Posts Tagged ‘ Cecilia Vicuña ’

Cecilia Vicuña Wins Spain’s Top Art Prize – ARTnews.com

Source: Cecilia Vicuña Wins Spain’s Top Art Prize – ARTnews.com

The Dream’s Navel by Clayton Eshleman | The Brooklyn Rail

The Dream’s Navel

For Stuart Kendall

Gotham Bar & Grill in Manhattan, dining with Caryl, Cecilia & Jim.
At a table near ours, alone, a woman in whose face I saw Death.
At one point she turned her head toward us:
I could only stay in her black ray lane a few seconds.

So, here we are. Sipping cheek timber, under the cistern eyes of earth’s
granite-gated vineyard.

Cecilia Vicuña:  the shadow

is from the animal
you used to be
the shadow
is from  the one
you will be
the shadow is not from you
from them
from the one who passes
its not a shadow at all
it is the sound
of a shadow
it is the shadow
of the sound”

Freud: “There is a tangle of dream thoughts that cannot be unraveled.
This is the dream’s navel, the spot where it reaches down into the unknown.”

Or as rephrased by Freud: “There is at least one spot in every dream at which it is unplumbable—a navel as it were, that is its point of contact with the unknown.”

Freud also identifies the dream navel as a knot entangled with threads (evoking the Medusa’s head of serpent hair covering the mother’s “dangerous genitals”). He writes that some “dream thoughts are infinitely branching, rather than tangled…”

At one point he identifies the dream navel with the defile, or central neck, of a clepsydra, “where all forms resemble each other, where everything is possible.”

The spot where this navel “reaches down into the unknown,” can be envisioned as an Upper Paleolithic opening leading to a cave, the maternal interior being replaced by a limestone one; the “infinitely branching thoughts” becoming the engraved meanders on Rouffignac’s “Red Ceiling with Serpentines,” a surface covered with serpent-shaped signs.

Or as in Combarelle’s Inner Gallery, the engraved creatures that only vaguely resemble anything that lived: animal-snouted archaic on the leash of,

                                or the harness of, a proto-alchemical mush,
sled beasts bounding in slow motion,
grotesque heads dissolving in grotto drift…

Can these silex-cut wall meanders and lines or black manganese finger strokes, unreadable but engageable, indicate a possible response of Cro-Magnon people in cave darkness to a dream’s branchings & its grotesque inhabitants?  Can we cut through time here and descend, without historical interference, through the palimpsestic layers of unconscious levels, to uncover the possible ignition of image making, in which non-human souls began to mingle with human souls?

“In fact,” Gaston Bachelard proposes, “a need to animalize is at the origins of the imagination… its first function is to create animal forms.”

Henri Michaux’s stroke chaos, in which creature forms are evoked by tangled and knotted lines reminds us of the Cro-Magnon “creatures” verging on resembling yet undefined…  As if we are in the presence of nothing in the process of athing…

Vicuña again: “The void, the forgotten aspect of each sound that is propelling us as we search for memory and oblivion at once…”

One day I will be between here & there, in the nowhere that is part of every where that tonight seems substantial compared to its invisible absence…

My absence… as if absence were mine.

Old Whitman: “Have you learn’d lessons only of those who admired you, and were tender with you, and stood aside for you? Have you not learn’d great lessons from those who reject you, and brace themselves against you? Or who treat you with contempt, or dispute the passage with you?”

Willliam & Cid,
with you I’ve lived.
Corman said no
& Blake said yes.

We are free only to the degree that we are able to acknowledge the headless oarsmen rowing the heart skiff through the rainbow of a totality
ebbing & flowing over
the rocks of man’s now quite clearly unregenerate nature.

We have lost the temenos, the imaginative precinct
in which a van Eyck, say,
could orchestrate a specific world

Dearth of polar bears. Dearth of honeybees.

                            It is crying outside.

          *

          Image is the athanor in which I linguistize soul,
a dream umbilicus coiling down into the miracle of
Neanderthal tombstone cupules, Cro-Magnon engravings,
earliest shamanic hybrids,
through which a mistress spirit might rise,
electric with Tantrik lesions, from that serpent lounge
where the soul snake slumbers
until charmed up into a brain / body imaginarium.

My mind at base is a spermal animalcule
impregnated with female blood.
The Muladhara Chakra is not gendered.
Neither is my imagination.
I reject duality & propose an orgy of contesting mind.
The soul was in exile even at Chauvet.

Paradise is a form of polymorphous merger
charged by the bathysphere of the poem
rising from engrailings where even squirrels reflect,
& robins ruminate: the animal lager…

                                  Bottom is crossed by
something alive, a crab or turtle brought up mud
regurgitated into a Cro-Magnon hand.
Ochre or manganese, discovered in descent
& mixed with cave water, palm pressed to stone
(a stone that in history becomes the omphalos, or om phallus),
released, leaving a “hand” without a hand,
negation’s—or was it absence’s?—first
imaginal presence.

The poem is from the beginning antiphonal
hybridizing ancestral fauna in language-twisted straits.
Oh the difficulty of the soul! “You could not find the ends of the soul
though you traveled every way, so deep is its logos.”
To Heraclitus, James Hillman responds: “the logos of the soul,
Psychology, implies the act of traveling the soul’s labyrinth
in which we can never go deep enough.
William Blake, naked, reading Genesis to naked Catherine
in their London “Arbor of Eden.”

Jardin botanique, Bordeaux, 2008.
The bud & spoor density of a mauve Baudelairian incubation.
Tender vines erupting into fanged blooms…
Minute nomadic ants percolate the many-breasted
Venus of the Plants.
Centuries pass… And the ghost of Henri Rousseau
glides,   a virgin on a lost ark,
in chime with cloned obsequies,
fertile diapasons…

Fused to his centrovertic grappling,

into the aethercore the poet pours his siliceous soul.

 

The Dream’s Navel | The Brooklyn Rail.

QUESTIONS FOR POETS, text by Anne Boyer | Aesthetic Education at MUTE

~ Cecilia Vicuna

QUESTIONS FOR POETS, text by Anne Boyer | Aesthetic Education Expanded Newly At MUTE.

Stephen Collis: from Redactical | Lemon Hound

 

1

Stuck again we came up with something else
Tried gluing the cardboard shards of boxes
To our heads and backs like
The defensive plates and spikes
Of dinosaurs we weren’t but were becoming

Or drove out west like a movie we remember
Where girls feet rest on the dash
Window prism light listening to electric chatter
And music seems part of the sunny world
That is escaping last air from a thought balloon

The gentle breeze backyard backdrop
Of evergreen trees allows a long strand
Of web the faintest visibility floating like
This will be the last word ever spoken
Or overheard no this will—Kalamazoo

But then the Internet didn’t care anymore
Though it went on recording every keystroke
And whoever we were outside of information
We stood together with our chemicals
And held death a little closer to our whispering lips

Now when we text it is barely the memory of bird song
There might be some data or DNA left somewhere
But with no readers who cares what bugs
Are expressing remnants of after images and holes
The whistle’s blown and we are unplugged for good

3

All spaces branded all space is branded
Each gene known catalogued but totality’s
Unknown totalities unknown plural
Loops and overlaps and the spontaneous
Production of nearly identical individuals

Then is vichyssoise alive as edible coding?
First they brand us radicals
Then they eliminate the concept of the radical
Lift this information through your chemical soup
Loops and spirals and poetic gyres abound

But—gimme shelter—lost lips spell no flies
Shuttling chemical structure to hump new
Chemical structures out of perpetual primal soup
We want to be swallowed by this language
No this language—nucleocytoplasmic shuttling

Oft in dire like this weather this redactical
Sun branch sun cloud reflects sun
Methane bomb shelter gimme time went as we
Species twiddled and sang to lamp light and
Located our deep viral past on a map (you are here *)

Realize we can’t keep saying we but muttering
Totalities script bioinformation in scriptorium
Cells copying thus where diversity lies origin lies
But what’s the frequency, Kenneth Rexroth
And what follows or fallows these fleet fields?

4

And then we extend the climate of our unknowing
Despite false colour views and massive stacks of data
The moment wasn’t about the symbolic after all
The moment followed a bee
Through the streets of Manhattan

The earth spinning hot on its axis
Was—or wasn’t—more like a tree falling in a forest
Than it was like an instrument measuring CO2
On a mountain in Hawaii—but if a tree falls in a forest
And everyone is already in that tree

Having climbed there to get above rising waters
Does it make any sound? Or is that
Just the noise our limbs make wind-milling in space
As we launch—indexical of our own distraction—
Off the ends of our two hundred year old hockey sticks?

But tell me, Cecilia Vicuña, if you can
Is that bee the last fluttering bastion
Of a cognition that we have undone in our doings?
Or will the herd of boreal caribou coming behind us
Sweep us around Columbus Circle one too many times?

 

I know, it’s hard to stop coming to America—
The waiting room is the size of the world
Has a sign that says, “Welcome to the Anthropocene”
And all the exits are jails furnished with

Unassembled Ikea furniture with nary an Allen Key in sight.

 

Stephen Collis: from Redactical | Lemon Hound.