mild deliria
In order for the creation to be credible, thinking is a necessity. As I see it, thinking is a means of expressing the condition of the internal organs and their secretion ( thus we should by no means be obliged to either excuse ourselves or to explain anything whatsoever ). It is the dependence of thoughts upon the "guts"; it is the outlook deeply rooted in the inside, authentic in the biological and existential sense, that at the same time are our limitations, and very grave ones too, for such an outlook implicates significant subjectivisation of each and every experience and consequently of the interpretation of the world that results from it. He who applies the method might miss the opportunity to create any valid interpersonal patterns: esthetic, ethic as well as any others. It is thus the only method I am interested in. "To drown in the stream of the inner, to discard truly every observation, and only to taste with bliss one’s innermost outbursts and stirs" The point would be incessantly and persistently to develop and cultivate one’s subjectivity, even to the absolute extreme... I was never really capable of depriving my drawings and paintings of man’s presence – that erect ape... My thoughts concerning him have never been innocent, I am much close to the aggression that helps me to cast off the fetters of culture. I have always been deeply engrossed in him, as he represents a thrilling adventure, a phenomenon not only fascinating but threatened and fragile as well... I want to see him in my way and at my expense...
strained animal
With Ockham I reject the privileged position of man in the world, I follow the path of the "darkest anthropology"( Emil Cioran, Soren Kierkegaard, Jean-Paul Sartre), in order to see him an animal – fallen, incurably sick unto suffering, solitude and death.I remain confident that it is his consciousness of the self that renders him what he is, that "open wound" which reminds us again and again of his inevitable fate. Man, that eyesore of creation, is definitely the most captivating being, due to his fatal flaw...
It is hardly possible not to embrace the view that the anguish of existence "increases directly proportional to the extant of complexity of matter and thus culminates in the human being." Similarly to Cioran I differentiate in man "the full of life" ( understood as storing of pleasant or even the most pleasant impressions) and the ascent above that level ( understood as the overcoming of the conviction that one can grasp the whole without the other darker and yet integral part of it – all the distress, misery, agony, fear, fits of helpless wrath and unbridled hatred ) "I repudiate nothing that is dark and painful; to reach the very bottom of what is dirty, to taste the very bitterness of existence and above all not to overlook them..." – how dangerous and yet intoxicating such a credo is!
I like moisture. Mud I like
Naturally, man is not inclined to good, for in order to "do something, anything that would not be evil-stained he must surmount his nature." How more naturally for him to drown in debauchery! "Evil rules all that is perishable ( i.e. all that is living )..." To deal with human, to unmask human riddles is essentially to deal with his evil... As it has become deeply rooted in their nature, it seems to corroborate over and over again, underlying everything, incessantly stirring the "waters of life", like a demon’s instrument, it sets all in motion... This fact not withstanding, it is not as interesting as good, "the enigma that is far more inscrutable then all evil, even if it is hardly to be found in man" Evil is no mystery, it is an obviousness, something "most manifest here below" – does it deserve another presentation? Does Nihil – that "absolutely absent emptiness" deserve another altar? And yet the conviction that "man is born unto evil, as the sparks fly upward" has seized me to the extent that I no longer haveany option but to scrutinize solely the "hideous human in us". Our corruption cannot be contingent; it is primeval. Sin is inherent in mankind – the abominable, engraved in us, in our countenances truth. It is as if man right from the very beginning chose the wrong path, as if he had no other choice and thus could not choose otherwise. This I cannot escape. It is and remains my obsession, something I have been carrying within me for a long time. By dint of production that always brings huge relieve, the obsession is attenuated but nevertheless persists.
Premonition that every sin is like a matrix perpetually reproduced for remembering leaves us all too rarely, confronting us with the plethora of "our own cul-de-sacs". It abandons us craving to shake off the fatality that hampers us, not testifying about the possibility of its avoidance. There are no pure people. Life has something demonic about it, and that is its peculiarity - that is the profound idea of the original sin. Right from the very beginning there had been an odd strain and, consequently upon, a burst, something went wrong in the very foundation, perhaps it had to go wrong "for "in creation purity is unavailable." Perpetration accompanies us, it is here that the spirit "transubstantiates into blood" and the "tragedy of flesh", which is to be found in every perpetration, commences. The reason being that flesh seeks to abolish its limits which constitute a prison for its outbursts of passions... We are nothing but a mixture of spirit and flesh, consciousness and blood...
carnal category
It is unfeasible to regard body as appearance, to conceive of spirit in isolation from it, i.e. in isolation from drama of life, its contradictions and defects. What would spirit be if it were devoid of carnal disturbances, and what would consciousness be if it were devoid of "high nervous sensitivity"? It is the sensitivity that confronts us with the reality of our carnality, the "reality of flesh" without which thinking about it would be pointless. One should listen intently to one’s body, as through the body one can"know far more than through the reason in which it is mainly our deceptive and treacherous I. It is the body that knows us much better then we ourselves do; the body takes care about us(...) – a great deal is hidden in its silence..." The body radiates ciphered, sometimes impatient information about its moods, each and every one of them is a certain statement; it incessantly testifies to the uniqueness of its own curse, for it is "only" the shell, threatened by senility, the carapace for what will die soon. Or perhaps it is a rotten trick, a "kind of swindle", a disguise that hides nothing? I wish to see man in his profoundest nudity through his body, which awaits nothing more but the anguish caused by the evil and wretchedness of life... It is impossible to break with sexuality... "
All in man is visibly contoured and finished off with the exception of the sexual organs, which compared to others seem(...) vague." The ability to tear oneself away from the human face, for the sake of an exercise if nothing more ( what is not connected with the face sharpens the consciousness ), leads us to the following: "the sexual organs express more truth about human soul than all other body parts, even the eyes" This passage from Singer was my revelation, from which however I sought not to draw too far-reaching conclusions; it was enough for me to see man as a potential unclothing or its very herald; yet, concrete enough to yield to the temptation. Nowadays, there is little prospect for mystery. Even the body stark naked no longer possesses it. The body is destitute of all mystery. "There are women – dressed and undressed – but their body no longer is." Nonetheless, I yearn to regain it. I need it! I wish, at least in my own eyes, to save and preserve it at all cost; I want to bring it to a stand still and if it continues to escape me, I shall at least rend it apart..."Man is doomed, he cannot last long for on closer inspection he is an aberration , a superb one but still an aberration, heresy of nature. It has a great career lying behind him but no future lies ahead, man will vanish due to the inner exhaustion." What can one do about it?... the rest is on the canvas...
/ krzysztof domaradzki / kxx