Friday, February 28, 2014

Thursday, February 27, 2014

Wednesday, February 26, 2014

Tuesday, February 25, 2014

Monday, February 24, 2014

Max Monday

Self-Portrait with Champagne Glass, By Max Beckmann - 1919

"Every one of his works has the mystery of being human as its undertone. It is not flaunted, but it is a constant presence. Grosz, who had shared many of Beckmann's feelings, had resorted to the savagery of caricature. Beckmann, a greater artist and a more balanced man, came near it but did not fall over that dangerous edge. Self-Portrait with Champagne Glass is the nearest he got to self-pity or mockery. The man behind the partition, the happy man, the one who could feel at home in the world of post-war Germany - he is a figure that recalls the bitter cartoons of Grosz. Our attention is instead on Beckmann himself, the man who does not fit into this wounded society, but who must nonetheless appear to take his place. He forces a smile, his lips writhing in what he hopes will pass as a welcoming gesture. The falsity is painful, and so is his bodily position, squashed against the bar in a world of no-space. His celebratory drink is for holding, not for enjoying: it belongs by right to the space of the man it toasts, the man behind, the man who belongs. The champagne bottle neck lunges at the artist like a small field gun, hemming him in with its pretence of happiness. Even his clothes are subtly wrong, too short in the arm, and the arm itself seems ill-formed. Beckmann shows himself as a death's head, with livid skull, sunken eyes, skeletal fingers. It is 1919, and he is coping, but barely." --Sister Wendy Beckett, Max Beckmann and the Self

Sunday, February 23, 2014

Friday, February 21, 2014

Thursday, February 20, 2014

Wednesday, February 19, 2014

Monday, February 17, 2014

Sunday, February 16, 2014

Saturday, February 15, 2014

Friday, February 14, 2014


To cultivate more Romanitas
than even the Romans have,
seems to be the sedevacant clause
that North Americans calve
in typing their online boilerplate;
building tight a narrative
that ever lies in liturgical wait
with a fine-brocaded seive
to strain out Smith and the Machines
while swallowing the perfect pill
of their pre-consecrated Promethean means
and their pompous self-will.


Oh! More than even the Romans got!
Now quick -- slap it on a mug for pay,
and make damn sure the black you say
is from the kettle to the pot!

Oh! More than even the Romans got!
Of doctrine, forms and signs,
make a double-imposition
so instead of giving sight, they blind!

Oh, make a double-imposition
with an extrinsic force of weight:
pre-consecrated angelism!
Oh, the Devil speaks Latin first rate!


Oh! More than even the Devil's got!
You're far smarter than he!
The Devil tried with his Novus Ordo,
but you've sifted out that flea!

Oh, more than even the Devil's got!
Irreformable the Novus Ordo,
by which you actually mean
the Vetus Ordo's irreformable,

by which you mean the Missale 62 -
the matter of the form - is a perfect pill,
by which you heretically mean the Lamb's Sacrifice
is an encoding session where we mill,

by which you mean - whether saying or no -
that in the crucifixion the Jews de facto
made their religion accursed,
and that being a Jew de facto

puts you in the place of crucifying Christ:
ah, front-load those signs, process in reverse!
Christ is King, but never mind His thirst!
Have that form of godliness, but deny the power first!

Oh, more than even the historicists got!
Double-impose that form!
Pre-consecrated angelism!
All sorts of wondrous things are born

when you got more Romanitas
than even the Romans got,
when you got more smarts
than even the Devil's got,
when you got more Pope-Protestation
than even the historicists got!

Thursday, February 13, 2014

Meadowland brimmed
with winter waters,
all-boundary-broken freshets.

Running every way,
criss-crossing expanses,
widening juncture pools

where new quills poke;
waken out of mirror shiver,
early green spears.

The dry amphitheater
of grass for leagues,
winded to death, pale bleached,

in sunlight, bodiless, hisses.

Théodore Thursday

Théodore Géricault - Last Self-Portrait as a Dying Man

Tuesday, February 11, 2014