Thursday, July 12, 2012

L'effondrement de la catégorie

My dear friend Currado Malaspina has always dabbled in the occult. Whether it's Justi Bremmer's The Tangy Scent of Angel Wings - the book-length epic poem that inspired the Franco-Celtic cult of Strophic Meditation - Babba Dar-Tag's Ice-Yoga or Ragout Kästner's improbably popular Institute of Volitional Metemphsychosis (Institut für Vorprogrammierte Metemphsychosis), Currado has given just about every metaphysical crackpot equal purchase on his guileless naïveté.

There has been, however, a very disturbing turn of events. For the first time, Currado Malaspina, the grand eminence of the Parisian avant-garde, the hard-nosed sophisticate, the urbane flaneur and citadin raffiné has decided to overtly translate his childish enthusiasms into silly, slight and intellectually bereft paintings.

Binah e Hizzayon, Currado Malaspina 2012 (Courtesy of Galerie Tollhaus, Berlin)

And the public adores them!

Whether it's images of astrological charts, speculative maps of the Lost City of Ubar, meticulous renderings of haunted amulets or reconfigured Ouija Boards, the city of Paris is aflame with Currado's improbable artistic reincarnation. 

One skeptic called it "the shock of the rehash." Another non-believer described it as "a road to Damascus rest stop," expressing the hope that Malaspina will snap out of it as soon as his market dries up.

I, for one, am not so sanguine. I recently met up with Currado in Berlin and he was clearly not himself. Aside from the fact that he was wearing a  red-string bracelet and a magic lotus necklace he was also in the company of the beautiful South Asian supermodel Veena Shabobob.

Veena Shabobob in Cannes, 2012
 Shabobob, whose eyes are milky and mysterious  wields an almost mystical control over her many romantic interests. She's as delicate as paper and the men in her life feel obliged to sustain her by silence and obedience. She is considered by her admirers as an Apauruseya  - "not of human agency" - and as an adept rustic Tantrik she combines sexual ingenuity with a robust agricultural fortitude.

In short, if she told Currado to shoplift from the Vatican Library he would do it. Shabobob consults the stars the way others check their email and her complete submission to the supernatural makes Nancy Reagan look like a physicist. Sad to say, she's got Currado hooked.

So keep looking for trifling, superstitious baubles from that once formidable French artist ... at least as long as his moon continues to rise over Veena.


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