I know Yer Insane
Everyone see to came
I use such restraint
Whats left around me
is there to me
Cant waalk with you
THis is overdue
and it spills from you
COme on out
Feel the pictures
As they warn you
Bottom out, it's good for you
it can be real
Nothing like a picture of you
Canot follow you along
So you have a ways to grow
Cannot follow you alone
Dreams are not themselves
Dreamt with out living it
Its har do tell
when the day begins
Its the evil twin
let it out.
Wrap te beat
around you endlessly
all doubt
has been good to me
you can't be this
nothing like i picture it
giving me a chill
nothing like i ppictures this...
I'm insane
If I ran away today
Will youpull me back tomorrow?
Took some time to arrange
With trust, space will follow
OUt to find the things you need
Your connections hard to swallow
Still things you tell me when
Your eyes track me down, keepin you hollow
Throat starts to drain
Ive done it way too may times to go away
Gone in a state, by my water
Can you bring it back to me
Will you follow?
And how'd you get away
If Iran away tomorrow?
Took some time to arrage
Your connections hard to swalow
I know youre somewhere, I'm insae
It's your needs onmy brain
Smack me out, our eyes exchage
TO have the strenth to stake my claim
Have you placed it?
I cant taste it
Will I waste it?
Cant trace it
Time to face it
NOw gonna go away
I know you're somewhere, I'm insane
Its your needs on my brain
Smack me out, move on with chage
TO have the strength to stake my claim
I know you're somewhere, I'm insane
Its your needs on my brain
Smack me out, move on with chage
TO have the strength to stake my claim
Im insave Sonic youth
Love starved backwood teaser farm girl hot eyed bride
stone cold blonde a quivering menace atomic wallop wholesale
murder
we wat out
we fish at night
tough towna cruel touch
sailors leave
Sirens screaming
lap of luxury
a show of violence
take off your mask
lay off my brother kiss my fist
sop t nothing
a steam swamp
ad a troubled heart
the sky is red
and i can't stop running
her baby stares
the secret's there
So help us god
i'll swing at your funeral
the stubborn air
the killer mob
A red bone woman
A double cross
Big fake bitter love underbelly freezing jungle
One step more he;ll stir your senses scratch your surface and nail your head
Murded angels
bodies in bedlam
a woman scorned
you cant hang me
tied to my job a blast scene alibi tied to a tree in a blind alley
nothing before
a big fear
Don't get caught
by her fathers friends
swamp girl faded
the tiger's wife
a frenzied love
hot climate
twisted passions
flesh parade
dead ahead
a world so wide
Big river love camp
The house boy and hill girl
the agony column
dont crowd me
it's time for crime
strange breed river girl's misery index
inside my head my dog's a bear
she was significant
i'm insane
Consequently, Virilio questions a political correct
ness that presupposes a terroristic, suicidal and self
mutilating theory of art. Making links between
contemporary art and genetically modified seeds
bearing the label 'terminator', he is trying to find
an image of pitiful art that exists outside of the
conditions of bio- or 'necro-technology'. Refusing
technoscientific 'success' at any price, Virilio insists
on a cultural critique of scientific experiment,
technological inhumanity and deformity.
In our
day, however, the question according to Virilio is
whether the work of art is to be considered an object
that must be looked at or listened to. Or,
alternatively, given the reduction of the position of
the art lover to that of a component in the
multimedia academy's tybernetic machine, whether
the aesthetic and ethical silenc. e of art can continue
to be upheld.
Virilio is from time to time in
danger of staging a debate with only himself in
attendance.
What is absolutely vital for
Virilio is the technological means by which con-
temporary art has abandoned its passion and sexual
force. Conversely, it is important to stress that he is
undoubtedly concerned not to characterize con
temporary art in opposition to theory or aesthetic
fervour, but to distinguish it as a pitiless and
emotionless reaction to the disastrous circumstances
of hypermodernity. As a result of such heartfelt
aesthetic declarations, Virilio is quick to single out
the hypersexuality of contemporary pornography as
the most recent source of pitiless representations and
sadistic ideas.
Virilio wants to recognize that in video
and film, TV and on the Internet, Auschwitz
inhabits us all as a fundamental if often repressed
component of contemporary processes of cultural
globalization. Today, as a result, art, according to
Virilio, confronts the predicament first identified by
Walter Benjamin, that is, of imagining that barbar
ism and warfare will 'supply the artistic gratification
of a sense perception that has been changed by
technology'. In jeopardy of preoccupying itself with
virtualized self-absorption, contemporary art, Virilio
argues, as well as humanity, has attained such a
level of'self:'alienation' that it can now 'experience
its own destruction as an aesthetic pleasure of the
first order,.9
This evening we are not going to talk about piety or
impiety but about pity, the pitiful or pitiless nature
of 'contemporary art'. So we will not be talking
about profane art versus sacred art but we may well
tackle the profanation of forms and bodies over the
course of the twentieth century. For these days when
people get down to debate the relevance or
awfulness of contemporary art, they generally forget
to ask one vital question: Contemporary art, sure, but
contempormy with what?
When I visited the Museum at AUSCHWITZ, I
stood in front of the display cases. What I saw
there were images from contemporary art and I
found that absolutely terrifying. Looking at the
exhibits of suitcases, prosthetics, children's toys, I
didn't feel frightened. I didn't collapse. I wasn't
completely overcome the way I had been walking
around the camp. No. In the Museum, I suddenly had
the impression I was in a museum if contemporary art. I
took the train back, telling myself that they had
won! They had won since they'd produced forms
of perception that are all ofa piece with the mode
of destruction they made their own. 1
What we will be asking this evening will thus take
up where Jacqueline Lichtenstein left off: did the
Nazi terror lose the ar but, in the end, win the
peace?
Whether Adorno likes it or not, the spectacle of
abjection remains the same, after as before Ausch
witz. But it has become politically incorrect to say
so. All in the name of freedom of expression, a
freedom contemporary with the terrorist politics
Joseph Goebbels described as 'the art of making
possible what seemed impossible,.24
'When will the
Nuremburg Code be applied to medically assisted
procreation . . . to the attempts at creating a human
being?'
Ethics or aesthetics? That is indeed the question at
the dawn of the millennium. If freedom of
SCIENTIFIC expression now actually has no more
limits than freedom of ARTISTIC expression,
where will inhumanity end in future?
Sportspeople are managed by an entourage who
are under more and more pressure from the media
and their financial backers. If the current debate
isn't settled pretty .. swiftly, a person will only have
to ask in order to be programmed to win.
' The assembly-line champion is already Oil the drawing
board.
Ethical boundary, aesthetic boundary of sport as
of art. Without limits, there is no value; without
value, there is no esteem, no respect and especially
no pity: death to the riferee! You know how it goes . . .
SILENCE WAS PUT ON TRIAL in Europe as
in the United States. From that moment, WHO
EVER SAYS NOTHING IS DEEMED TO
CONSENT. No silence can express disapproval
or resistance but only consent. The silence of the
image is not only ANIMATED by the motoriza
tion of film segments; it is also ENLISTED in the
general acquiescence in a TOTAL ART the
seventh art which, they would then claim, con
tained all the rest.
During the great economic crisis which, in
Europe, would end in Nazi TOTALITARIAN
ISM, silence was already no more than a form of
abstention. The trend everywhere was towards the
simultaneous synchronization of image and sound.
Whence the major political role played at the time
by cinematic NEWSREELS, notably those pro
duced by Fox-Movietone in the l)nited States and
by UF A in Germany, which perfectly prefigured
televisual prime time.
The speed of the
movements and the rapid change of images force
you to look continuously from one to the next.
Your sight does not master the pictures, it is the pictures
that master your sight. They flood your conscious
ness. The cinema involves puttingyour eyes into uniform,
when bifore they were naked. '
'That is a terrible thing to say', Janouch said.
' The eye is the window of the soul, a Czech proverb
says.'
Kafka nodded. 'FILMS ARE IRON SHUTTERS. ,8
Valeska Gert, the actress who starred in German filmmaker
G. W. Pabst's 1925 'street' film, Joyless Street:
1 looked like a poster that was novel. I would screw
my face up into a grimace of indignation one
minute, then quietly dance the next. By juxtapos
ing insolence and sweetness, hardness and charm,
without any transition, I represented for the first
time something characteristic of our times:
instability. This was in 1917, towards the end of
the war. The Dadaists did the show as a matinee
in Berlin and the high point of the programme
was a race between a typewriter and a sewing
machine. George Grosz was the sewing machine.
1 danced to the sound of the two machines.,g
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