Photos from Mexico taken during successive trips to Central America with my friend Olga, between 1995 and 2000 to:
- Mexico (Museo Nacional de Antropología) & Puebla
- Guernavaca (Taxco)
- Oaxaca (Monte Alban & Mitla)
- Merida (Chichen Itza, Dzibilchaltun & Uxmal)
- Guatemala, Antigua et Panajachel (Chichicastenango)
Those great traditional Indians civilizations : Olmec, Aztec, Maya, Toltec, Mixtec, Zapotec, influenced me to start my "Mayan Diary" paintings series and are still strongly influencing my work to this day.
"The Indian Culture", an Antonin Artaud text to read about his Mexican experiences
"The Indian Culture", Antonin Artaud, Trans. Jack Hirschman
I came to Mexico to make contact with Red Earth and she stinks as she smells sweet and she smells good when she is stinking.
Aboriginal urine down the slope of a tight vagina that objects when you grab it. Urinary camphor from the eminence of a dead vagina boxing your ears when you spread it, when you gaze from the height of Mirador of Pitre, the studded tomb of the terrible father, the hole hollowed out, the tart sunken hole where the cycle of red lice boils, that cycle of solar red lice all white in the network of veins of one of the two of them.
But which two, and which one of them? What two at the time slandered seventy times over when man crossbred with himself giving birth to a son by the sodomy of his own hardened ass. So, why two of them and why, in the first place, TWO?
Pitiful clown of a papa's mimicry, filthy parasite mountebank in the hollow mamaloaf pulled from the fire!
For all the round suns spending around you are nothing next to the clubfoot with its immense articulation of the old gangrenous shank where a buckler of bone ripens, a war-like underground rising up of the bucklers of all the bones.
What does that mean? It means that papamummy stop buggering the innate pederast, the filthy bucker of christian orgies, the interloper between ji & cry who was contracted in jiji-crycry;
and that means war will replace the fathermother here where the ass built its barrier against the nourishing plague of the Red Earth buried under the corpse of the dead warrior who was afraid of going through the periplum of the serpent that bites its tail from up front while papamummy make little fanny bloody.
And looking at it from up close, within the cankered shank of a slice of the old blotchy femur, they're falling this way and that way, stinking; and the old warrior rises up with his insurgent cruelty, with that unspeakable cruelty for life without there being existence to justify you;
and into the fixed hole of earth seen from above and within, all the enlightened tips of tongues are falling which thought themselves souls one day without even being volitions;
and they are raising all the whipcracks of my dead hand against the uplifted tongue and the sexes of desire, who are only verbal dice powerless to seize existence;
yet they're falling brighter than the suns beamed into the cave where papamummy and fairy son have been killing each other since before it all started stinking.
When the solar jackass thought himself well and good.
And when is it the heavens are in their circle?
When one is outside it, supremely dumb to smell it in his cunt,
with nothing to stand as a barrier against the void, where there is neither horizon nor upright, nor surface nor height, and everything puts you back in touch with the depths, when one is straight all the length of him long.