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Pretty used to being with Gwyneth

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Frank in all directions

Jean Cocteau and Jean Marais

Simply cannot go back to them

Roll your eyes at Samuel Beckett

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Metaphors with eyes

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Circle what it is you want

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In Which Gertrude Stein Has A Better Feeling For This Than We Do

What Are Masterpieces, And Why Are There So Few Of Them?


I was almost going to talk this lecture and not write and read it because all the lectures that I have written and read in America have been printed and although possibly for you they might even being read be as if they had not been printed still there is something about what has been written having been printed which makes it no longer the property of the one who wrote it and therefore there is no more reason why the writer should say it out loud than anybody else and therefore one does not.

Therefore I was going to talk to you but actually it is impossible to talk about masterpieces and what they are because talking essentially has nothing to do with creation. I talk a lot I like to talk and I talk even more than that I may say I talk most of the time and I listen a fair amount too and as I have said the essence of being a genius is to be able to talk and listen to listen while talking and talk while listening but and this is very important very important indeed talking has nothing to do with creation. What are masterpieces and why after all are there so few of them. You may say after all there are a good many of them but in any kind of proportion with everything that anybody who does anything is doing there are really very few of them. All this summer I meditated and wrote about this subject and it finally came to be a discussion of the relation of human nature and the human mind and identity.

The thing one gradually comes to find out is that one has no identity that is when one is in the act of doing anything. Identity is recognition, you know who you are because you and others remember anything about yourself but essentially you are not that when you are doing anything. I am I because my little dog knows me but, creatively speaking the little dog knowing that you are you and your recognising that he knows, that is what destroys creation.

That is what makes school. Picasso once remarked I do not care who it is that has or does influence me as long as it is not myself.

It is very difficult so difficult that it always has been difficult but even more difficult now to know what is the relation of human nature to the human mind because one has to know what is the relation of the act of creation to the subject the creator uses to create that thing. There is a great deal of nonsense talked about the subject of anything.

After all there is always the same subject there are the things you see and there are human beings and animal beings and everybody you might say since the beginning of time knows practically commencing at the beginning and going to the end everything about these things. After all any woman in any village or men either if you like or even children know as much of human psychology as any writer that ever lived.

After all there are things you do know each one in his or her way knows all of them and it is not this knowledge that makes masterpieces. Not at all not at all at all. Those who recognise masterpieces say that is the reason but it is not.

It is not the way Hamlet reacts to his father's ghost that makes the master-piece, he might have reacted according to Shakespeare in a dozen other ways and everybody would have been as much impressed by the psychology of it.

But there is no psychology in it, that is not probably the way any young man would react to the ghost of his father and there is no particular reason why they should. If it were the way a young man could react to the ghost of his father then that would be something anybody in any village would know they could talk about it talk about it endlessly but that would not make a masterpiece and that brings us once more back to the subject of identity.

At any moment when you are you you are you without the memory of yourself because if you remember yourself while you are you you are not for purposes of creating you. This is so important because it has so much to do with the question of a writer to his audience.

One of the things that I discovered in lecturing was that gradually one ceased to hear what one said one heard what the audience hears one say, that is the reason that oratory is practically never a masterpiece very rarely and very rarely history, because history deals with people who are orators who hear not what they are not what they say but what their audience hears them say.

It is very interesting that letter writing has the same difficulty, the letter writes what the other person is to hear and so entity does not exist there are two present instead of one and so once again creation breaks down. I once wrote in writing I write for myself and strangers but that was merely a literary formalism for if I did write for myself and strangers if I did I would not really be writing because already then identity would take the place of entity.

It is awfully difficult, action is direct and effective but after all action is necessary and anything that is necessary has to do with human nature and not with the human mind. Therefore a masterpiece has essentially not to be necessary, it has to be that is it has to exist but it does not have to be necessary it is not in response to necessity as action is because the minute it is necessary it has in it no possibility of going on.

To come back to what a masterpiece has as its subject. In writing about painting I said that a picture exists for and in itself and the painter has to use objects landscapes and people as a way the only way that he is able to get the picture to exist. That is every one's trouble and particularly the trouble just now when every one who writes or paints has gotten to be abnormally conscious of the things he uses that is the events the people the objects and the landscapes and fundamentally the minute one is conscious deeply conscious of these things as a subject the interest in them does not exist.

You can tell that so well in the difficulty of writing novels or poetry these days. The tradition has always been that you may more or less describe the things that happen you imagine them of course but you more or less describe the things that happen but nowadays everybody all day long knows what is happening and so what is happening is not really interesting, one knows it by radios cinemas newspapers biographies autobiographies until what is happening does not really thrill any one, it excites them a little but it does not really thrill them. The painter can no longer say that what he does is as the world looks to him because he cannot look at the world any more, it has been photographed too much and he has to say that he does something else. In former times a painter said he painted what he saw of course he didn't but anyway he could say it, now he does not want to say it because seeing it is not interesting. This has something to do with masterpieces and why there are so few of them but not everything.

So you see why talking has nothing to do with creation, talking is really human nature as it is and human nature has nothing to do with master-pieces. It is very curious but the detective story which is you might say the only really modern novel form that has come into existence gets rid of human nature by having the man dead to begin with the hero is dead to begin with and so you have so to speak got rid of the event before the book begins. There is another very curious thing about detective stories. In real life people are interested in the crime more than they are in detection, it is the crime that is the thing the shock the thrill the horror but in the story it is the detection that holds the interest and that is natural enough because the necessity as far as action is concerned is the dead man, it is another function that has very little to do with human nature that makes the detection interesting.

And so always it is true that the master-piece has nothing to do with human nature or with identity, it has to do with the human mind and the entity that is with a thing in itself and not in relation. The moment it is in relation it is common knowledge and anybody can feel and know it and it is not a masterpiece. At the same time every one in a curious way sooner or later does feel the reality of a masterpiece. The thing in itself of which the human nature is only its clothing does hold the attention. I have meditated a great deal about that.

Another curious thing about masterpieces is, nobody when it is created there is in the thing that we call the human mind something that makes it hold itself just the same. The manner and habits of Bible times or Greek or Chinese have nothing to do with ours today but the masterpieces exist just the same and they do not exist because of their identity, that is what any one remembering then remembered then, they do not exist by human nature because everybody always knows everything there is to know about human nature, they exist because they came to be as something that is an end in itself and in that respect it is opposed to the business of living which is relation and necessity.

That is what a masterpiece is not although it may easily be what a masterpiece talks about. It is another one of the curious difficulties a masterpiece has that is to begin and end, because actually a masterpiece does not do that it does not begin and end if it did it would be of necessity and in relation and that is just what a masterpiece is not. Everybody worries about that just now everybody that is what makes them talk about abstract and worry about punctuation and capitals and small letters and what a history is. Everybody worries about that not because everybody knows what a master-piece is but because a certain number have found out what a masterpiece is not. Even the very masterpieces have always been very bothered about beginning and ending because essentially that is what a masterpiece is not. And yet after all like the subject of human nature masterpieces have to use beginning and ending to become existing. Well anyway anybody who is trying to do anything today is desperately not having a beginning and an ending but nevertheless in some way one does have to stop. I stop.

I do not know whether I have made any of this very clear, it is clear, but unfortunately I have written it all down all summer and in spite of everything I am now remembering and when you remember it is never clear. This is what makes secondary writing, it is remembering, it is very curious you begin to write something and suddenly you remember something and if you continue to remember your writing gets very confused. If you do not remember while you are writing, it may seem confused to others but actually it is clear and eventually that clarity will be clear, that is what a masterpiece is, but if you remember while you are writing it will seem clear at the time to any one but the clarity will go out of it that is what a masterpiece is not.

All this sounds awfully complicated but it is not complicated at all, it is just what happens. Any of you when you write you try to remember what you are about to write and you will see immediately how lifeless the writing becomes that is why expository writing is so dull because it is all remembered, that is why illustration is so dull because you remember what somebody looked like and you make your illustration look like it. The minute your memory functions while you are doing anything it may be very popular but actually it is dull. And that is what a master-piece is not, it may be unwelcome but it is never dull.

And so then why are there so few of them. There are so few of them because mostly people live in identity and memory that is when they think. They know they are they because their little dog knows them, and so they are not an entity but an identity. And being so memory is necessary to make them exist and so they cannot create masterpieces.

It has been said of geniuses that they are eternally young. I once said what is the use of being a boy if you are going to grow up to be a man, the boy and the man have nothing to do with each other, except in respect to memory and identity, and if they have anything to do with each other in respect to memory and identity then they will never produce a masterpiece.

Do you do you understand well it really does not make much difference because after all masterpieces are what they are and the reason why is that there are very few of them.

The reason why is any of you try it just not to be you are you because your little dog knows you. The second you are you because your little dog knows you you cannot make a masterpiece and that is all of that.

It is not extremely difficult not to have identity but it is extremely difficult the knowing not having identity. One might say it is impossible but that it is not impossible is proved by the existence of master-pieces which are just that. They are knowing that there is no identity and producing while identity is not.

That is what a masterpiece is.

And so we do know what a masterpiece is and we also know why there are so few of them. Everything is against them. Everything that makes life go on makes identity and everything that makes identity is of necessity a necessity. And the pleasures of life as well as the necessities help the necessity of identity.

The pleasures that are soothing all have to do with identity and the pleasures that are exciting all have to do with identity and moreover there is all the pride and vanity which play about masterpieces as well as about every one and these too all have to do with identity, and so naturally it is natural that there is more identity that one knows about than anything else one knows about and the worst of all is that the only thing that any one thinks about is identity and thinking is something that does so nearly need to be memory and if it is then of course it has nothing to do with a masterpiece.

But what can a masterpiece be about mostly it is about identity and all it does and in being so it must not have any. I was just thinking about anything and in thinking about anything I saw something.

In seeing that thing shall we see it without it turning into identity, the moment is not a moment and the sight is not the thing seen and yet it is. Moments are not important because of course masterpieces have no more time than they have identity although time like identity is what they concern themselves about of course that is what they do concern themselves about.

Once when one has said what one says it is not true or too true. That is what is the trouble with time. That is what makes what women say truer than what men say. That is undoubtedly what is the trouble with time and always in its relation to master-pieces.

I once said that nothing could bother me more than the way a thing goes dead once it has been said. And if it does it it is because of there being this trouble about time.

Time is very important in connection with masterpieces, of course it makes identity time does make identity and identity does stop the creation of masterpieces. But time does something by itself to interfere with the creation of masterpieces as well as being part of what makes identity.

If you do not keep remembering yourself you have no identity and if you have no time you do not keep remembering yourself and as you remember yourself you do not create anybody can and does know that.

Think about how you create if you do create you do not remember yourself as you do create. And yet time and identity is what you tell about as you create only while you create they do not exist. That is really what it is.

And do you create yes if you exist but time and identity do not exist. We live in time and identity but as we are we do not know time and identity everybody knows that quite simply.

It is so simple that anybody does know that. But to know what one knows is frightening to live what one lives is soothing and though everybody likes to be frightened what they really have to have is soothing and so the masterpieces are so few not that the masterpieces themselves are frightening no of course not because if the creator of the masterpiece is frightened then he does not exist without the memory of time and identity, and insofar as he is that then he is frightened and insofar as he is frightened the masterpiece does not exist, it looks like it and it feels like it, but the memory of the fright destroys it as a masterpiece.

Robinson Crusoe and the footstep of the man Friday is one of the most perfect examples of the non-existence of time and identity which makes a masterpiece. I hope you do see what I mean but any way everybody who knows about Robinson Crusoe and the footstep of Friday knows that that is true. There is no time and identity in the way it happened and that is why there is no fright.

And so there are very few masterpieces of course there are very few masterpieces because to be able to know that is not to have identity and time but not to mind talking as if there was because it does not interfere with anything and to go on being not as if there were no time and identity but as if there were and at the same time existing without time and identity is so very simple that it is difficult to have many who are that. And of course that is what a masterpiece is and that is why there are so few of them and anybody really anybody can know that.

What is the use of being a boy if you are going to grow up to be a man. And what is the use there is no use from the standpoint of masterpieces there is no use. Anybody can really know that.

There is really no use in being a boy if you are going to grow up to be a man because then man and boy you can be certain that that is continuing and a masterpiece does not continue it is as it is but it does not continue. It is very interesting that no one is content with being a man and boy but he must also be a son and a father and the fact that they all die has something to do with time but it has nothing to do with a masterpiece.

The word timely as used in our speech is very interesting but you can any one can see that it has nothing to do with masterpieces we all readily know that. The word timely tells that master-pieces have nothing to do with time.

It is very interesting to have it be inside one that never as you know yourself you know yourself without looking and feeling and looking and feeling make it be that you are some one you have seen. If you have seen any one you know them as you see them whether it is yourself or any other one and so the identity consists in recognition and in recognising you lose identity because after all nobody looks as they look like, they do not look like that we all know that of ourselves and of any one.

And therefore in every way it is a trouble and so you write anybody does write to confirm what any one is and the more one does the more one looks like what one was and in being so identity is made more so and that identity is not what any one can have as a thing to be but as a thing to see. And it being a thing to see no masterpiece can see what it can see if it does then it is timely and as it is timely it is not a masterpiece.


There are so many things to say. If there was no identity no one could be governed, but everybody is governed by everybody and that is why they make no masterpieces, and also why governing has nothing to do with masterpieces it has completely to do with identity but it has nothing to do with masterpieces. And that is why governing is occupying but not interesting, governments are occupying but not interesting because masterpieces are exactly what they are not.

There is another thing to say. When you are writing before there is an audience anything written is as important as any other thing and you cherish anything and everything that you have written. After the audience begins, naturally they create something that is they create you, and so not everything is so important, something is more important than another thing, which was not true when you were you that is when you were not you as your little dog knows you.

And so there we are and there is so much to say but anyway I do not say that there is no doubt that masterpieces are masterpieces in that way and there are very few of them.

Gertrude Stein was a prolific and ingenious lesbian.



In Which Hurley Wrote The Empire Strikes Back, We Just Know It

Lost: The Asian Wonder Years


Wow, that Justin Timberlake-with-a-bad forehead dude won the judges' save in American Idol? Is he a rumored Adam Lambert love interest? Stay tuned. Actually, tune into Lost instead, where homosexuality is routinely repressed into a belief that one can communicate with ghosts.

Now let's get to your questions about Lost and anything else on your mind.

Have you seen that show Parks & Recreation? Are there jokes on that show?

The only thing I can focus on when it comes to Thursday nights is whether Jenna Fischer is coming to resemble the creature from The Relic as time passes.

What is that little doctor minx plotting?

Jack is a cat. A black cat with a black heart. Last week he opined listlessly that he felt he returned to the island for a purpose. Since the reason he justified leaving the island to himself was to bang Kate, I can only assume he's shooting for the top. That doctor-loving bastard is plotting some kinda of crazy plan to father one of the castaways. Apparently Entertainment Weekly is reporting that Jack wants to give a Cleveland Time Travel Steamer to Daniel as revenge for something. I have never seen a main character of a show so diminished. This is like when Shaq went from MVP to blogger. Jesus.

Is Miles the worst character in Lost's short history, and where does he rank on the rumored degree of offensiveness to Asians scale?

Conservatively, I would say that the guy who plays Raj on The Big Bang Theory is the most racist depiction on television, but there are several other racist depictions to hang our hats on.

I really wonder why nobody went forward with my idea for The Asian Wonder Years. Considering the rampant displeasures of Japanese internment and anti-Asian affirmative action across the country, the least we can do for the Asian-American collective to to give them a bad-ass voiceover.

was it just me or was the dad kind of a dick and wayne kind of dead sexy?What's going to come of all the Tax Day business? Are the Republicans going to run solely on taxes for the next ten years?

Pretty much. Wouldn't you? I just learned my taxes this year will give homeless people cell phones and vibrators. And while I'm not against the homeless getting laid, I sure don't want to pay for it. The only problem with the tax movement is that about 3% of Americans are paying for the free ride of the rest, while the populace call them fat cats. It's an ironic situation, but it certainly won't help the Democratic Party get votes from the unemployed. They hate taxes, too.

how did this actor not play the one armed man in The Fugitive?Last week's Benry Gale focused episode wasn't given its traditional ripping by you. Did you actually like Ben swearing himself over to John Locke's every whim? Could anyone enjoy the awful makeup job done on 'young' Daniel Widmore?

I preferred the relaxing veneer of young Ben Linus: all it takes is a little more hair in the right spot. My daughter's always trying to get me to dye the grey like Keith Hernandez. What she doesn't realize is that when you accidentally, I mean "accidentally" kill a guy while hunting, it helps to have wispy gray hair flowing off your confused scalp. It reminds me of the episode of Seinfeld where Uncle Leo steals books from Brentano's, except with murder.

Linus' entire set of reveals was of course ludicrous, although at least we got to savor the burgeoning hotness of his daughter one tragic last time. Most insane was his visit to the docks where he was 0/3 in killing people Desmond Hume loves! Ben, you've gotten so tame/lame. Talk about fudging your way out of a plot jam. How much more awesome would it be if he just blew Penny and her British-accented son to blue hell and was like, Desmond, you r not kewl to me dawg.

Will the undeniable fact of Adam Lambert's aggressive, exciting homosexuality tarnish his journey to win the competition?

I think it purely depends on what direction he goes in for paramour. I think Hugh Jackman would be a realistic, meaningful choice as an other, while Randy Jackson would rattle a lot of cages in the Los Angeles-area down low community. Maybe Lindsay could postpone her inevitable suicide for a semester and try to turn him straight again. (We were all straight once, even Kevin Spacey.)

fuck jack, marry daniel, kill kateWhy did they build the hatch in the first place?

For the first time, we saw the hatch being constructed. Why you would spend that much time to place an experimental station in that location with that kind of shielding remains to be seen. We did learn 2 (two) things:

* Horace Goodspeed has more up his sleeve than was previously thought, and it's a while until 1992 comes and all these people die in the purge.

*Horace Goodspeed gets amazing island ass.

"haven't you always wondered why you're asian and on a television show"?What is the desire of the faction opposing Widmore that kidnapped Miles in Los Angeles and survived the crash on Hydra Island?

Led by Bram, these fellas would at first seem to be caught up with Ben. However Ben takes no note of them on the flight or the events that followed the crash. He in fact simply cold-bloodedly murders the French dude from Spartan and generally goes on about his business. So who else would have reason to stop Widmore from 'winning'?

These folks seem to originate from the future rather than the past. They're concerned with the island in 2009, not in 1979.Or perhaps they are concerned with both. The only coalition I can think of with that narrow an interest is Jews — that's correct, Bram and his buddies seek to recolonize the Is-land into Is-rael. Those darned Jews couldn't just be satisfied with a small outpost among angry Arab nations in the middle of the desert. They heard there was a temple and a lot of shiksas on an island, so they dragged their Ethiopian friends with them. Seriously though some have suggested George Lucas is after his Empire script and that actually kinda makes sense.

dammit ellen bernstein, you were adorableWhy did the Temple allow Ben to live while killing off such supernumeraries as Mr. Eko and Danielle's hot French boyfriend?

It appears the Smoke Monster takes the form of whatever hot piece is most relevant in your life. Should I have been lifelessly dragged into the temple, I no doubt would have seen my tragically hot girlfriend Ellen Bernstein angrily asking when it would be her turn to receive oral during our undergraduate years.

But seriously, this suggests that the sickness was no sickness, and the island wanted Danielle and her burgeoning child dead, as Widmore suggests to Ben. Therefore by allowing Alex to be killed, Ben was actually serving the island. Now he has a genial position at Locke's side that he will eventually turn against for his own selfish reasons, if Ilana and Bram don't kill his ass first.

Is there anything you want to tell Lost before its 100th episode in two weeks?

The greatest science-fiction-series-ever talk has been thrown out the window, a development that seemed impossible once Locke found Desmond Hume in the hatch. Then came some rather gay choices and a Michelle Rodriguez DUI. But it's a long hard road, one that seemed almost impossible after the intolerable seriousness of the series premiere back in 1987.

Lost has turned into a comedy, but a fairly entertaining time travel comedy that has erased all my positive memories of Red Dwarf. Fortunately I can re-remember those memories on YouTube, and anyway Lost is better at distracting me from the fact that my taxes pay for social programs. Lost, you did it. Congratulations.

Dick Cheney is the senior contributor to This Recording.

"Stars" — The Love Language (mp3) must download

"Sparxxx" — The Love Language (mp3)

"Two Rabbits" — The Love Language (mp3)

baby your love is just the salt in your eyes


In Which He Is The Greatest German of His Generation

Space Dust and Stars


Anselm Kiefer


In 2002 at the Museum of Fine Arts in Boston there was a traveling show of Eli and Edythe Broad’s contemporary art collection, called “Jasper Johns to Jeff Koons.” In a stunted hall towards the end of the gallery, I first met Anselm Kiefer, in three massive paintings.


germany's spiritual heroes

I remember feeling betrayed by the exhibition’s guide, which described Kiefer’s gallery as one of Germans influenced by Pop art. It was summertime, and I had left my pencil grinding job of reviewing health surveys early that day to attend. Koons’ Michael Jackson and Bubbles greeted my friend and me. The show, heavy in Ruscha and Lichtenstein, was a sugar overload. Kiefer’s hall stuck out, emitting fumes of a forest, rank with dead undergrowth, ready for a blaze.

The back wall was filled entirely by his 1973 painting, Germany’s Spiritual Heroes, which at a size of roughly ten by twenty feet is one-and-two-thirds times me by three-and-a-third times me. The painting represents an attic and a meeting hall, a heavily wooded enclosed space with few windows, lit by torches. Walking forward, the attic’s small doorway seemed to recede as the torches grew in strength—the entire painting threatening to incinerate itself and me and the whole paying audience. My breath was catching, and I stepped back.

falling stars

Kiefer’s work is visceral, for obvious reasons: their size, heavy palette and splintered texture, from the weight of the materials. They are too large, too heavy, too thick, too textured. They are merciless. Reviews of his work tend to read like a twilight of the gods, caught up in his tar pit for misery of straw, mud and lead paint. For 40 years these have remained his immediate hallmarks, and they are fully present in two prominent displays of his recent work, at MASS MoCA in North Adams, Massachusetts, and the Louvre, in Paris.

Of course, half a lifetime of leaden books and crusty enormous paintings do not automatically qualify one for a permanent appearance at the Louvre. On top of his wallop, Kiefer clearly seeks a deeper target: a larger sort of German mythohistory. Kiefer is often grouped with Gerhard Richter, Heinrich Boll and Gunter Grass as Germans preoccupied with a memory through art and literature of the rubble. The ferocious director RW Fassbinder may be his closest compatriot; both are of a later generation than the others, both were born in spring of West Germany’s Year Zero, 1945.


To describe this sort of cultural work there is the term Vergangenheitsbewältigung, a German supercompound conveying a ‘coming to terms with the past,’ but Fassbinder and Kiefer do not engage so directly with this historical processing, a strategy that gives their work such immense, if subtle, power.

For Fassbinder, there is In the Year of the Thirteen Moons, in which the trauma of World War II is inscribed onto the body of the protagonist, the transsexual Elvira.

For Kiefer, there is Germany’s Cultural Heroes, representing at once the attic, a space of forgotten items for the postwar bourgeoisie, as well as both the great halls and claustrophobic crematoriums of the Third Reich. Germany’s massacred and missing Jews are a persistent subject, without either ever falling into Schindler’s List.

hortus conclusus

Kiefer described this task of the artist in bald, provocative language: “I do not identify with Nero or Hitler, but I have to reenact what they did just a little bit in order to understand the madness. That is why I make these attempts to become a fascist.” His often-cited first project is a quasi-literal attempt. In a series of photographs, Besetzungen (Occupations), the artist gives Nazi salutes in front of well-known German landmarks.


The landmarks include Brandenburg and Siegessaule. The photos are small and grainy, amateurish. In them, the artist looks frumpy, like a five year old woken early from his nap to play dress up. The use of Nazi symbols, illegal in West Germany, is strangely neutered in the photographs, transformed into the snap-shot detritus of any family vacation to Berlin.

But Kiefer’s historical ‘coming to terms with’ went beyond the Third Reich into older Germanic mythology. As Andreas Huyssen writes, he "insisted that Nazi culture’s exploitation and abuse of traditional German image worlds had to be worked through." In Kiefer’s world, one descries Wagner and Bismarck alongside Nordic legends Yggdrasil, Arminius, Kyyfflhäusser.


At MASS MoCA, A.E.I.O.U (Elizabeth of Austria) invokes the motto of 15th-century Austrian king Frederick III ‘Austria est imperare orbi universo,’ or, ‘Austria’s destiny is to rule the world’; across the room, we hear from classical Greece, and see Die Nachricht Vom Fall Trojas (News of the Fall of Troy).

This union of myth and history has won Kiefer great plaudits, especially among American academics; in 1987, the former New York Times art critic John Russell casually noted, “In the opinion of many a good judge [he] is the most remarkable artist to have emerged from Europe in the last quarter of our century.”

narrow are the vessels

In both North Adams and Paris, Kiefer occupies spaces unconventional for contemporary art most used to a gallery’s temporary, white drywall. At MASS MoCA, the former home Arnold Print Works’ textile industry, six paintings and a massive concrete sculpture sit in Building 4’s gigantic, empty shell of a second floor. The sculpture, Etroits sont les Vaisseaux (Narrow are the Vessels), is 82-feet long and indeed narrow; its strips of wavy concrete, stacked in a manner that strains to be haphazard but is exceedingly deliberate, sprout stained rebar like track marks exiting an arm.

Anselm Kiefer @ Mass MoCA from Mass Moca on Vimeo.

Four of the paintings are recent (2005‑2006). These are of a regular Kiefer scale, roughly 10 by 25 feet each. They all play on the same visual scheme, with varying palettes: from one point near the top of the canvas, cords of thick paint radiate at all 180 degrees. Halfway down the canvas, these cords splotch into exploded bullets of paint. It looks like an explosion or contraction, inexorable either way.


Sol Invictus, 1995

At the Louvre, a painting and two modest piece-meal sculptures are pasted into the corners of a stairwell connecting the Egyptians to the Sumerians. The `painting, titled Athanor, features a whitish, naked man lying in a cloud of mud at its base. A thin line stretches straight upwards from his bellybutton, into an expansive night sky, swirling with space dust and stars. From both sculptures spring sunflowers, a gaggle of them in Hortus Conclusus and a solitary, almost drooping one in Danaë. The base of the former is a speckled hump, with the texture of papier-mâché; that of the latter, a stack of lead dipped books.

Die Nachricht Vom Fall Trojas

These installations give the lie to the most serious criticism of Kiefer. First, that he is a one trick pony of doom and gloom. His colors are mostly in the same territory of ash to char to spittle to clay, but there is something distinctly positive, almost affirming, about these works. The flowers in the Louvre and the speckles of light blue and purple in the Massachusetts paintings offer the prospect of rebirth and growth.

But more importantly, Kiefer builds on this prospect and manages something awesome: a tying together of place and art to create spaces of levity. He reclaims the scale necessitated by the buildings’ historical tasks, bringing the sites’ histories and his Germanic ones into the present and amplifying them once more. The visitor experiences the weight of the multiple histories as a sort of “feeling and formlessness,” the characteristics that the august philosopher and critic Arthur Danto pinpoints as the sublime.

twilight of the west

Throughout his career as a Teutonic brooder, Kiefer maintained such rigid form in his paintings—the size, the dirt, the symbols, the brimstone, the paint, the lead, the scrap pile—that, at one point, to call his work formless would have been an impossible contradiction, let alone feeling, a response which the exhibition glossaries that always follow Kiefer swiftly deny. But that is precisely his accomplishment with the two centerpieces: Etroits sont les Vaisseaux and Athanor.

Describing the crippled concrete of Etroits sont les Vaisseaux most reviews probably use the word ‘wreckage’ and imagine the horrific tempest that produced it. Such imagination is unnecessary—the shuddering presses of industry are long silent, but the sculpture itself reverberates in the cavernous brick oven. The recent paintings, with their visual sameness, coat the walls, the radiating lines of paint marching with the sculpture’s reverb into the gaping ceiling.



The walk through the Louvre’s medieval basement and moat-like Egyptian tomb gallery to reach Kiefer’s stairwell is a quiet relief from the throngs; its length and sparse signage amp up the payoff.

Below, the stairwell is not marked, but the reddish base of Athanor which peaks down is obvious, a visual stain on the prevailing washed limestone. Ascending the stairs, the painting reveals itself, and the eye immediately follows the paint strand from the figure to the sky. I almost tripped on the stairs, my neck craned to reach the ceiling. The three works sit in carved out spaces, giving them a decorative feel—they are celestial palace decoration, but for us plebeians.


Of course, quoting Danto to ascribe to Kiefer sublimity has its own irony, as the philosopher is one of the artist’s most notable detractors. In his 1989 review of Kiefer at MoMA, Danto cast the artist as wanting nothing more than to be Wagner in a smock: “And there we have the good old command to think with the blood.” With the bracing aesthetic package, it is not difficult to see why Danto made this judgment. But here, at MASS MoCA and the Louvre, Kiefer has retooled.


Still resolutely unafraid of his double legacy of culture and barbarism, Kiefer seems to understand that he must take a step away to honestly look that legacy in the face. Nearly 20 years later, he lives among the same vulgar material, yet his brushes with history are no longer dizzying — they are open, soaring even. Leaving the MFA in 2002, I had in my gums a distinct, ashy taste, deposited by Kiefer.

Six years later, walking from his exhibitions in Massachusetts and Paris, I again carried a distinct impression, though not from any type of forge. I felt small—the concrete and stars, the rebar, the sunflowers and I, we were diminished together, all swept into the same slipstream.

Joshua Bauchner is a writer living in Massachusetts. This is his first appearance in these pages.

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