Poem
Santiago Mutis Durán
ANTONIN ARTAUD
WRITES ABOUT THE ARTIST
VINCENT VAN GOGH
How to write letters to the deadHow to awaken them how to feel
their luminous breathing and the gold
of their outraged warm turbulent blood
Two souls that are burnt
in love, in the intelligence
Two glowing firebrands – alive – in the darkness
An orchard, a garden under the light of God
and a body that falls in the vertigo of His absence
Antonin Artaud has written a book about Vincent van Gogh
For years I hid it without reading it
like an amulet
It is bewildering and natural
and also outrageous
Natural, because it advances with the strength
– plentiful and difficult – of truth
Outrageous, for the same reason
Artaud says
all that is necessary to know about Van Gogh
to feel alive the spring of his soul
the incandescent transparency of his prayer
the impossible purity
of his limits of his inexistent frontiers with the world
The book is much more than perfect
it is the only honest lesson that man
can bequeath us
It is not an essay nor art criticism
nor literature
it simply takes up its place
displaces it – says Pellegrini
It is not possible to be more clear more direct more fruitful.
It is not possible to love more.
Artaud wrathfully defends
the flame that lives in Van Gogh
against the cruelty that saves nothing
against the presumptuous psychiatry – cold
and brutal – because he believes normal the surrender
and the decline
because it is tolerant and ambiguous
paternalistic and cowardly and a dark spot
and without genius without ardent nobility
without delirious love
for those who cannot hold back their tears
facing the horror or paradise
Against all that is inhuman Artaud stands up angrily
lucid diaphanous turbulent
like water boiling
Wise and serene he says about Van Gogh – my friend –
“he gave back the water of painting to nature”
He also points out the weapon that mortally
wounded him: “those that said one day:
and that’s enough Van Gogh; to your grave”.
And they bought his soul, his infinity and his bones
His words are troubled, luminous
incessant, always menaced
always in combat or softly
moved in the face of greatness, of the entreaty
of the fire of this sweet and terrible night
that is every soul.
Artaud denounces
the lustful and greedy for reality corpse
people institutions a world for auction.
“Scum”, he shouted to his psychiatrist, “pig”
“obscene”, “you have the stigma in your mug”.
Artaud tore out the word from the pillory
he made sap with it, splendid life, sacred
injury against treason.
Van Gogh, as Reverón the mad one, is a chaste man
who preferred becoming “crazy
rather than betraying a superior idea of human honor”
He cast aside evil
he confined himself outdoors, far
from the “unanimous filth” where men triumph
– who are a pack of hounds, a turbulent mob –
to simply paint a “landscape after nature”
Pure and simple heroism says Artaud
To discover oneself, to conquer oneself
to illumine oneself – with the light of the communion –
in contact with the powers of the earth
always convulsed simple wretched terrifying
turned by Van Gogh into that “dirty rag
soaked in blood till it trickles wine”
The insurrection blurred by the tears
burning, with incandescent borders
like a flash of lighting, or purplish blue
in the eyes of a frightening angel
of his sleepless intensity, of his exalted
and loved clairvoyance,
of his insubordination
with which he joins prodigies and stones on the road
Against human negligence against his consternation
the inflamed soul of Artaud will commit a crime
will set fire to his shadow as to a torch
like star he will sacrifice himself
by his own humanitarian hands
The genius of Artaud is – like that of Van Gogh
the most uncommon,
the scarcest:
it is the genius of not betraying.
© Translation: 2005, Nicolás Suescún
Antonin Artaud
escribe sobre el artista
Vincent van Gogh
Antonin Artaud
escribe sobre el artista
Vincent van Gogh
Cómo escribir cartas a los muertosCómo despertarlos cómo sentir
su respiración luminosa y el oro de su sangre
indignada tibia tumultuosa
Dos almas que se queman
en el amor, en la inteligencia
Dos teas ardientes – vivas – en la oscuridad
Un huerto, un jardín en la luz de Dios
y un cuerpo que cae en el vértigo de Su ausencia
Antonin Artaud ha escrito un libro sobre Vincent van Gogh
Durante años lo escondí sin leerlo
como un talismán
Es desconcertante y natural
y también inaudito
Natural, porque avanza con la fuerza
– caudalosa y difícil – de la verdad
Inaudito, por la misma razón
Dice Artaud
todo lo que es necesario saber sobre Van Gogh
para sentir vivo el manantial de su alma
la transparencia incandescente de su oración
la pureza imposible
de sus límites de sus fronteras inexistentes con el mundo
El libro es mucho más que perfecto
es la única lección honesta que un hombre
nos puede legar
No es un ensayo ni crítica de arte
ni literatura
simplemente ocupa su lugar
lo desplaza – dice Pellegrini
No se puede ser más claro más directo más fecundo.
No se puede amar más.
Artaud defiende con ira
la llama que vive en Van Gogh
contra la crueldad que nada salva
contra la petulante psiquiatría – fría
y bestial – porque cree normal la entrega
y el decaimiento
porque es tolerante y equívoca
paternalista y cobarde y una mancha oscura
y sin genio sin ardiente nobleza
sin delirante amor
por quienes no pueden contener las lágrimas
ante el horror o el paraíso
Contra todo lo inhumano Artaud se levanta iracundo
lúcido diáfano turbulento
como el agua que hierve
Sabio y sereno dice de Van Gogh – amigo mío –
“devolvió el agua de la pintura a la naturaleza”
También señala el arma que lo hirió
de muerte: “aquellos que un día dijeron:
Y ahora basta, Van Gogh; a tu tumba”.
Y compraron su alma, su infinito y sus huesos
Su palabra es turbia, luminosa
incesante, siempre amenazada
siempre en combate o conmovida
suave ante la grandeza, ante la súplica
ante el incendio de esa noche dulce y terrible
que es toda alma.
Artaud denuncia
el cadáver lujurioso y ávido de la realidad
gentes instituciones un mundo en subasta
“Crápula”, le gritó a su psiquiatra, “cochino”
“inmundo”, “lleva el estigma en la jeta”.
Artaud arrancó del cepo la palabra
la hizo savia, vida espléndida, injuria
sagrada contra la traición.
Van Gogh, como Reverón el alienado, es un casto
un hombre que prefirió volverse “loco
antes que traicionar una idea superior del honor humano”
Se apartó del mal
se encerró en la intemperie, lejos
de la “inmundicia unánime” en donde triunfan los hombres
– que son jauría, turba estridente –
para pintar tan sólo un “paisaje del natural”
Heroismo puro y simple, dice Artaud
Descubrirse a sí mismo, conquistarse
iluminarse – con la luz de la comunión –
en contacto con las fuerzas de la tierra
siempre convulsas simples míseras pavorosas
convertidas por Van Gogh en ese “trapo sucio
empapado de sangre hasta escurrir vino”
La insurrección empañada por las lágrimas
ardiente, de bordes incandescentes
como el relámpago, o violáceos
en los ojos de un ángel temible
de su intensidad de insomne, de su exaltada
y amada clarividencia,
de su insubordinación
con que une prodigios y piedras del camino
Contra la humana negligencia contra su espanto
el alma encendida de Artaud cometerá un crimen
le prenderá fuego a su sombra como a una antorcha
como un astro se inmolará
entre sus propias manos humanitarias
El genio de Artaud es – como el de Van Gogh
el más raro,
el más escaso:
es el genio de no traicionar.
© 1998, Santiago Mutis
From: Afuera pasa el siglo
Publisher: Seix Barral, Bogotá
From: Afuera pasa el siglo
Publisher: Seix Barral, Bogotá
Poems
Poems of Santiago Mutis Durán
Close
ANTONIN ARTAUD
WRITES ABOUT THE ARTIST
VINCENT VAN GOGH
How to write letters to the deadHow to awaken them how to feel
their luminous breathing and the gold
of their outraged warm turbulent blood
Two souls that are burnt
in love, in the intelligence
Two glowing firebrands – alive – in the darkness
An orchard, a garden under the light of God
and a body that falls in the vertigo of His absence
Antonin Artaud has written a book about Vincent van Gogh
For years I hid it without reading it
like an amulet
It is bewildering and natural
and also outrageous
Natural, because it advances with the strength
– plentiful and difficult – of truth
Outrageous, for the same reason
Artaud says
all that is necessary to know about Van Gogh
to feel alive the spring of his soul
the incandescent transparency of his prayer
the impossible purity
of his limits of his inexistent frontiers with the world
The book is much more than perfect
it is the only honest lesson that man
can bequeath us
It is not an essay nor art criticism
nor literature
it simply takes up its place
displaces it – says Pellegrini
It is not possible to be more clear more direct more fruitful.
It is not possible to love more.
Artaud wrathfully defends
the flame that lives in Van Gogh
against the cruelty that saves nothing
against the presumptuous psychiatry – cold
and brutal – because he believes normal the surrender
and the decline
because it is tolerant and ambiguous
paternalistic and cowardly and a dark spot
and without genius without ardent nobility
without delirious love
for those who cannot hold back their tears
facing the horror or paradise
Against all that is inhuman Artaud stands up angrily
lucid diaphanous turbulent
like water boiling
Wise and serene he says about Van Gogh – my friend –
“he gave back the water of painting to nature”
He also points out the weapon that mortally
wounded him: “those that said one day:
and that’s enough Van Gogh; to your grave”.
And they bought his soul, his infinity and his bones
His words are troubled, luminous
incessant, always menaced
always in combat or softly
moved in the face of greatness, of the entreaty
of the fire of this sweet and terrible night
that is every soul.
Artaud denounces
the lustful and greedy for reality corpse
people institutions a world for auction.
“Scum”, he shouted to his psychiatrist, “pig”
“obscene”, “you have the stigma in your mug”.
Artaud tore out the word from the pillory
he made sap with it, splendid life, sacred
injury against treason.
Van Gogh, as Reverón the mad one, is a chaste man
who preferred becoming “crazy
rather than betraying a superior idea of human honor”
He cast aside evil
he confined himself outdoors, far
from the “unanimous filth” where men triumph
– who are a pack of hounds, a turbulent mob –
to simply paint a “landscape after nature”
Pure and simple heroism says Artaud
To discover oneself, to conquer oneself
to illumine oneself – with the light of the communion –
in contact with the powers of the earth
always convulsed simple wretched terrifying
turned by Van Gogh into that “dirty rag
soaked in blood till it trickles wine”
The insurrection blurred by the tears
burning, with incandescent borders
like a flash of lighting, or purplish blue
in the eyes of a frightening angel
of his sleepless intensity, of his exalted
and loved clairvoyance,
of his insubordination
with which he joins prodigies and stones on the road
Against human negligence against his consternation
the inflamed soul of Artaud will commit a crime
will set fire to his shadow as to a torch
like star he will sacrifice himself
by his own humanitarian hands
The genius of Artaud is – like that of Van Gogh
the most uncommon,
the scarcest:
it is the genius of not betraying.
© 2005, Nicolás Suescún
From: Afuera pasa el siglo
From: Afuera pasa el siglo
ANTONIN ARTAUD
WRITES ABOUT THE ARTIST
VINCENT VAN GOGH
How to write letters to the deadHow to awaken them how to feel
their luminous breathing and the gold
of their outraged warm turbulent blood
Two souls that are burnt
in love, in the intelligence
Two glowing firebrands – alive – in the darkness
An orchard, a garden under the light of God
and a body that falls in the vertigo of His absence
Antonin Artaud has written a book about Vincent van Gogh
For years I hid it without reading it
like an amulet
It is bewildering and natural
and also outrageous
Natural, because it advances with the strength
– plentiful and difficult – of truth
Outrageous, for the same reason
Artaud says
all that is necessary to know about Van Gogh
to feel alive the spring of his soul
the incandescent transparency of his prayer
the impossible purity
of his limits of his inexistent frontiers with the world
The book is much more than perfect
it is the only honest lesson that man
can bequeath us
It is not an essay nor art criticism
nor literature
it simply takes up its place
displaces it – says Pellegrini
It is not possible to be more clear more direct more fruitful.
It is not possible to love more.
Artaud wrathfully defends
the flame that lives in Van Gogh
against the cruelty that saves nothing
against the presumptuous psychiatry – cold
and brutal – because he believes normal the surrender
and the decline
because it is tolerant and ambiguous
paternalistic and cowardly and a dark spot
and without genius without ardent nobility
without delirious love
for those who cannot hold back their tears
facing the horror or paradise
Against all that is inhuman Artaud stands up angrily
lucid diaphanous turbulent
like water boiling
Wise and serene he says about Van Gogh – my friend –
“he gave back the water of painting to nature”
He also points out the weapon that mortally
wounded him: “those that said one day:
and that’s enough Van Gogh; to your grave”.
And they bought his soul, his infinity and his bones
His words are troubled, luminous
incessant, always menaced
always in combat or softly
moved in the face of greatness, of the entreaty
of the fire of this sweet and terrible night
that is every soul.
Artaud denounces
the lustful and greedy for reality corpse
people institutions a world for auction.
“Scum”, he shouted to his psychiatrist, “pig”
“obscene”, “you have the stigma in your mug”.
Artaud tore out the word from the pillory
he made sap with it, splendid life, sacred
injury against treason.
Van Gogh, as Reverón the mad one, is a chaste man
who preferred becoming “crazy
rather than betraying a superior idea of human honor”
He cast aside evil
he confined himself outdoors, far
from the “unanimous filth” where men triumph
– who are a pack of hounds, a turbulent mob –
to simply paint a “landscape after nature”
Pure and simple heroism says Artaud
To discover oneself, to conquer oneself
to illumine oneself – with the light of the communion –
in contact with the powers of the earth
always convulsed simple wretched terrifying
turned by Van Gogh into that “dirty rag
soaked in blood till it trickles wine”
The insurrection blurred by the tears
burning, with incandescent borders
like a flash of lighting, or purplish blue
in the eyes of a frightening angel
of his sleepless intensity, of his exalted
and loved clairvoyance,
of his insubordination
with which he joins prodigies and stones on the road
Against human negligence against his consternation
the inflamed soul of Artaud will commit a crime
will set fire to his shadow as to a torch
like star he will sacrifice himself
by his own humanitarian hands
The genius of Artaud is – like that of Van Gogh
the most uncommon,
the scarcest:
it is the genius of not betraying.
© 2005, Nicolás Suescún
Sponsors
Partners
LantarenVenster – Verhalenhuis Belvédère