#ARTAUD

[diana-andraste]

Artaud at Rodez, 1975, written & directed by Charles Marowitz

“In our present state of degeneration it is through the skin that metaphysics must be made to re-enter our minds.” ― Antonin Artaud, The Theater and Its Double

[0ktubre]

me when Spanish rock

[ldr-lil2]

[astoldbymiia]

totalmente yo

[blisteronthemoon]

this was funnier in my head

[cigarettes-after-death]

[justapeperobox]

Oda al flaco spinetta (notese la referencia jsjs) lo re extraño :’) 💚 (los clips no son míos)

[sicsbss]

Vos sos el sol 🌞

Despacio también podes ser la luna

[rexxmp4]

When tu skin es el artaud xDxdXD

Realmente cuando le veo pienso en un falopelo jejejw

[leshorriblestravailleurs]

Video just uploaded on VIMEO: https://vimeo.com/manage/videos/909753554

‘Quitte ta langue’

by

Les Horribles Travavailleurs

Sound work + video, releated to a part of a the text ‘Paul the Birds, or The Place of Love’ - Antonin Artaud - 1925

Complete sound work on Bandcamp: https://leshorriblestravailleurs.bandcamp.com/track/quitte-ta-langue

Sound work: Les Horribles Travavailleurs.

Video: a z\w\a\r\t24 operation in 2016, execution and video by BIop.

Source of the title in the video:

‘Paul Les Oiseaux - ou La Place de l'amour’Manuscript - Antonin Artaud.

https://www.andrebreton.fr/work/56600100109320

\

“Paolo Uccello is struggling in the middle of a vast mental web in which he has lost all the pathways of his soul, and even the form and the suspension of his reality.

Leave your tongue, Paolo Uccello, leave your tongue, my tongue, my tongue, shit, who is speaking, where are you? Beyond, beyond, Mind, Mind, fire, tongues of fire, fire, fire, eat your tongue, old dog, eat his tongue, eat, etc. I tear out my tongue.

YES”

from ‘Paul the Birds, or The Place of Love’ - Antonin Artaud – 1925

[louderfade]

Antonin Artaud

[joaquinsus]

[unforromass]

[floridakilo]

“The light was crude. It made Artaud’s eyes shrink into darkness, as they are deep-set. This brought into relief the intensity of his gestures. He looked tormented. His hair, rather long, fell at times over his forehead. He has the actor’s nimbleness and quickness of gestures. His face is lean, as if ravaged by fevers. His eyes do not seem to see the people. They are the eyes of a visionary. His hands are long, long-fingered. Beside him Allendy looks earthy, heavy, gray. He sits at the desk, massive, brooding. Artaud steps out on the platform, and begins to talk about ‘The Theatre and the Plague.’

He asked me to sit in the front row. It seems to me that all he is asking for is intensity, a more heightened form of feeling and living. Is he trying to remind us that it was during the Plague that so many marvelous works of art and theater came to be, because, whipped by the fear of death, man seeks immortality, or to escape, or to surpass himself? 

But then, imperceptibly almost, he let go of the thread we were following and began to act out dying by plague. No one quite knew when it began. To illustrate his conference, he was acting out an agony. ‘La Peste’ in French is so much more terrible than ‘The Plague’ in English. But no word could describe what Artaud acted out on the platform of the Sorbonne. He forgot about his conference, the theatre, his ideas, Dr. Allendy sitting there, the public, the young students, his wife, professors, and directors.

His face was contorted with anguish, one could see the perspiration dampening his hair. His eyes dilated, his muscles became cramped, his fingers struggled to retain their flexibility. He made one feel the parched and burning throat, the pains, the fever, the fire in the guts. He was in agony. He was screaming. He was delirious. He was enacting his own death, his own crucifixion.

At first people gasped. And then they began to laugh. Everyone was laughing! They hissed. Then, one by one, they began to leave, noisily, talking, protesting. They banged the door as they left. The only ones who did not move were Allendy, his wife, the Lalous, Marguerite. More protestations. More jeering. But Artaud went on, until the last gasp. And stayed on the floor. Then when the hall had emptied of all but his small group of friends, he walked straight up to me and kissed my hand. He asked me to go to the cafe with him.”

-Anaïs Nin, published 1971

[dk-thrive]

You can hear this spit and crackle, this rock of crack...The Earth Moves

But “when we write we sometimes reapply the voltage we once passively accepted”—this I love. Maybe it’s precisely here that writing becomes cruel—not cruel as in sadistic, but cruel as in Artaud’s theater of cruelty: the manifestation of an implacable, irreversible intent, a kind of wild spitting back at the world that begot you without your choosing to be begotten into it. You can hear this spit and crackle, this rock of crack, in Artaud’s voice on those final recordings. The earth moves.

— Maggie Nelson, Like Love: Essays and Conversations. (Graywolf Press, April 2, 2024)

[voodoochild-arg]

Que calor hará sin vos en verano