Going down the stairs with a sugar cube in hand
The one I do not like no matter how hard I try is Marcel Duchamp, he stuck a ragged bicycle wheel on a stool, he signed a urinal and since then all the “fools” of the universe have been running in vain for over a hundred years. The coffee maker that undresses her lovers also fucked us with the chess, with the ampoules, the ropes, the mustaches of Mona-Lisa, and made the art historians to shudder and ejaculate, and that old girl Peggy, the generous, God bless her, she fucked the art universe from end to end; she drove the Japanese crazy as well as Jackson Pollock, the best spaghetti cook. Spaghetti in all thicknesses and colors, with awesome sauces of all flavors up to Piero Manzoni’s canned food. But who can only eat spaghetti and angel hair for so many years, in the end he dry heaves and gets stuck in the trees. That was exactly what the system wanted, another “cursed”.
Dozens of art critics have been arguing since then about whether Marcel himself secretly put British sour cream or sugar cubes in the gas tank of the crashed car, like Papadopoulos in Evros, or possibly hair from the sarcophagus of Joan of Arc. One thing is for sure: Jackson Pollock became the great hero of American art, not like our “little ones”, Athanasios Diakos, for example, who was simply “impaled in Alamana for freedom” by the Turks, as reported by the press agency of Athens, even though the earth has stopped growing grass for so many years in the place where they killed him, even the sun stops there for a minute of silence, in his honor . Thermopylae is also nearby, many times passers-by see the 300 with Leonidas taking their bath.
Duchamp died in 1968, and many have applauded his decision. Church bells rang all over the world, in Beijing Mao Zedong went on an hour-long hunger strike, in Paris the Virgin Mary performed a miracle, Kambouris was resurrected and began ringing the bells whilst Igor Stravinsky converted the sounds into musical notes. Marina Abramovic took a deep breath and climbed barefoot the stairs with the knives without injuring herself, tied her pigtail to her grandfather’s beard and was left to his lullaby of the “Akathist Hymn”. As soon as Picasso heard the news, he fell into a deep depression, isolated himself into his studio and started working feverishly on “Suite 347″, leaving people speechless. From the many sorrows, Raphael humps Fornarina, the pope has a craving and Michalakis is watching them from under the bed. Kazantzidis on all the radios, singing at high volume the song ” sadness”, Kounellis feeds the horses that he will exhibit in Attico, while his sacks of charcoal, beans, cotton and lentils are ready. The coal matrix of the earth as the word of Pythia, and John the most romantic, the last of the Moikans.
No, I never liked Duchamp. Disliked and dirty and snobby, he was so full of himself, but also others thought highly of him. Then they embalmed him, put him in a bowl and worshiped him like Lenin and Stalin. He is a little man, a giant, but a little man.
My friends, a piece of charcoal contains the design recorded in its geological age and is released when the charcoal breaks into pieces in front of Wassily Kandinsky’s left toenail, then passes through Kazimir Malevich’s black stomach and comes out like a grenade launcher in the look of Pablo Picasso’s eyes.
Dimitris Xonoglou
January 2011