Mexicans Diaries, 1995/2000
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
and she stinks as she smells sweet
and she smells good when she is stinking.
Aboriginal urine down the slope of a
that objects when you grab it.
Urinary camphor from the eminence of a
boxing your ears when you spread it,
when you gaze from the height of Mirador
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?
at the time
slandered seventy times over
crossbred with himself
giving birth to a son
by the sodomy
of his own
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
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
When one is
to smell it
in his cunt,
with nothing to stand as a barrier against
where there is neither horizon nor upright,
and everything puts you back in touch with the depths,
when one is straight all the length of him long.