The Great Clevering
Artist Alexander Mihaylovich
How " The fool who persists in his folly will become wise" Blake
So an exhibition has been prepared, In Lane Dike’s wee jewel box of a gallery, down in the rump of little Italy, on Eldridge street. “The Lower Draw”, On the first of December. A little meditation on the transcendental object, with my brother and sister artists Elisa and Alexander. I am looking forward to the first shock of a New York winter, in a shocking time. No kidding. I thought I had become a hard man. That nothing could surprise me, but these days have my knees knocking together, dare I speak my mind.
Indeed The eschaton is here for whoever cares to merge their senses to examine a higher order object. To marry together touch, smell, inner and outer eye, taste, hearing, and imagination, memory and anticipation, chaos and pattern recognition, into a kind of cocktail of appreciation. The transcendental object at the end of time. So enormous in its platonic space that our entire universe is but an eye floater. For is it not ALWAYS the end of time, at every instant? Is it not merely a style question? How are you doing it? Flapping your arms? The wind of fate blowing back your hair? Riding the lip? Hanging Ten? Perhaps you’re taking it louche, Cultivating a look of boredom? Or maybe curled up in a foetal position, keening like a guinea pig? Who am I to tell anyone how they should pose? I’m hustling myself!
Another turn of the screw. A GREAT time for the painters to paint and the dancers to dance and the singers to sing. Its been said that humanity’s great failure of imagination falls on the poets, who have failed to provide a vision glorious enough to carry the moment. It is incumbent on the puniest and most useless of us to dip this trans-historical moment of all moments, in the richest amber of our invention. Such that in the future (if such a thing exists) critters will look back at this moment and go “WHAT THE FUCK WERE THEY THINKING???” And it will be a rhetorical question.
I don’t know who will see, or what will become of me, as the critics have all been mumbled. There is a great knowing silence, as the world holds its breath for the unveiling. The Obedient, the Compliant, the Gullible, have been compromised, or even eliminated altogether, Leaving a rowdy crowd of barbarians to face the hook. The average intelligence is going orthogonal like a hockey stick. With so many lessons learned at once. Bear in mind when you die in the matrix, you die, goodbye. But when you die in nature, who knows? It’s a mystery. It has always been, and continues to be, and everybody gets a guess. Unless your a sucker and you hand your one great golden speculation over to some big-box franchise, like a rube.
The mystery is impeccable, impenetrable, ineffable, Yet eff it we must! In an effing cool morning, free of certainties. That peace is the smoothest Magyck. “Certainty” and her boring sister “Grief” produce a clinging scum that spoils the silhouette and freight the step with a closed case. Can certainties be avoided altogether? This is another one of the comforting unknowables, I keep mine in a cute basket, with a little blanket, like a sweet little pup.