevented. Kilgore Trout believes he had gotten it right this time.
The Nine Muses never dream they would be involved in apocalyptic visions. But, since the bomb was dropped on Hiroshima, they are forced to intervene. The Stage of Life is in danger. We need our Mad Actors!
I will be inventing the means of how Wylie really renders his canvases, in a drama written by Lucia Joyce. You lucked out. The world is waiting for a Grand Russian thing. I see a black woman in a forest being chased by wolves. She was kidnapped by the Rus – Vikings – who traded with Egypt.
The black intern at the County Hospital. He earned a medical degree at Harvard and has been in Midland City for a week. He is an Indaro, a Nigerian, an identity trait that is emphasized each time he is mentioned in the story. He is pointedly different from American blacks, since his relatives were not slaves and he feels “kinship only with Indaros.”
We are first introduced to him in Chapter 6, because he is the only person with Mary Young while she dies. He is staying in the new Holiday Inn, owned in part by Dwayne Hoover, until he can find a cheap apartment in which to live. He also needs a woman, because he is “so full of lust and jism all the time.” In Chapter 11 we learn that though he appears impassive, “behind his mask was a young man in the terminal stages of nostalgia and lover’s nuts.”
Wylie says when he returned from Russia his mother locked him away for months. What if Kehinde is a plant, trained to destroy our Cultural Icons in Putin’s Iconoclasm against the West? What words came out of the Propagandist’s mouth when he saw ISIS blow up the Tomb of Jonah? What does Wylie know about the Bible? What is he really doing in Bejing? To elevate and esteem criminals, while destroying the cultural ruling class, is the formula for toppling any nation. Where was Wylie in those missing years. His mother should be questioned by the FBI. I suspect he knows his father – and where he is! Is he a Black Radical? Perhaps he was/is a Black Panther?
Kehinde Wiley has hinted he is on his way to capture Gauguin’s dark skinned beauties, because Van Gough’s good friend is a product of French Imperialism and Colonialism. WRONG Mr. Gay Man! I cut off that long black sleeve you tell White World you own, so that yon can slime other works of art, and scratch your Racist Homo Swastika on the history of the Pale Faces. It looks like Wylie has his dark heart set on convicting Gauguin of being a PEDOPHILE. He wants to castrate – and behead Gaugin – then sell his head on the Black Art Market. This Prig will kick the beauty we see above, out of bed, and replace her with a Naked Fag wearing Black Thug Boots.
Breakfast of Champions, or Goodbye Blue Monday, published in 1973, is the seventh novel by the American author Kurt Vonnegut. Set predominantly in the fictional town of Midland City, Indiana, it is the story of “two lonesome, skinny, fairly old white men on a planet which was dying fast.” One of these men, Dwayne Hoover, is a charming but deeply deranged Pontiac dealer, and extensive land and franchise owner, whose mental illness causes him to believe that a science fiction story by the other man, Kilgore Trout, is the literal truth. Trout, a largely unknown pulp science fiction writer who has appeared in several other Vonnegut novels, looks like a crazy old man but is in fact relatively sane. As the novel opens, Trout hitchhikes toward Midland City to appear at an art convention where he is destined to meet Dwayne Hoover and unwittingly inspire him to run amok
One can speak of the good mental health of van Gogh who, in his whole life, cooked only one of his hands and did nothing else except once to cut off his left ear, in a world in which every day one eats vagina cooked in green sauce or penis of newborn child whipped and beaten to a pulp, just as it is when plucked from the sex of its mother.
And this is not an image, but a fact abundantly and daily repeated and cultivated throughout the world.
And this, however delirious this statement may seem, is how modern life maintains its old atmosphere of debauchery, anarchy, disorder, delirium, derangement, chronic insanity, bourgeois inertia, psychic anomaly (for it is not man but the world which has become abnormal), deliberate dishonesty and notorious hypocrisy, stingy contempt for everything that shows breeding, insistence on an entire order based on the fulfillment of a primitive injustice, in short, of organized crime.
Things are going badly because sick consciousness has a vested interest right now in not recovering from its sickness.
This is why a tainted society has invented psychiatry to defend itself against the investigations of certain superior intellects whose faculties of divination would be troublesome.
Gerard de Nerval was not mad, but society accused him of being mad in order to discredit certain very important revelations that he was about to make, and besides being accused, he was also struck on the head, physically struck on the head on a certain night so that he would lose memory of the monstrous facts which he was about to reveal and which, as a result of this blow, were pushed back within him onto a supranatural level, because all society, secretly in league against his consciousness, was at that moment powerful enough to make him forget their reality.
No, van Gogh was not mad, but his paintings were bursts of Greek fire, atomic bombs, whose angle of vision, unlike all other paintings popular at the time, would have been capable of seriously upsetting the spectral conformity of the Second Empire bourgeoisie and of the myrmidons of Thiers, Gambetta, and Felix Faure, as well as those of Napoleon III.
For it is not a certain conformity of manners that the painting of van Gogh attacks, but rather the conformity of institutions themselves. And even external nature, with her climates, her tides, and her equinoctial storms, cannot, after van Gogh’s stay upon earth, maintain the same gravitation.
In comparison with the lucidity of van Gogh, which is a dynamic force, psychiatry is no better than a den of apes who are themselves obsessed and persecuted and who posses nothing to mitigate the most appalling states of anguish and human suffocation but a ridiculous terminology,
worthy product of their damaged brains.
Indeed, the psychiatrist does not exist who is not a well-known erotomaniac.
And I do not believe that the rule of the confirmed erotomania of psychiatrists admits of a single exception.
I know one who objected, a few years ago, to the idea of my accusing as a group this way the whole gang of respected scoundrels and patented quacks to which he belonged.
I, Mr Artaud, am not an erotomaniac, he told me, and I defy you to show me a single piece of evidence on which you can base your accusation.
As evidence, Dr L., I need only show you yourself, you bear the stigma on your mug, you rotten bastard.
You have the puss of someone who inserts his sexual prey under his tongue and then turns it over like an almond as a way of showing contempt for it.
This is called feathering one’s nest or having one’s way.
If in coitus you have not succeeded in chuckling from the glottis in a certain way that you know, and in rumbling at the same time through the pharynx, the esophagus, the ureter, and the anus, you cannot say that you are satisfied.
And through your internal organic thrills you have fallen into a rut which is the incarnate evidence of a foul lust, and which you have been cultivating year after year, more and more, because socially speaking it does not come under the jurisdiction of the law, but it comes under the jurisdiction of another law whereby it is the whole damaged consciousness that suffers, because by behaving in this way you prevent it from breathing.
You dismiss as delirious a consciousness that is active even as you strangle it with your vile sexuality.
And this was precisely the level on which poor van Gogh was chaste, chaste as a seraph or a maiden cannot be, because it was in fact they who fomented and nourished in the beginning the vast machinery of sin.
And perhaps, Dr L., you belong to the race of iniquitous seraphim, but for pity’s sake, leave men alone, the body of van Gogh, untouched by any sin, was also untouched by madness which, indeed, sin alone can bring.
And I do not believe in Catholic sin, but I do believe in erotic crime which in fact all the geniuses of the earth, the authentic madmen of the asylums, have guarded themselves against, or if not, it was because they were not (authentically) mad.
And what is an authentic madman?
It is a man who preferred to become mad, in the socially accepted sense of the word, rather than forfeit a certain superior idea of human honor.
So society has strangled in its asylums all those it wanted to get rid of or protect itself from, because they refused to become its accomplices in certain great nastinesses.
For a madman is also a man whom society did not want to hear and whom it wanted to prevent from uttering certain intolerable truths.
But, in this case, confinement is not its only weapon, and the concerted gathering of men has other means of overcoming the wills it wants to break.
Besides the minor spells of country sorcerers, there are the great sessions of world-wide spell-casting in which all alerted consciousness participates periodically.
Thus on the occasion of a war, a revolution, or a social upheaval still in the bud, the collective consciousness is questioned and questions itself, and makes its judgment.
This consciousness may also be aroused and called forth spontaneously in connection with certain particularly striking individual cases.
Thus there were collective magic spells in connection with Baudelaire, Poe, Gerard de Nerval, Nietzsche, Kierkegaard, Holderlin, Coleridge, and also in connection with van Gogh.
This may take place in the daytime, but generally, it is more likely to take place at night.
Thus strange forces are aroused and brought up into the astral vault, into that kind of dark dome which constitutes, over all human respiration, the venomous hostility of the evil spirit of the majority of people.
It is thus that the few rare lucid well-disposed people who have had to struggle on the earth find themselves at certain hours of the day or night in the depth of certain authentic and waking nightmare states, surrounded by the formidable suction, the formidable tentacular oppression of a kind of civic magic which will soon be seen appearing openly in social behavior.
In the face of this concerted nastiness, which has as its basis or fulcrum on the one hand sexuality and on the other hand the mass, or other psychic rites, it is not delirium to walk around at night in a hat with twelve candles on it to paint a landscape from nature; for how else could poor van Gogh have managed to have light, as our friend the actor Roger Blin pointed out so justly the other day?
As for the cooked hand, that is heroism pure and simple; as for the severed ear, that is straightforward logic,
and I repeat, a world which, day and night, and more and more, eats the uneatable, in order to carry out its evil designs, has nothing to do on this point but to shut up about it.
Van Gogh did not die of a state of delirium properly speaking,
but of having been bodily the battlefield of a problem around which the evil spirit of humanity has been struggling from the beginning.
The problem of the predominance of flesh over spirit, or of body over flesh, or of spirit over both.
And where in this delirium is the place of the human self?
Van Gogh searched for his throughout his life, with a strange energy and determination, and he did not commit suicide in a fit of madness, in dread of not succeeding, on the contrary, he had just succeeded, and discovered what he was and who he was, when the collective consciousness of society, to punish him for escaping from its clutches, suicided him.
And this happened to van Gogh the way this always generally happens, during an orgy, a mass, an absolution, or some other rite of consecration, possession, succubation or incubation.
Thus it wormed its way into his body, this society absolved, consecrated, sanctified and possessed,
erased in him the supernatural consciousness he had just achieved, and, like an inundation of black crows in the fibers of his internal tree, overwhelmed him with one final surge, and, taking his place, killed him.
For it is the anatomical logic of modern man that he has never been able to live, has never thought of living, except as one possessed.
Originally published as Van Gogh le suicide de /a societe, Paris, September 1947, in a limited edition of 630 copies including reproductions of works by van Gogh.