It’s that innovative break that draws the eye on an opening. It’s that detail that punctures the extent. It’s that aesthetic interruption that gives way, in the sense that it gives in to the breakage.
It’s an art of falling. It’s an egg caving in.
The worm, that is the artist, moves through the body politic by feeding and excreting the extent. The artist, the worm, in turn, turns the extent into excess. This excess can be used to throw at opponents.
Such as excrement.
Somewhat of an irreducible détournement.
The text concerns a compromise. The plot is gone. The problematic is staged. The dramatic poetry is unrehearsed. And the tragic image takes place in the present.
The tragic image is an egg.
Now the tragic image is embryonic, lifelike, and becoming a form-of-life.
It’s in its presence. Meanings wander, spliced by a prism.
We are not prepared if we are prepared. We are not avant-garde. We are caught off guard.
Not art but a blur. Not art but a blurb. Not art but an umbrella. Not art but a soup kitchen. Not art but…a dare.