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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.


Holly Lee

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



(streaming free, 2 hours)

2. Modern Photographs from The Thomas Walther Collection 1909–1949


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


Fiona Smyth


Kai Chan

Drawing, pastel, graphite


Cem Turgay

Travelling Palm


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


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


Wilson Tsang

The Cage

From the Notebooks


Gary Michael Dault

Number 141: Loon (May 25, 2022)

Leaving Taichung


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


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


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,


(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


(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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