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Symposium
at the
Essay:
David-Baptiste Chirot
"Conceptual Poetry and its Others"---Haunting Questions Found Hidden
in Plain Site/Sight/Cite (Essay) & RubBEings Statements & 30 Visual
Poetry Works
These works are linked at the site for the Symposium at the Poetry Center of the
University of Arizona---
they are all the works I submitted--an essay, followed by Statements accomp[anying
the Visual Poetry works that were displaed during the Symposium
Thank you to Annie Guthrie for all her great help and support not only with myself
but for the entire Symposium.
The essay was on line at the time of the Symposium, and I have added today the
other Statements and RubBEings & Visual Poetry so all my contributions may be
easily found in this one linked entry, pending the final, if any change is needed,
arrangement for these with the Poetry Center.
J'ai trop a ecrire, c'est pourquoi je n'ecrire rien. --Stendhal, Journal, 1804
“If you would create, relax before moldy, wet walls and feel form shaping out of the
chaotic patterns.”— Michelangelo
“A final glossary, therefore, cannot be made of words whose intentions are fugitive.”
--William S. Burroughs, Junkie
I find in thinking with what a Conceptual Poetry might be, that I've
begun with a point of view of paradox. That is, considering the
conceptual to be the absence of a material object, a conceptual poetry
would be the absence of the poem as a "realization" of its "idea." If
"the poem" as an object is not to be realized, in what ways may it
then be said to "exist"?
{See Appendix B below for some other "Science Fiction" aspects of Conceptual
Poetry in Relation to the Work Place.)
The actual "works" of Feneon, then, are not written objects per
se, but anonymous actions, ephemeral pseudonymous "appearances in
print," and the works of others which he affects a passage for in his
editorship and translations, in his promoting and selling the art
works of others. This "accumulation" which one finds "at a distance"
in time as his "complete works," is often unobserved and unknown to his
contemporaries, who know of him primarily via his "way of acting," his manner
of dressing, his speech mannerisms, and as the public triptych of images of him
existing as a painted portrait by Signac, a Dandy-pose
photo and a mug shot taken when tried as part of an Anarchist
"conspiracy." Feneon's "identity as a writer" does not exist as "an
author," but as a series of "performances," "appearances" and
"influences," many of them "unrecognized" and "unattributed."
The severe mug facing the viewer is actually producing a Conceptual Poetry "at a
distance." By not penning a single line, by simply "facing the music" to which
others pen the lyrics, Feneon, in doing nothing more than facing the camera
"capturing" his image, proceeds to enact a series of dramas "projected" on to him,
a series of "identities," and "revelations" which use the documentary material to
produce a series of mass-published fictions.
The possible prison term facing the "Felix Feneon" in the inmate-numbered
"anonymous" mug shot, "presents its face" to the viewer, a face "taken,"
"imprisoned" and "caught" by the image and its publicity. This publicized face
facing camera and viewer and possible hard time, is "taken to be" the photo of the
face of a being from whom the mask of the clandestine and conspiratorial have been
torn off, revealing "the cold hard truth" of Felix Feneon.
Facing trial, however, all that is learned of this imprisoned face is that it is "the
wrong man, an innocent man." This fixed image, acquitted of its "sensational"
charges, is revealed not as a truth, but instead as simply a mask, a mask operating
like a screen or blank sheet of paper, onto which are projected the dramas, fictions
and "think piece" writings of others. Nothing is revealed other than an "identity"
which shifts, travels, changes from one set of captions to another. It is via these
captions written by others under his image in the papers and placards, that Feneon
continues his "writing at a distance." Simply by facing the camera, facing charges,
"facing the music," facing his accusers at trial and facing the verdict and judgment,
Feneon is "writing" a myriad captions, breaking news items, commentaries,
editorials, all of which change with wild speeds as they race to be as "up-to-minute"
as the events themselves are in "unfolding."
The professionals, these writers, these journalists and reporters of "reality," chase
desperately, breathlessly, after the unfolding drama in which the mug shot is
"framed," and in so doing produce texts of "speculative fiction," a serial
Conceptual Poetry with as its "star player" a writer whose own texts are
deliberately written to be unrecognized, hidden, camouflaged, unknown. And all the
while, this writer writing nothing is producing vast heaps of writing via the work of
others, as yet another form of camouflaged clandestine Conceptual Poetry, "hot off
the press."
Anonymity, pseudonyms, impersonations, poets who write their own coming silence
and "disappearance" as an "I is an other," the deliberately unrecognized and
unrecognizable poet whose mug shot becomes the mass published and distributed
"crime scene" for police blotters and headlines, speculative fictions and ideological
diatribes, the writing which is a notation of the flight of the concept, the writing of
non-writers who "never wrote a word," yet whose concepts may be found
camouflaged, doubled, mirrored, shadowed, anonymously existing hidden in plain
site/sight/cite—these nomadic elements which appear and disappear comprise a
Conceptual Poetry in which the concepts and poets both impersonate Others and
reappear as "Somebody Else," an Other unrecognized and unrecognizable found
hidden in plain site/sight/cite.
"It is not the elements which are new, but the order of
their arrangement," is another Pascalian "pensee." One finds
arrangements of the elements of Rimbaud and Feneon into the various
forms of "conceptual poetry" in the works of Pessoa, Spicer and Yasusada.
Pessoa creates many others as poets, heteronyms with their own works
and actions, their own concepts of poetry. Spicer "translates" poetry "after Lorca"
as well as exchanging letters with the dead poet, lives for a summer with his ghost,
who provides a foreword to Spicer's Book.
(The Yasusada includes several basically performance pieces, and both the
Spicer and Lorca of After Lorca and the many entities involved in the
Yasusada are basically "performances" themselves.)
A Russian artist writes: "Language is fascism not because it censors, but because it
forces one to speak."
"Forcing one to speak," is the purpose of torture; one may then ask if a Conceptual
Poetry of directives, instructions, copying, is not from this point of view a method of
torture? The object of torture is not to produce "truth" or "lies" or "silence," but
simply to produce language—speech which becomes part of the "records" stashed
in files as "evidence" that a prisoner has indeed "confessed."
By a paradoxical turn, does this then turn Conceptual Poetry of some kinds into a
new form of "Confessional Poetry?"
And so produce a Conceptual Confessional Poetry of impersonal drones "following
orders" who at the same time wish to be known of as "Conceptual Poets?" And so
perhaps to "make a name for oneself" as an "outstanding employee," or as a
"lyrically inclined soldier," a "poetic mercenary" who may become the "New
Conceptual Poetry's Archilochus?"
Archilochus—creator of then Avant Garde poetic forms and a member of the avant-
garde troops as a soldier.
A Conceptual Poetry that finds and is found by anonymous beings, who in working
with Conceptual Poetry are for a space of time "Conceptual Poets," with or without
being aware that they are even being "Conceptual Poets."
Perhaps in this way, strangely, Art Brut as originally found and later
conceived of by Jean Dubuffet comes close to a "Conceptual Art and
Poetry." It is art made outside any of the conventions of art, by
persons without often any awareness of "art" per se. Yet—since they
have been "recognized" by the Glance of A Great Artist—do they then
remain things which exist only in the glance—to exist that is truly in
a "Raw State"--or as things which could not be detected as Art Brut
without the knowledge of Art, of an Artist?
That is, in what ways do they exist before the Artist's glance
introduces the Concept of Art?
Is the only way to "know and recognize" a Conceptual work via its
being labeled so? Is that why a Conceptual Work of the kind found in
objects, in written language, has always also an author's name
attached to it? Does that particular Concept then "belong" to that
person only? And so even if one "follows its directions," is not one
simply replicating the author's concept? That is, one becomes
imprisoned not only by the object, and by the process, but by the
author also?
That is, the things themselves are their own Concepts, their Conceptual poetries
and arts and "call out" as it were to be "found."
"Poetry no longer imposes itself, it exposes itself," writes Paul Celan in a notebook.
In a sense this is the way that working with the Found takes place.
"I do not seek, I find," said Picasso. Instead of creating "methods"
of chance operations, or of copying things which entail a
predetermined "exercise" of a "Conceptual Approach" mapped out in
advance, to find means to be open to what is there in the moment as
being that which is the Concept that is calling to one—and with which
one responds. And in working with the found, one then is moving
within a collaborative flow, in which the give and take and effects of
the materials themselves directly affect what "takes place."
The "author" of the works is not a single person; it is a collaboration that emerges
in the contact of a person with the found.
into those unknowns in which are found the uncanny recognitions, the encounters
among Conceptual Poetries hidden in plain site/sight/cite--
Appendix A: from "El Ojo de Dios" Part One: "Insects and Letters."
El Colonel smiles. Along with his great fondness for alliteration, El Colonel has an
addiction for placing thoughts, those improvised compositions, in quotation marks.
This brings "a deft touch of intriguing and entertaining irony to the most prosaic of
ideas, events, and persons " Habituated to an imaginative isolation, El Colonel's
intellectual companions are his "compositions" with their attendant
"commentaries," "asides," "digressions," and "annotations." By means of this
"ironic distancing" he continually invents "a hitherto unknown and as yet
unpublished form of writing, never before seen nor heard."
El Colonel smiles. This writing is a method of creating for himself a reader who is in
turn accompanied by his own doubling as a writer. Where there had been "no one
with who to share his most intimate thoughts, the fullness and agility of his life,"
there is now not only such a companion; there is also a recorder of "his deeds and
exploits." In such a way El Colonel simultaneously acts, writes and reads both for
himself and to another, who is also both a reader and an other author in turn,
providing El Colonel with his own role as a reader. By these means his life takes on
an aura of legend, and he acts both as though creating the performance of
something which is happening, and of something which has happened "already." By
the latter means, his life is taking place in a futurity in which it is read, and in a
present in which it is written. The simplest acts and words are invested with the
immediacy of a drama "taking place," the glow of "great acts having taken place ,"
and, to heighten both drama and aura, the precisions of a prefatory "about to take
place," which allows for the insertion of the necessary commentaries, directions, and
asides. "For the benefit of the listener, for the pleasure of the reader, for the
background material necessary to the writer," as El Colonel describes it with relish
in a self-penned blurb . . .
El Colonel smiles. Going to the wide open window he gazes through aviator
sunglasses at the bright birds, the luminosity of the landscape and "reflects on the
irony that reflective glasses shield one's reflections from observing eyes by their
mirrored reflections of a thwarted inquiry."
El Colonel smiles. Behind the reflecting sunglasses, "his own reflections concern
themselves with a reflection found within the 'Author's Note' to the Second Edition
of Joseph Conrad's The Secret Agent, a copy of which he found when literally
ransacking a small private library whose owner he had been ordered to take
possession of." El Colonel "recollects in tranquility," that the passage had "greatly
interested, inspired and amused him, for in it Conrad had written: 'Man may smile
and smile but he is not an investigating animal. He loves the obvious. He shrinks
from explanations. Yet I will go on with mine.'"
El Colonel smiles. Watching the play of light on large leaves upon whose surfaces
insects have begun to gather "seems to remind him of the play of the light even in
the cool dimness of the library on the leaves of the book, upon whose surfaces the
letters had gathered." This "doubly reflecting" aspect of his seeing and his
recollections strikes him "as an image of the intimate intercourse of the natural and
human worlds, of the revelatory union of the exterior and interior of consciousness,
and of the synchronistic simultaneity of the moment and a memory which doubles
as its mirror."
El Colonel smiles. Conrad's man who may smile and smile, loving the obvious and
shrinking from explanations, he finds himself to be the "paradoxical embodiment of
the contradiction of." For, "reading Conrad's words crawling on the leaves of the
book in the cool, shadowy light, he had found himself, not as the one described, but
as the union of the description and its author. As both the smiler and the
investigative explainer who describes and refutes him, as the one whose task it is to
bring into being their union. As and in himself. And in that moment he experienced
the recognition of his unique Vocation and of himself. "
El Colonel smiles. "To smile, to love the obvious, and to present and preserve the
explanation which both the smile and the obvious conceal, the reflections behind
their reflecting surfaces. This, this is his alone, this unique vocation, this great
passion, this most confidential mission."
El colonel smiles. Checking his watch, he turns and approaches a chair on one side
of the table set in the center of the large light filled room. This chair and the one on
the table's other side are high backed, with strong arms of a wood hard as iron and
painted in a still shiny black lacquer. The upholstered seats and backs are not
uncomfortable and of a worn red fading into rose. With studied and precise,
angular movements, El Colonel begins to arrange himself in the correct position in
which to be found by his "immanent and eminent visitor."
El Colonel permits himself a barely audible and very brief laugh as "he takes
possession of himself the better to assiduously arrange the head, the torso, the limbs,
the folded hands, as though he were in the process of preparing a stuffed and
mounted specimen of a representative example of a Colonel, whose taxidermist he
himself was."
Appendix B: Conceptual Poetry and the Work Place: the Death of the Author and
the Birth of the Drone, A Science Fiction Poetics of the Invasion of the Body
Snatchers
The Concept of Conceptual Poetry one finds among some Conceptual Poets is one
that resembles a form of training for the embrace of working in bureaucratic and
corporate settings as an "impersonal" manipulator and mover of masses of material
in the form of words. Conceptual Poetry becomes a "discipline" for the production
of "well adjusted functionaries" carrying out the "boring" tasks of filing, copying,
sorting and arranging word-data. The "unoriginality," "impersonality" and
boredom raised to the level of "Conceptual Poetry" is perhaps a way to aestheticize
the dystopian existences of millions of "lower level" workers in globalized
corporations and bureaucratic State apparati.
The Conceptual Poet may in this manner be able to have their services be much in
demand, and so "to make a name for oneself," by emphasizing the impersonality of
others, and training them to "disappear" into the services they provide as handlers
of all the unwanted, uninteresting masses of material that need somehow to be
sorted, copied and stored.
It is not "wage slavery" and "drones" one is providing the world with, but instead
an exciting, "avant-garde" Conceptual Poetry taught in all the best universities!
And so Conceptual Poetry becomes a new method of Consulting for firms interested
in innovations in "employee relations."
Conceptual Poetry examined in this light may be seen as a form of preventing the
kinds of breakdowns among lower level employees in the bureaucratic and
corporate fields one finds in the writings that depict and explore the effects of the
rapidly industrializing and mass data producing machines of "progress" of the 19th
Century. These "breakdowns" appear in the forms of Melville's "Bartleby the
Scrivener," with his "I would prefer not to," and among the bottom level clerks and
copyists in the works of Gogol, Dostoyevsky, Balzac and Dickens, several of which
point to the works of Kafka, himself an employee in an immense bureaucracy.
The "death of the author" is the birth of the drone, a transformation that occurs
when persons are asleep, as the pods from Outer Space give birth to the impersonal
copies of the once human beings in "Invasion of the Body Snatchers."
RubBEings may well be the oldest form of copy art. Rearranging found
signs and letterings, one arrives at visual poems that emerge from the
existent materials. By moving from site to site, one is collaging,
combining scattered elements to juxtapose and create new arrangements.
All my work is made with a profound faith in the encounter with the
Found, everywhere and at all times to be Found all around one.
Like Picasso, I work with the sense that "I do not seek, I find."
The Found is that which exposes itself, and with which one works via
an uncanny encounter, a call and response, a shock of recognition, out
of which collaboration emerges an Other, which is the BEing in/with
rubBEing.
Today we had the first snows here in Milwaukee. Temperatures to drop near
zero--while I was out working I was informed it was 16 degrees. Winds have
blown for days signaling changes on the way--and today they
arrived--swirling gusts of full flaked snow--drastic drop in the
temperatures--
Since I work by hand directly pressing paper to the material to be rubbed
with one hand--and then holding lumber crayon in other hand--touch and
temperature play a large part in my daily work outside. The cold will be
soon affecting the ways I work--I will keep a log of these.
Through time the hands learn to see and the eyes learn to touch--I
examine materials as they arise for possible rubbing--things that may look
good to the eye do not work by hand and vice versa--one has to go back and
forth in using both hands and eyes to tell if a given fence or telephone pole
or raised letterings on dumpsters may be of use. The same goes for any
surface in which there are cracks and knots and the swirled lines made by
circling knots--
One learns that what may look good to the eye when rubbed by touch is
nothing much at all--and one may feel by hand something that seems to be of
great beauty--and then when rubbed by eye sight--it is nothing at all--just
a mess.
RubBEings are a Haptic form of work--touch plays such a role--that I
have of late done much work in the dark or near dark literally feeling my
way--since it gets dark earlier, I have grown used to working by dimmer and
dimmer lights, fading into darkness--this is a fascinating way to work--one
has to use the hands as eyes--and yet one also knows that what may feel good
to the touch is unpleasing to the eyes--so this working by touch--one begins
to learn just how deep an impression or incision in wood or other materials
made by--numbers and letters on telephone poles for example, burdened into
the wood--or raises letterings--and then from this to being able to read by
hand the heights of raised lines of wood--how high they may be before
making truly a good series/set of lines on the paper--slowly but surely I
find that I can by touch find what will be pleasing to the eye--it takes time and
patience and much running of the hands over surfaces--that one cannot see.
I find this a purely Haptic approach--and that my rubBEings do feel
to the touch differently in the almost invisible differences in the heights
of the crayon wax on top of the paper--or the areas in white where it is
incised--
One may read subtly by the touch the crayon wax on paper--and see with
the eyes--the shifts in heights and shades and weights of the hands and
crayon as it varies according to the raisings and lowerings of the
materials-
The making and touching/reading of rubBEings are a way to introduce
the Haptic element directly into visual poetry--a visual poetry in which the
visual may be by touch--and the touch may be visual--- The Haptic
element is important in what I work with daily--and is another means by
which to extend visual poetry from the word/paper into the world of
materials.
Concrete--materiality of the word--physicality of letters and
words on a page--these names and phrases remain removed from the touch of
the world and are abstractions. In working with the Haptic, one essays a
finding through the working of a ways in which all these mere phrases may
truly be a part of the world and visual poetry a lived experience, one not
RubBEings and Public Art, Art Made in Public Spaces among the Public
I hope in my work that there is conveyed a sense that a public space
truly belongs to no one and is shared by everyone. This is in part
why in making my work I collaborate directly with what is there in
these spaces, so that they are present in the works literally, and
calling from these worlds hidden in plain site/sight/cite all around
one, everywhere to be found.