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<strong>MONDAY</strong><br />

<strong>ARTPOST</strong><br />

<strong>0613</strong>-<strong>2022</strong><br />

ISSN1918-6991<br />

<strong>MONDAY</strong><strong>ARTPOST</strong>.COM<br />

Columns by Artists and Writers<br />

Bob Black / Cem Turgay / Fiona<br />

Smyth / Gary Michael Dault /<br />

Holly Lee / Kai Chan / Yau Leung /<br />

Shelley Savor / Tamara Chatterjee<br />

/ Wilson Tsang + The Raw and the<br />

Cooked: Filippo Tommaso Marinetti, The<br />

Futurist Cookbook (Gary Michael Dault)<br />

<strong>MONDAY</strong> <strong>ARTPOST</strong> published on Mondays. Columns by Artists and Writers. All Right Reserved. Published since 2002.<br />

An Ocean and Pounds publication. ISSN 1918-6991. email to: mail@oceanpounds.com

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Poem a Week<br />

Gary Michael Dault<br />

The Lady Holds a Unicorn<br />

(after a Painting by Raphael from 1506)<br />

The lady holds a unicorn<br />

in the crook of her milky arm<br />

the unicorn is tiny<br />

green like an onion<br />

its horn a delicate twist of bone<br />

Nestled thus, corkscrew horn in air<br />

the baby unicorn is warm as bread<br />

and free to remember meadows<br />

blooming with the Fleur-de-lys<br />

While for her part<br />

the lady, mistress of the momentary,<br />

is free to sense the draft of dreams<br />

beneath the keel of her decorous afternoon

Caffeine Reveries<br />

Shelley Savor<br />

Cloud Cover

DOUBLE DOUBLE current issue, 200 pages.<br />

Read-on-line book and Paperback editions available.


Holly Lee<br />

1. The Last Apostle - a full-length documentary that follows Dr. Fairchild as he explores ancient<br />

Turkey.<br />

https://tubitv.com/movies/568088/the-last-apostle?start=true<br />

(streaming free, 2 hours)<br />

2. Modern Photographs from The Thomas Walther Collection 1909–1949<br />

https://www.moma.org/calendar/exhibitions/1453?installation_image_index=0<br />

Note: use arrow on lower right corner to navigate all the images

CHEEZ<br />

Fiona Smyth

Greenwood<br />

Kai Chan<br />

Drawing, pastel, graphite

ProTesT<br />

Cem Turgay

Travelling Palm<br />

Snapshots<br />

Tamara Chatterjee<br />

Madagascar (March, 2010) – It was a great<br />

morning; elated from my tented view of<br />

a spectacular starry night, I woke up to<br />

the animated sounds of nature. As the day<br />

progressed naturally the animation took on<br />

another scenery all together, it reminded<br />

me of a simpler time. Over a decade later;<br />

through the process of archiving, I am<br />

delighted to be reminded again. It certainly<br />

helps spin the axis forward into the unknown<br />


Yesterday Hong Kong<br />

Yau Leung<br />

Memorial Day Ceremony (Central 1968)<br />

8x10 inch, gelatin silver photograph printed in the nineties<br />

OP Selection, edition 1/100, signed on verso<br />

From the collection of Lee Ka-sing and Holly Lee


Wilson Tsang<br />

The Cage

From the Notebooks<br />

(2010-<strong>2022</strong>)<br />

Gary Michael Dault<br />

Number 141: Loon (May 25, <strong>2022</strong>)

Leaving Taichung<br />

Station<br />

Bob Black<br />

Trois couleurs: 最 好 的 時 光<br />

“Does the world have nothing inside but sorrow?”–Andrei Platonov<br />

“On windy or rainy days, naturally there are times when these clocks would stop…”-- 陳 黎<br />

I<br />

1986: Hooker’s Green (a time for youth)<br />

Chaiyi – Taichung- Kenting<br />

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<br />

otter and kelp and elm and evicted spit, clams<br />

and we collapsed.<br />

firmament spreads wide, like a gap-toothed space, dark and unending. Pitch and Pale above, all that<br />

which twined and coursed through you, comes forth like small accumulations. And then<br />

I was here, fallen into a world that had not prepared for my waking—green was my Island home,<br />

green was the sound of my mother’s tears as I was born, green was the scent of the papaya my father<br />

fed her to assuage her fear, green was the sound of neighbors screaming in downtown Taichung,<br />

green was my vibrant heart, the rice fields and the stone rivers and the thumb in my mouth and<br />

the vegetables been hawked every morning, green the vegetable sellers voice with the sails of the<br />

morning, green of my mother’s grumpy breath and most importantly green of my grandmother’s<br />

eyes to me: emerald as the mountain cats and soaring hawks, she a keeper of the land and the<br />

maker of my heart.<br />

Blindness, from the beginning, it snaked its way into my eyes and wording, and I could not tell the<br />

difference between day and night, between body and absence, between the sky and the ground,<br />

between winter and spring, between melon and dragon fruit, that swimming. There was only way to<br />

distinguish things when you are blind:<br />

Name it green and tossed up from the surf<br />

The shells slipped over our shoulders and down our neck and the blood rivered on until the jetty of<br />

sand and stone unreeled,<br />

And in the Cawl, the sea birds balked and the children reaned up and we<br />

Seeds every moment<br />

Took beach root.<br />

In our drowning we saw bioluminescence and the light ran green as did our swollen tongues.<br />

Once we’d lost the sea for salt, the Zhuoshui singled everything out<br />

Singled and sang instead, name after name<br />

And waves unbuckled and the ghosts spoke less forlorn<br />

And into the inlet we went battering.<br />

And the land grow quick and long underneath the briny touch<br />

Rusted tackle and bait, wave wracked you:<br />

Holding onto a wet sky and there we were, shine and bone and dream and aquagreen.<br />

The movement and difference of temperature: our bodies laundered by the sea<br />

and<br />

the sea tugs at the stories splinter by splinter, tag upon bonerage ocean tag<br />

seagulls pick at the ribs of a beached leviathan<br />

alabaster space and stillness,<br />

ligature and leftover and barnacled keel,<br />

until life swells back into the sandy earth and runs away waving<br />

and all is drawn back,<br />

crescent and swelling<br />

all the drowning taken under, lung by lung and we were<br />

swell and as the coiled cold pierced our lungs

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The Raw and<br />

the Cooked,<br />


(On the culture of<br />

eating and cooking,<br />

contributions from<br />

various authors)

Marinetti, Futurist Cookbook, 1989.<br />

The Raw and the Cooked:<br />

Filippo Tommaso<br />

Marinetti, The Futurist<br />

Cookbook<br />

(London: Trefoil Publications, 1989).<br />

Gary Michael Dault<br />

There is a famous photograph, taken in 1912 in Paris, of five of the most prominent and<br />

indeed infamous of the Italian Futurists who, at the time of the photo, were about to exhibit their art<br />

in the heartland of Cubism and, in their view, bring a shot of neopolitan brio to what they considered<br />

the increasingly moribund Cubist scene. They are all dressed in voluminous greatcoats and homburg<br />

hats, and although they are clearly keeping still for the photograph, they nevertheless give the<br />

impression that they are struggling to contain the barely suppressible convulsive vitality that was so<br />

central to their beliefs, their behaviour and their desires.<br />

The big fiercely-hearty guy in the middle is Filippo Tommaso Marinetti (1876-1944), the<br />

founder of the Italian Futurist movement and a wealthy poet, editor, playwright and general literary<br />

impresario. To his right are painters Luigi Russolo and Carlo Carra. To his left are painter-sculptor<br />

Umberto Boccioni and painter Gino Severini.

The Futurists in Paris, 1912

For Marinetti (once dubbed “the caffein of Europe”) and the other<br />

Italian Futurists, contemporary culture--and the modernist art that<br />

reflected it--had run out of creative steam. It was the Futurist mission, a<br />

mission passionately held, that a new art must be built on kinetic force,<br />

motion, even aggression and, if need be, violence.<br />

The Futurist task, Marinetti felt, was to stage a culture-wide “carnival<br />

of provocation.” It was part of that unruly, disruptive “carnival” that<br />

led Marinetti to declare, for example, that a speeding automobile was<br />

more beautiful than the Winged Victory of Samothrace. Marinetti<br />

was apparently quite serious in suggesting (in a Futurist manifesto of<br />

1909) that war was “the world’s only hygiene,” and that he intended to<br />

glorify it. He also vowed to destroy all museums (and thereby destroy<br />

the cultural past). Arch-romantic that he was, one of Marinetti’s bestknown<br />

manifesto-proclamations was titled “Let’s Murder the Moonshine”<br />

(or, in the translation I have, “Let’s Kill Off The Moonlight.”).<br />

Marinetti was surprisingly successful in his revolutionary fever<br />

dreams, partly because he was such an electrifying writer. He would<br />

destroy on every hand (rhetorically at least) “bridges that stride the<br />

rivers like giant gymnasts, flashing in the sun with a glitter of knives;<br />

adventurous steamers that sniff the horizon, deep-chested locomotives<br />

whose wheels paw the tracks like the hooves of enormous steel horses<br />

bridled by tubing....” And on and on, rapturously, volcanically.<br />

It was inevitable that this rupturing volatility of the Futurists would<br />

catch the ear of the coming buffoon, Mussolini, and it wouldn’t be long<br />

before the proto-fascist Marinetti and the others would be awarded full<br />

fascist stature.<br />

Which they didn’t do much with. Except for the writer Marinetti, the<br />

Italian Futurists were mostly painters and sculptors, not politicians.<br />

In essence they were more farcists and fantacists than fascists.<br />

Futurist triangular plate<br />

Marinetti-designed dinner plate<br />

As unlikely as it sounds, Marinetti also had a surprisingly warm and<br />

playful side. He was apparently a kind and generous man and also a<br />

devoted husband and a doting father. And it’s pretty clear that a lot of<br />

his blustering, realpolitik mischief was just that: mischief--of a wildly<br />

self-promotional kind.<br />

Take his infamous Futurist Cookbook, published in 1932.<br />

As the editor of the 1989 reprint, Lesley Chamberlain, points out,<br />

“Futurist ‘cooking’ was revolutionary and a joke because actually it was

Marinetti with two of his daughters, Vittoria and Ala (1932)<br />

about food as raw material for art. It was not a collection of recipes for<br />

self-nourishment but a disguised artistic game full of ideas for avantgarde<br />

experiments. Spinach, tomato, egg whites and prunes: you name<br />

the ingredient. Marinetti looked upon them all as colours and building<br />

blocks and put them together with colour and shape and ideas in mind,<br />

not taste.”<br />

The Futurists came out strongly against traditions and indeed all<br />

accepted ideas about food. Marinetti was particularly upset (if one can<br />

believe his writings on the subject) about pasta, citing Schopenhauer (no<br />

less) that in their daily eating habits, Italians--with their dependence<br />

on pasta dishes--were feeding upon “the food of the resigned” (did<br />

Schopenhauer really say this?). It was the Futurist mission, culinarily<br />

speaking, to rescue Italians from the torpor of their physiological lives<br />

“with the inevitable harmful reverberations in the psychical sphere.”<br />

The healing, transformative dishes the Futurists suggested included<br />

“Sunshine Soup” and their famous “Sculpted Meat” dishes (“symbolic<br />

interpretations of all the varied landscapes of Italy, composed of large<br />

cylindrical rissoles of minced roast veal, stuffed with eleven different<br />

kinds of cooked green vegetables and then re-roasted”. This cylinder,<br />

the cookbook observes, “standing upright in the centre of the plate,<br />

is crowned by a layer of honey and supported at the base by a ring of<br />

sausages resting on three golden spheres of chicken meat.” “A marvel<br />

of balance,” writes Marinetti enthusiastically.<br />

Other Futurist kitchen delights included “Drum Roll of Colonial<br />

Fish” (roasted mullet stuffed with date jam and pineapple and eaten to<br />

“a continuous rolling of drums”), “Raw Meat Torn by Trumpet Blasts,”<br />

a seven-course “Tourist Dinner,” featuring “Peaches stoned and filled<br />

with sweet Tuscan wine and closed up again, floating an a sea of cognac”<br />

(yum!), and--my favourite Futurist dish--”The Excited Pig.”<br />

Here is the complete recipe for The Excited Pig”:<br />

“A whole salami. skinned, is served upright on a dish containing<br />

some very hot black coffee mixed with a good deal of eau de Cologne.”<br />

Buon appetito!

https://www.blurb.ca/b/11161209-cheez-456<br />

Order online, cad$85 each.

Under the management of Ocean and Pounds<br />

Since 2008, INDEXG B&B have served curators, artists,<br />

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cities visiting and working in Toronto.<br />

INDEXG B&B<br />

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