MONDAY ARTPOST 0613-2022

MONDAY
ARTPOST
0613-2022
ISSN1918-6991
MONDAYARTPOST.COM
Columns by Artists and Writers
Bob Black / Cem Turgay / Fiona
Smyth / Gary Michael Dault /
Holly Lee / Kai Chan / Yau Leung /
Shelley Savor / Tamara Chatterjee
/ Wilson Tsang + The Raw and the
Cooked: Filippo Tommaso Marinetti, The
Futurist Cookbook (Gary Michael Dault)
MONDAY ARTPOST published on Mondays. Columns by Artists and Writers. All Right Reserved. Published since 2002.
An Ocean and Pounds publication. ISSN 1918-6991. email to: mail@oceanpounds.com

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Poem a Week
Gary Michael Dault
The Lady Holds a Unicorn
(after a Painting by Raphael from 1506)
The lady holds a unicorn
in the crook of her milky arm
the unicorn is tiny
green like an onion
its horn a delicate twist of bone
Nestled thus, corkscrew horn in air
the baby unicorn is warm as bread
and free to remember meadows
blooming with the Fleur-de-lys
While for her part
the lady, mistress of the momentary,
is free to sense the draft of dreams
beneath the keel of her decorous afternoon

Caffeine Reveries
Shelley Savor
Cloud Cover

DOUBLE DOUBLE current issue, 200 pages.
Read-on-line book and Paperback editions available.

ART LOGBOOK
Holly Lee
1. The Last Apostle - a full-length documentary that follows Dr. Fairchild as he explores ancient
Turkey.
https://tubitv.com/movies/568088/the-last-apostle?start=true
(streaming free, 2 hours)
2. Modern Photographs from The Thomas Walther Collection 1909–1949
https://www.moma.org/calendar/exhibitions/1453?installation_image_index=0
Note: use arrow on lower right corner to navigate all the images

CHEEZ
Fiona Smyth

Greenwood
Kai Chan
Drawing, pastel, graphite

ProTesT
Cem Turgay

Travelling Palm
Snapshots
Tamara Chatterjee
Madagascar (March, 2010) – It was a great
morning; elated from my tented view of
a spectacular starry night, I woke up to
the animated sounds of nature. As the day
progressed naturally the animation took on
another scenery all together, it reminded
me of a simpler time. Over a decade later;
through the process of archiving, I am
delighted to be reminded again. It certainly
helps spin the axis forward into the unknown
future.

Yesterday Hong Kong
Yau Leung
Memorial Day Ceremony (Central 1968)
8x10 inch, gelatin silver photograph printed in the nineties
OP Selection, edition 1/100, signed on verso
From the collection of Lee Ka-sing and Holly Lee

TANGENTS
Wilson Tsang
The Cage

From the Notebooks
(2010-2022)
Gary Michael Dault
Number 141: Loon (May 25, 2022)

Leaving Taichung
Station
Bob Black
Trois couleurs: 最 好 的 時 光
“Does the world have nothing inside but sorrow?”–Andrei Platonov
“On windy or rainy days, naturally there are times when these clocks would stop…”-- 陳 黎
I
1986: Hooker’s Green (a time for youth)
Chaiyi – Taichung- Kenting
And the years slip like breath along the edges of our skin, an abundance and a reckoning, the

we tasted the brine back up inside us and upon our tongues
otter and kelp and elm and evicted spit, clams
and we collapsed.
firmament spreads wide, like a gap-toothed space, dark and unending. Pitch and Pale above, all that
which twined and coursed through you, comes forth like small accumulations. And then
I was here, fallen into a world that had not prepared for my waking—green was my Island home,
green was the sound of my mother’s tears as I was born, green was the scent of the papaya my father
fed her to assuage her fear, green was the sound of neighbors screaming in downtown Taichung,
green was my vibrant heart, the rice fields and the stone rivers and the thumb in my mouth and
the vegetables been hawked every morning, green the vegetable sellers voice with the sails of the
morning, green of my mother’s grumpy breath and most importantly green of my grandmother’s
eyes to me: emerald as the mountain cats and soaring hawks, she a keeper of the land and the
maker of my heart.
Blindness, from the beginning, it snaked its way into my eyes and wording, and I could not tell the
difference between day and night, between body and absence, between the sky and the ground,
between winter and spring, between melon and dragon fruit, that swimming. There was only way to
distinguish things when you are blind:
Name it green and tossed up from the surf
The shells slipped over our shoulders and down our neck and the blood rivered on until the jetty of
sand and stone unreeled,
And in the Cawl, the sea birds balked and the children reaned up and we
Seeds every moment
Took beach root.
In our drowning we saw bioluminescence and the light ran green as did our swollen tongues.
Once we’d lost the sea for salt, the Zhuoshui singled everything out
Singled and sang instead, name after name
And waves unbuckled and the ghosts spoke less forlorn
And into the inlet we went battering.
And the land grow quick and long underneath the briny touch
Rusted tackle and bait, wave wracked you:
Holding onto a wet sky and there we were, shine and bone and dream and aquagreen.
The movement and difference of temperature: our bodies laundered by the sea
and
the sea tugs at the stories splinter by splinter, tag upon bonerage ocean tag
seagulls pick at the ribs of a beached leviathan
alabaster space and stillness,
ligature and leftover and barnacled keel,
until life swells back into the sandy earth and runs away waving
and all is drawn back,
crescent and swelling
all the drowning taken under, lung by lung and we were
swell and as the coiled cold pierced our lungs

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The Raw and
the Cooked,
MYTHOLOGIQUES
(On the culture of
eating and cooking,
contributions from
various authors)

Marinetti, Futurist Cookbook, 1989.
The Raw and the Cooked:
Filippo Tommaso
Marinetti, The Futurist
Cookbook
(London: Trefoil Publications, 1989).
Gary Michael Dault
There is a famous photograph, taken in 1912 in Paris, of five of the most prominent and
indeed infamous of the Italian Futurists who, at the time of the photo, were about to exhibit their art
in the heartland of Cubism and, in their view, bring a shot of neopolitan brio to what they considered
the increasingly moribund Cubist scene. They are all dressed in voluminous greatcoats and homburg
hats, and although they are clearly keeping still for the photograph, they nevertheless give the
impression that they are struggling to contain the barely suppressible convulsive vitality that was so
central to their beliefs, their behaviour and their desires.
The big fiercely-hearty guy in the middle is Filippo Tommaso Marinetti (1876-1944), the
founder of the Italian Futurist movement and a wealthy poet, editor, playwright and general literary
impresario. To his right are painters Luigi Russolo and Carlo Carra. To his left are painter-sculptor
Umberto Boccioni and painter Gino Severini.

The Futurists in Paris, 1912

For Marinetti (once dubbed “the caffein of Europe”) and the other
Italian Futurists, contemporary culture--and the modernist art that
reflected it--had run out of creative steam. It was the Futurist mission, a
mission passionately held, that a new art must be built on kinetic force,
motion, even aggression and, if need be, violence.
The Futurist task, Marinetti felt, was to stage a culture-wide “carnival
of provocation.” It was part of that unruly, disruptive “carnival” that
led Marinetti to declare, for example, that a speeding automobile was
more beautiful than the Winged Victory of Samothrace. Marinetti
was apparently quite serious in suggesting (in a Futurist manifesto of
1909) that war was “the world’s only hygiene,” and that he intended to
glorify it. He also vowed to destroy all museums (and thereby destroy
the cultural past). Arch-romantic that he was, one of Marinetti’s bestknown
manifesto-proclamations was titled “Let’s Murder the Moonshine”
(or, in the translation I have, “Let’s Kill Off The Moonlight.”).
Marinetti was surprisingly successful in his revolutionary fever
dreams, partly because he was such an electrifying writer. He would
destroy on every hand (rhetorically at least) “bridges that stride the
rivers like giant gymnasts, flashing in the sun with a glitter of knives;
adventurous steamers that sniff the horizon, deep-chested locomotives
whose wheels paw the tracks like the hooves of enormous steel horses
bridled by tubing....” And on and on, rapturously, volcanically.
It was inevitable that this rupturing volatility of the Futurists would
catch the ear of the coming buffoon, Mussolini, and it wouldn’t be long
before the proto-fascist Marinetti and the others would be awarded full
fascist stature.
Which they didn’t do much with. Except for the writer Marinetti, the
Italian Futurists were mostly painters and sculptors, not politicians.
In essence they were more farcists and fantacists than fascists.
Futurist triangular plate
Marinetti-designed dinner plate
As unlikely as it sounds, Marinetti also had a surprisingly warm and
playful side. He was apparently a kind and generous man and also a
devoted husband and a doting father. And it’s pretty clear that a lot of
his blustering, realpolitik mischief was just that: mischief--of a wildly
self-promotional kind.
Take his infamous Futurist Cookbook, published in 1932.
As the editor of the 1989 reprint, Lesley Chamberlain, points out,
“Futurist ‘cooking’ was revolutionary and a joke because actually it was

Marinetti with two of his daughters, Vittoria and Ala (1932)
about food as raw material for art. It was not a collection of recipes for
self-nourishment but a disguised artistic game full of ideas for avantgarde
experiments. Spinach, tomato, egg whites and prunes: you name
the ingredient. Marinetti looked upon them all as colours and building
blocks and put them together with colour and shape and ideas in mind,
not taste.”
The Futurists came out strongly against traditions and indeed all
accepted ideas about food. Marinetti was particularly upset (if one can
believe his writings on the subject) about pasta, citing Schopenhauer (no
less) that in their daily eating habits, Italians--with their dependence
on pasta dishes--were feeding upon “the food of the resigned” (did
Schopenhauer really say this?). It was the Futurist mission, culinarily
speaking, to rescue Italians from the torpor of their physiological lives
“with the inevitable harmful reverberations in the psychical sphere.”
The healing, transformative dishes the Futurists suggested included
“Sunshine Soup” and their famous “Sculpted Meat” dishes (“symbolic
interpretations of all the varied landscapes of Italy, composed of large
cylindrical rissoles of minced roast veal, stuffed with eleven different
kinds of cooked green vegetables and then re-roasted”. This cylinder,
the cookbook observes, “standing upright in the centre of the plate,
is crowned by a layer of honey and supported at the base by a ring of
sausages resting on three golden spheres of chicken meat.” “A marvel
of balance,” writes Marinetti enthusiastically.
Other Futurist kitchen delights included “Drum Roll of Colonial
Fish” (roasted mullet stuffed with date jam and pineapple and eaten to
“a continuous rolling of drums”), “Raw Meat Torn by Trumpet Blasts,”
a seven-course “Tourist Dinner,” featuring “Peaches stoned and filled
with sweet Tuscan wine and closed up again, floating an a sea of cognac”
(yum!), and--my favourite Futurist dish--”The Excited Pig.”
Here is the complete recipe for The Excited Pig”:
“A whole salami. skinned, is served upright on a dish containing
some very hot black coffee mixed with a good deal of eau de Cologne.”
Buon appetito!

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Order online, cad$85 each.

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