[b]Hans Arp
Zurich in 1915. While the thunder of the batteries rumbled in the distance, we pasted, we recited, we versified, we sang with all our soul. We searched for an elementary art that would, we thought, save mankind from the madness of these times. [/b]
Clearly, no one has ever found that.
All things, and man as well, should be like nature, without measure.
Just short of complete chaos if we’re lucky.
The important thing about Dada, it seems to me, is that Dadaists despised what is commonly regarded as art, but put the whole universe on the lofty throne of art.
Sounds about right to me.
Tooting, howling, screeching, booming, crashing, whistling, grinding, and trilling bolster mankind’s ego. His anxiety subsides. His inhuman void spreads monstrously like a gray vegetation.
Sounds about right to me.
Since the time of the cavemen, man has glorified himself, has made himself divine, and his monstrous vanity has caused human catastrophe. Art has collaborated in this false development. I find this concept of art which has sustained man’s vanity to be loathsome.
Paint by numbers in particular. That and tracing.
Ever since my childhood, I was haunted by the search for perfection. An imperfectly cut paper literally made me ill. I would guillotine it.
What exactly is a perfectly cut paper?