// fear

‘Simple’ does not mean ‘ordinary’. A ‘simple’ action is not one that just feels ‘natural’. If I ask someone to walk across the stage, they tend to walk in their normal, habitual manner, as they do in daily life. But our ‘natural’ habits are in fact extremely complex. One person may hold the left shoulder higher than the right. Another may move the right arm more strongly than the left. These are very complex movements. ‘Simple’ means basic and universal. All babies cry in more or less the same way. All cats, whether living in Europe, Africa or Japan, move in more or less the same way. So to find a ‘simple’ walk, one which is just step, step, step, without anything extra, is very difficult. You must first get rid of your habits, even though they feel quite ‘natural’ to you.

Yoshi Oida. ‘An Actor Adrift’.

+ dislocate time


Fümms bö wö tää zää Uu,
Kwii Ee.
dll rrrrr beeeee bö
dll rrrrr beeeee bö fümms bö,
rrrrr beeeee bö fümms bö wö,
beeeee bö fümms bö wö tää,
bö fümms bö wö tää zää,
fümms bö wö tää zää Uu:
Quotes from: 'UrSonate' (Sonata in Primitive and Original Sounds), Kurt Schwitters, 1932; excerpt is taken from Das literarische Werk, ed. Friedhelm Lach, Vol. 1. 'Lyrik'; publ. DuMont Buchverlag, Köln & Kurt und Ernst Schwitters Stiftung, Hannover, 1973


When I am outlining the skin of a lovely peach with soft touches of paint, or a sad old apple, I catch a glimpse in the reflections they exchange of the same mild shadow of renunciation, the same love of the sun, the same recollection of the dew.. .Why do we divide up the world? Does this reflects our egoism?.. .The prism is our first step towards God, our seven beatitudes.

Paul Cezanne  quoted by Joachim Gasquet, ‘What he told me – III. The Studio’

buck buck

he streams buck like rams in a tent
whips crack and from the hills come the crookedly combed
shadows of the shepherds.
black eggs and fools' bells fall from the trees.
thunder drums and kettledrums beat upon the ears of the donkeys.
wings brush against flowers.
fountains spring up in the eyes of the wild boar.

Jean Arp, from his poem ‘Der Vogel Selbdritt’

we’ve all had days like this if only we could remember them