Edgar Honetschläger : E LA NAVE VA – AND THE SHIP GOES

Edgar Honetschläger, E la nave va, Melk Abbey, Austria, 2023 Photos: ©Edgar Honetshläger

January 1st 2024, a day of happiness ? 

by Rosanna Albertini

“Happiness is a force in movement. Not a gratuitous movement, it is openness to the world.” As well as reason, “Reason is an energy we can only understand in its development, in its growth.”   JEAN STAROBINSKI, Montesquieu par lui-meme, 1967

In three lines, this is the quintessence of one of the most influential eighteenth century philosophers. Let’s put the name aside for a moment. He provided the foundations for the American constitution.

In a strange manner, artist Edgar Honetschläger is navigating the same kind of ideas and installing them as an art piece in two rooms of one of the most admired baroque European religious buildings: the Melk Abbey in Austria, a Benedictine monastery. 

If Edgar were an egg, I would say his shell is encrusted with Viennese, Japanese and Etruscan civilizations. Mental habits integrated with each other to the point where they affected his sensitivity, they made him a stranger to the rest of the world, although capable of engaging hands and the whole body in creating the biggest, most delicious strudel one can imagine in my Los Angeles kitchen. The dough was as large as the table and thin, almost like a sheet. He is a very refined crafts person. His art is gentle, and he would like to fill it with a generosity that passes through it and leaks out, for other members of the strangers tribe. 

Painted on a huge white egg he brought the bugs into the abbey, giving them precise figures with a spirit that is not the one of scientific illustrations: they look alive, ants walking on the egg repeating the same choreography they create when they invade our kitchen. Organized dancers. Bigger bugs are majestic, proud to be where they are, underneath the power of a painted king radiating sunlight from the ceiling.  

Beware their elegance: they are messengers of a real crusade the artist started in 2018 to give the bugs places on earth in which they are not threatened by pesticides, pollution, or other deadly agents. No bugs = no pollination = no food for humans. 

The artist had reached a tipping point of exasperation. Too much talking about ecological disasters, rare practical interventions, what to do as an artist? He started GOBUGSGO : a non-profit organization including biologists, entomologists, notaries, lawyers, rangers working pro bono for GBG. They acquire land where bugs can thrive with no attacks : THE NON – HUMAN  ZONES. 

Back to the art, I’m tempted to write, but GBG is an art piece as was the ceramic urinal for Marcel Duchamp. The installation at Melk Abbey is a double limb of the GBG body. 

A white paper boat holding a vertical dry Ferula picked up in an Etruscan archeological site (where archeology protects plants from receiving pesticides) floats on a cloud of feathers, real geese feathers. 

The contrast between Edgar’s art piece and the images covering the rooms from floor to ceiling, painted by Johann Wenzel Bergl in 1760, is striking. The contemporary piece is a scream of despair spreading from three symbols pared to the bones; FRAGILITY, DRYNESS, HOPE. Yet, the ferula almost tickles the palm leaves and the clouds on the walls, and the paper boat echoes in b-flat minor the galleon triumphant between the ocean waves. The whole thing is wonderfully absurd as are most of the eighteenth century images covering the whole interior building. 

They shape imaginary dreams, joyful paradises in far away continents discovered by travellers sent by European conquerors. They give form to an imaginary state of nature that is dried up after only 3 centuries. “Efficiency….efficiency”  laments Joseph Conrad in Heart of Darkness. Cruelty, and for what? For an idea. Maybe they believed in it. Redemption is a wish drowned in the waves. Disasters followed as a chain that makes us all prisoners of so called ‘rational’ decisions. For those who believe in absolute values and crash reality under their soles, with inevitable lack of soul, this art piece by Honetschläger is a beautiful reminder. Reality. It’s simple. Not easy. Art never is. !!!Gobugsgo!!!

These are THE NON-HUMAN ZONES acquired during the last five years:

Weitra Austria, 2500 m2  2019

Kallendorf Austria, 52.000 m2  2021

Breitenbrunn Austria, 4000 m2  2021

Capodimonte Italy, 2000 m2  2022

Langenlois Austria, 32.000 m2  2023              Photos: ©Danilo Donzelli

GOBUGSGO.ORG 

SUPPORTERS ARE WELCOME FROM ANY COUNTRY ALL OVER THE WORLD.

let’s save the bugs

JEROME ROTHENBERG and CHARLIE MORROW: BREATHING

BREATHING …. our perennial COMEDY OF MISTAKES

with JEROME ROTHENBERG and CHARLIE MORROW, ROSANNA ALBERTINI and CHARLES-LOUIS de MONTESQUIEU

 

RA    missing eternity and perfection, we rely on counting, measuring and forgetting

JR    There are worlds here / hidden from sight / whose ends are like / their beginnings

RA    and yet we move on changing confident that time will do the right job and memory will be a safe

JR    that farce replaces tragedy / obscene even to think it / & yet to come into another age / & find it proven true

MONTESQUIEU    I’m not a poet, but I know it, the becoming is universal soul, almost a wind, a  life-giving breathing: a “principle” produced by an infinite chain of causes interwoven through centuries, until they tune the spirit of one age.  Once the tone is given, it is the only governing force, it dominates until the total destruction. If the tone is corrupt, humans can only forget themselves.

 RA    I’m not good at counting. Please Jerry, tell me it is not true we must be reminded of a vanishing earth

JR    some will proclaim the word / against all odds / others can only wait / & wonder  

 

 Rothenberg’s house, Saturday, August 24 — Videos by Peter Kirby 

Charlie Morrow playing various instruments, Jerry Rothenberg reading

       

Jerome Rothenberg, NEVER DONE COUNTING, 2019

Enclosed by matter /all my thoughts / scream for prophecy. / When I wake up on Mondays / the night is still hanging / above me galaxies / shedding their images /fading unknown / in the half light / a light that confounds me. / Nothing we know is unreal / & nothing is real. / There is only the face / of a woman / blind in the sun / & a voice that cries out / in a language like French. / When she raises her arms / they look distant and lame, / something there / that won’t work but falls flat / against me. I will follow her / up to the moon, will watch her / paint herself red / with no sense / of the distances still to be traveled, / no plot to adjust to / but numbers / that show me / the little i know,  /  the way one / vanishing universe /  shrinks till it swallows / another. / There are worlds here hidden from sight / whose ends are like / their beginnings,  / the world in daylight / turns dark / the blaze of noon / caught in their mirrors, / as the sun slips / through our fingers / never done counting / where the globe / has dropped / out of sight.*

Jerome Rothenberg, THE POEM AS LANDSCAPE, 2019   

the definition of place / is more than / what was seen / or what was / felt before / when dreaming / of the dead / the way / a conflagration / wrapped itself / around his world / leaving in his mind / a trace of dunes / the fallout from / a ring of mountains / reminders / of a vanished earth / the landscape / marked with rising tufts / the hardness of / clay tiles / that press against  / our feet like bricks / the soil concealed / beneath its coverings / through which  a weave / of twisted wires / crisscross the empty / fields as markers / to commemorate / the hapless dead / the ones who fly / around like ghosts / bereft of either / home or tomb / in what would once / have been their world / the count fades out / beyond 10,000 / leaves them to be swept / down endless ages / fused together / or else apart / lost nomads / on the road / to desolation / a field on mars / they wait to share / with others / dead at last**

 

The mystery is all contained in speaking

then the little silences

surround my words like poetry

I breathe them in & out***

 

Whiteness grows around Charlie Morrow’s images and words, around which we should imagine a space expanding, with no edges.  Each verbal suggestion is the core of a sound event. Our mind can hear.

 

CHARLIE MORROW

1 

 B o o k  of  B r e a t h

2

3

 

Life birth                                                                               breathing in

                                                    two hearts two years early on

4

Breath Chant

5

Kaddish Tibetan

6

Breeze

vegetable breezes

7

Whisteling in and out

8

Breath and Bells

9

Wind Song

10

Birth of the Eagle Voice

11

Remembering Breaths

12

Breath of Love

13

la petite mort

14

Death                                                                                 breathing out

                                                                            On the assent of the fragile

 

As for me, I hold my breath.

I hold my breath trying to keep it in me as long as I can, facing the last edge. That’s the way my life moved, from an edge to another, suddenly immersed in spaces where everything was new: faces, language, smells, temperature, colors. I was I because my dog recognized me? Not even that. My dog had been killed by cigarette smugglers near the house of my birth. I was moved to the city. My dialect, the freshness of leaves in the wind, and the small white, soft flowers climbing the bushes, careless of spines, were replaced by the odor of soup mixed with vapors of bleach at the entrance of my apartment building. The fog sucked me in, licking my adolescence out of me. Later the lagoon cuddled me every day on my way to work on the boat, the bus, the train, the boat again, shaking my more mature energy out of my body. Life was breathing, not me. And I was not more than one of the many particles she digests, like the ogre of fairy tales. One story after another, waves of living pealed the years off, bringing me in front of the unknown, one more time. What’s after the last breath? I am so curious I can’t express it. I am so happy. The desert where I am now erases all fears: it’s a blooming of nothingness, for the nothing we are. 

Now I see what my grandfather painted when he placed me sitting on the edge of a landscape, looking at the void. The painting was made in his studio, a fantasy about my future, probably. He also placed himself in the scene. He is the tree behind me, as I felt him all my life long. We are wrapped in light, and mad with love for this life that annihilates us.  

Rosanna Albertini

ORESTE ALBERTINI, Title and year unknown, about 1950

Bibliography:

*Jerome Rothenberg, The President of Desolation & Other Poems, Further Autovariations Reminders of a Vanished Earth, Arrangement and edition © 2019 Black Widow Press

**Jerome Rothenberg, The President of Desolation & Other Poems, 2019, Further Autovariations Reminders of a Vanished Earth, Arrangement and Edition © 2019 Black Widow Press

***Jerome Rothenberg, from The Mystery of False Attachments, Word Palace Press, @ 2019 

Charles-Louis de Montesquieu, Storia vera, with translation and postface  by Rosanna Albertini, Palermo, Sellerio Editore, 1983