MADNESS BECOMES CURRADO

BATHED IN ABSINTHIAN WISTFULNESS & MELANCHOLIC NOSTALGIA, CURRADO MALASPINA SITS BY THE WINDOW OF HIS SMALL CELL AND SKETCHES SCENES FROM HIS PAST.

  
Rough, awkward but unmistakably heartfelt,  Currado Malaspina's small new drawings are a sad, strong testament to his decayed vanity. Scrawled with a primitive hand-carved quill, these precious tracings are explicit maps of his wretched, broken mind.


In 1998, as a guest of Charo Valrhona, Cuba's genteel Minister of Arts and Sports, Currado was feted by the island's top luminaries. He played tennis with three time Olympic champion Donatello Borges, sang madrigals with the immortal coloratura Dobry Den Esponoza, discussed Hegel with the controversial cultural critic Djudeo Espanyol and went horseback riding with Fidel's nephew, the great harness racer Ocucaje Castro.


 His very public romance with the very married Romina Magia of the Ballet Nacional de Cuba was the cause of great scandal.  A vigil of international journalists camped in front of the Bosque Hotel in central Havana where he rented a suite of rooms. When Romina's husband Francesco blackened Currado's lower lip under the reproachful gaze of Che Guevara, the hungry shutters clicked in a tap dance of prurient fascination.


The other day, I received in the mail the above drawing. On the back was an inscription which read: "c'était la valeur la douleur."

CURRADO'S DEMONS

I often puzzle over the shrill and petty tone Currado takes when he writes about me and my work.Though I'm not one who is quick to take offense, the cumulative effect of his snide screeds and astringent asides is a weight I must reluctantly bear.

Hospitalier Spécialisé de Boisset, Western wall

Hospitalier Spécialisé de Boisset is a psychiatric care facility near the Dordogne River Valley. Among its illustrious alumni are the writers Shmuel Jacot and Delphine Issey-Ponqet, the painters Koloy and Iguire and the great mid-century songsmith Vuillet de Monchard.

At the time of this writing, residing in said hospital and under the watchful eye of both admirable and dubious clinicians is my poor, dear friend, Currado Malaspina.

It seems he has been diagnosed as paranoiac, His condition is apparently exacerbated by his drug addictions. I'm told he is delusional and unstable. He alternates between states of lyric eloquence and deranged hysteria. He's willfully incontinent. He doesn't eat.

I have chosen to attribute Currado Malaspina's demoniac diatribes to his nascent madness.

He still has his computer so don't expect an abatement of his attacks any time soon.

CURRADO'S CAPACIOUS CURIOSITY

The Mendoza Archive in Metz is a trove of  legal documents, odd dissertations, illuminated manuscripts and scholarly tomes. During a recent trip to nearby Pont-à-Mousson visiting my good friend Currado Malaspina, we stopped by the archive and met with its director, Yves Mendès-Faure.

The Tupfen Sephirot, 17th century

Dr. Mendès-Faure, whose most recent book Thwarted Sensation in Lurianic Ecstatic Literature (Provo Press 2010), is a specialist in Cordoveran Kabbalah. Together with A. Gashmi and Jimmy Ramak, he compiled and edited the complete correspondence of Abu Ahmad Ja'far ibn 'Ubaid and Khitan Liao. As director of the archive he has curated several exhibitions of Judaica including the controversial Sephirot Ensemble which assembled over four-hundred Sephirot images, hand-painted by gentiles.

Currado wanted to see John Donne's famous Tupfen painting but we were told it had been stolen in a daredevil burglary while on exhibit in Rabat. The image above is a reproduction from the Encyclopédie d'Ésotérisme.

עשרת הדיברות

On the wide double-door of his professional Axima frigo, Currado Malaspina has a curious grouping of post-it notes. Not your typical reminders of doctor's appointments or grocery lists but behavioral prompts straight out of one of his favorite books, the Old Testament.

The Decalogue has always been a source of conflict for my agnostic friend. Whereas he has no trouble with "thou shalt not steal," (unless of course it is a matter of someone's ideas), or "thou shalt not commit murder," he's always had a weakness for adultery. And though in keeping with the spirit if not the letter of the 5th commandment, (taking time throughout the years to remember his mother's birthday), he always thought that the 2nd, from the point of view of a practicing artist, was simply bad for business.

So each time he reaches in to grab a new bottle of Blanquette de Limoux he is confronted with a list of the top ten prohibitions of the ancients. It's a sobering salute to the aesthetics of the taboo.

Constraint and obstruction are  not your typical Malaspina tropes and it's hard to say whether these idiosyncratic allusions are meant to be reverential or ironic. A large lithograph depicting commandment no. 4 was recently bought by an anonymous representative of the Viljandene hasidim of Kirias Lilith, New York.  They've always been known to have a greater affinity for the burlesque then their neighbors the Bobover.

   

THE ROSSEBUURT EDITION

The series of twenty-two hand-colored aquatints known to collectors as The Rossebuurt Edition have finally been exhibited in the city of their origin.

Aafje, 1981

Photographers have depicted the courtesans of the Rossebuurt as shop window bibelots and Hollywood has turned them into a metaphor for raunchy cupidity but it was not until Currado Malaspina applied his tender touch has the subject been treated with the refinement and respect it deserves.

Amsterdam's Galerij Coenraad Johannes on Prinsengracht has recently staged a stunning exhibition that included all twenty-two prints plus scores of studies, proofs and related works-on-paper. Inspired by the play La Bulesca and the letters of Veronica Franco these lovely images are touching tributes to a class of women typically maligned by coarse caricature.

Like most mortals, Currado is not exempt from the fineries of cliché. In the course of his extensive research he developed a near fanatical obsession with the storied seductress, Aafje Minahasan. He pleaded with her to leave the dubious comforts of the Doop Horenkast and live with him as man and girlfriend.


She wisely demurred and is currently the aging mistress of a former Minister of Immigration and Asylum.

I LUSSURIOSI

Currado Malaspina has been working on a series of hand-colored monotypes based on Dante's depiction of the second circle of Hell.

SEMIRAMÌS, Malaspina, 2010

Malaspina has always insisted that Dante's condemnation of these carnal malefactors was at best halfhearted. As a lapsed Catholic and a strident opponent of chastity this is hardly surprising.

What seems far more astonishing is that this new completed series will be published in book form by Fedeli Edizioni, the official publishing house of L'Ordine di San Otto.

Michele Scottman, principle editor of Fideli is "thrilled to publish this important artistic document" and sees no conflict with its subject matter or style. Pre-ordered advance copies of the first edition have already sold out and Scottman predicts that I Lussuriosi will out perform Fideli's last major blockbuster,I Modi di Preghiera Estatica in Roma di Secolo Diciassettesima. 

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HOMO LUDENS

There are hundreds of little slips of paper tacked on the walls of Currado Malaspina's Rue Picot studio. If you ask him about the significance of these miniature cryptograms, most likely he'll shrug and quickly change the subject.

There's a pained eloquence about these somber images. I've often speculated about their meaning. Throughout the years I have arrived at a number of vague surmises.

1. These are nothing but idle doodlings, freely associated images void of any allusion or narrative.

2. Based on the texts, these are shards of violent fantasies, tiny testaments to a diseased mind.

3. Considering Currado's extensive priapic peregrinations, these are diminutive trophies, capricious aide-mémoires, carnal baseball cards, virile notches scratched with the swagger of an aging Lothario.

4. Though never much of a collector of the works of others, these are drawings done by another hand entirely. Based on certain stylistic oddities, most likely the artist in question is Micah Carpentier .

I welcome any insight from any of my readers who are familiar the works in question.

EVERY LOVE IS LAUDABLE

The mighty rabble of unreason, the prattlers of the pulpit, the blind banqueters of inanity, the blatherers, drivelers, twaddlers and knaves have all declared Currado Malaspina a menace to our young. "Obsédé par la gouttière" was how Monseigneur Eustace Etherlburga, pastor of L'Eglise Sainte de Chapele, Brabant described him in his weekly radio address last Sunday.

L'Animo ch'e` Creato ad Amar Presto, 1979

He may have been referring to a little known group of works-on-paper entitled "Felicità Raggiunta". Originally intended to illustrate the offbeat poems of Becolade Leonidas, the Raggiunte's graphic muscle was deemed ill-suited and inappropriate by Leonidas' long time publisher Gulyan Puratos.

The small suite of drawings surfaced recently at Bloedpens Bruxelles on rue Duquenois just off of Le Grand Place. A third-rate gallery on the fourth floor of a furniture warehouse, Bloedpens typically traffics in fake Hergé lithographs and the teacup poodle gouaches of Aimeus Gaufres. It turns out Malaspina's ex-wife Anaïs maliciously unloaded reams of Currado's early work in order to flood the market and subject her erstwhile husband's reputation to a good old fashioned lashing.

Fat chance!

Etherlburga's jeremiad has only added to the Malaspina spell. When last checked, the wait-list to acquire anything by Currado Malaspina, regardless of period or quality is about as long as the Antwerp Yellow Pages. 


There's no such thing as bad publicity. Wasn't Tintoretto referred to as "the Menace of Venice"?
 

THE TERRIBLE PRICE OF HIGH CULTURE

Finally, after the difficult copyright negotiations, the pious familial hand-wringing, the censorious governmental grandstanding and the overly cautious publishing house indecision, the full and complete edition of The Letters of Currado Malaspina is set for release!

This is bad news.

Not for me. No. Not for Currado. Not for Gallimardon, the Beaubourg, the Nouvelle Revue Marginale de Livres, TF2, the  Bibliothèque Calomnieux or the Académie de Trésors Nationaux. No. All of the above stand to profit regally not to say obscenely.

No. This is bad news for the many people, dare I say, the many women (for the lion's share of addressees are women) whose intimate confidences are about to be betrayed. Careers will be ruined, marriages destroyed, trusts violated and reputations sullied.

And for what??

For a few hundred beautifully annotated, erotically charged and delicately rendered epistolary drawings. 

Hélas 

HERMENEUTICS

Maquette Pour Le Marquis #9

Though it pains me to say this, my dear friend Currado Malaspina has allowed himself to be infantilized by those closest to him.  Those loving people who indulge his idiosyncratic posturing, his inconsonant and strident courtliness are doing him no favors.

Forgive my priggish propriety, my innocent (some might say chaste) instinct for discretion, but the savage audacity of Les Maquettes du Marquis goes a bit too far.  With its shamelessly impudent luster, it conceals its detestable nature behind a bravura of painterly effects.

And yet, to my astonishment, this new series of works has been warmly if not ecstatically received by the critics and the public in equal measure! The day I visited the exhibition - a balmy though overcast early autumn afternoon, the kind of day where Parisians find  lenient repose, a trim to their shock of vacation's adjournment - the line to enter the gallery wound itself, hydra-like, around Jardin Arago.  

To add to my bewilderment, ´Epître Magazine featured a cover story by no less of an authority than Tabatha Coralie, devoting sixteen pages to a detailed exegetic summery of the entire Malaspina oeuvre!

I love Currado, but is something getting lost in translation?

INJUDICIOUS DICTATION

The double contract, the skin and the immortal idol of love is but a pebble in the mouth of my good and flawed friend Currado Malaspina. The grateful gaiety which greeted his recent exhibition at Gallerie Livarot provoked in me nothing but a night-sweat of awkward embarrassment. 

Maquettes de Marquis no. 14

 

 

 

 

For a man who drinks the fruit of life clenched within the lenience of raffish corruption, the Maquettes de Marquis series of drawings is just a flowerly coverlet of imposture. It's a carnival of melodrama posing as debauchery. It's license without lewdness. Simulated wickedness in the altercloth of expressionism.

Currado, be chivalrous in your defeat and stop simmering in the mildew of petty provocations. Try to retrieve the raw air of your innocent jejunity. Your new work, the overcooked cousin of your erstwhile genius, mocks the garbled loyalty of your purblind partisans.

SHRINES AT A CARNIVAL

Currado Malaspina, Auvers-sur-Oise 1972

Not quite juvenilia though far from the chiselled concision of his present exchequerie, the Val-d'Oise landscapes pose an interesting problem for Malaspina scholars. The cascading froth of ecstatic brushwork is so unlike the pithy quicksilver of his more mature handwriting that many have attributed the radical shift to what historians now refer to simply as "the motorcycle accident." 

Fifteen days in a coma and nearly as many blood transfusions, Currado Malaspina emerged from the scaffolded flames of near-death entirely transformed. His youthful temperament of optimism and joy became a trampled Troy of ruin. His broken bones were easily mended but his hammered heart turned cold. For years  he has kept his Lucifer on a short leash of civility. His work, a phosphorent salvo of discontent, is another story.

Currado Malaspina, Argenteuil 1971

Let's all be grateful for his misfortune.

Currado Malaspina, 2009

Lecture d'Été

In the extensive journals that Currado Malaspina kept from the winter of 1983 through the fall of 2003, no detail, no matter how inappurtenant was deemed too trivial for inclusion. This impressive catalog of events and emotions was recently published in an abridged form and in limited edition by Éditions Rénale. Plushly illuminated with the peculiar drawings that were interleaved throughout the original, this rare volume is essential to the understanding of Currado's peripatetic imagination. Aptly titled Saisons de l'Impiété et Incrédulité should be on everyone's summer reading list.

INACCESSIBLE BLISS

The ravishments of romance are routine in the work and life of Currado Malaspina.  Night's plush reflections, ecstatic transformation, the supple female figure ... paint.

A series of casual oil paintings, void of precious ornament, piously attentive to the ambiance of fulsome, perhaps even obsessive affection was recently exhibited at the Museu de Detalhes Poéticos in Belém do Pará.

The catalog essay by Danita Marcil is a rhapsody of luminous albeit superficial analysis. Much is made of the mysterious identity of the model, a fretful exercise in pedantic speculation.

The woman in question, whose unmistakably honeyed flesh is an ardent hymn to erotic iridescence is none other than Andreja Bogatyrchuk.

Andreja is the genesis of every impulse in Currado's life. She is his hallucination, his Circe, his fragrant field of easy passion and the source of his vehement despondency.

GIBBLETS FOR AN AGING MASTER

"Tous mes anciens amants ont des moustaches"

Admittedly, it was tactless.


The comment that got Currado Malaspina fired from the Universiteit van Poperinge was fortuitous, for my good friend has no real talent for teaching. He lacks the patience and generosity required for such a task. (the event was witnessed by his then student Dahlia Danton).


Truth be told, Currado is rather worshipful of women and when married, tends to err on the side of uxoriousness. The fact that for the past 22 years he has worked exclusively with the female form is evidence enough of his extreme devotion and respect.


His current exhibition at Galerie Bourrer , which despite it repetitive nature and almost stubborn lack of invention received glowing reviews. Amalie Locdu went so far as to describe the new work as "a choir and song of visual stimulation the likes of which have not been seen in Paris since the days of Balthus, Matisse and Meremaquerelle!"


With all due respect to my good friend Currado, I think he's out of gas ...

DREAMING IN THE CAVE WHERE THE SIREN SWIMS

PROUD POSILIPO

 

On a recent trip to Paris, I dropped in on my dear friend Currado Malaspina.

I reached him on the telephone and we agreed that I would come to his studio at 7:30 in the evening on Friday the 8th of January. I remember the date vividly because I had tickets for the opera the following night to see Anna Nerval as Salome.

I climbed the five flights of stairs at the appointed hour on the designated day only to find the following note tacked to his door: "Ne m'attends pas ce soir, car la nuit sera noire et blanche"

Typical Malaspina - rude, cryptic and irresistible - I broke into the studio, mostly out of frustration, though I told myself at the time it was in order to go to the bathroom.

On the walls of his studio were a dozen 10 foot high drawings all configured in the shape of a cross.

It was a staggering sight! 

Knowing that there was a strong likelihood that I would force my way in, Currado left another note  tacked to the wall near the light switch. 

"Mon front est rouge encore du baiser de la reine"

I suppose he had a decent excuse.

MISSIVES FROM MALASPINA

Most people familiar with Currado Malaspina's epistolary excesses suspect that to some degree this wonderfully gifted artist is slightly unhinged. His notes and scribbles are the subject of deep analysis from both experts in the arts and specialists in psychology. He has been likened both to Rilke and to Arthur Schnitzler. He has been compared to Balthus and to Franz Schreker. Even the names Adolf Wölfli and Jean-Baptiste de Boyer have come up from time to time.

 

  To me he's a cross between Paul Éluard and Elmer Gantry. 

 

IL FOCO LI ABBRUSCIA

A minor scandal has erupted in the Marais! Pepo Cendrars' recent short film,  Le Frisson Abattu included a raw shade of the Malaspina legend. It is well known that Currado holds the conventional decorum surrounding artist/model interaction in a heavy grief of disdain. He strongly feels that nature binds us to life by inclining us toward acts of sensual gratification. His provocative imagery is a tireless search for the appropriate metaphor for that bond. His demands on his models are famously punishing.


An "out-take" from Cendrars' film has been circulating and has divided Paris between the Malaspinusards and the anti-Malaspinusards. Some see it as a hostile breach in tradition. Others see it as a balletic shadow-play of Amour-Fou.


You decide.

THE WOOLEN LOVERS

A string of dreams where pieces of God scattered like snowflakes within the narrow halls of memory carrying with them the fragrance of olive and clove yielded a strange series of drawings by Currado Malaspina known as Les Amants de Laine. Born to be a mandarin, Malaspina's flirtation with transgression is never fully persuasive yet with this particular suite of drawings, I think he stammers toward a certain level of success. 

Brothers in Epicurus concur in this for the work appeals to those who cultivate indifference. It is a canticle to the senses and our eyes delight in its heedless, voluptuary abandon. 

In a lecture delivered to a conference of art historians in Carcassonne I heard Malaspina intone what was taken at the time as an irrational jeremiad: "The sky is heavy with dishonored sensation" ("Le ciel est lourd avec sensation déshonoré ") His work and his life can be seen as both a reprimand and a correction. To Malaspina the 'rules' simply don't apply.

IN THE ABSENCE OF GRIEF

Currado Malaspina & Zoe Bat-Leytzan
Malaspina seems to relish in the
the precarious. His unstable public and private conduct always capers on the crag of scandal. From his well-documented addiction to morphine to his gloomy obsession with fashion models and starlettes, Malaspina is a shattered cough of unhurried self-destruction.

That his career has flourished in the process says more of our societal fetish for frail celebrity than about his genuine contribution to the artistic discourse. One would have assumed that the publicity surrounding the horrific suicide of Zoe Bat-Leytzan would have been his undoing, but alas, Currado, the plaster manikin 0f monstrous unfeeling soldiers on.

MALASPINA MISSIVES

THE MALASPINA CONFERENCE

SHEDDING THE LUSTER

Swiss director, Pepo Cendrars has rinsed the pollen of hagiography from the Currado Malaspina myth machine. His brave new film will be released this coming spring and it promises to unravel the largely unexamined connection between Currado's chestnut charm his tactical priapic meanderings and his under-merited renown.

ENVERGURE

Hard to believe but at one time Currado Malaspina was known simply as un homme de beaucoup mérite. His first foray into the international art scene was the 1979 Belarus Biennial where he shared the small French pavillion with six other artists. The show was an incoherent mishmash of parched academic miscellany and fortunately, lacking the prestige of other planetary art fairs, the event was scarcely noticed beyond the borders of Minsk.

He was happy at the time to be included in any exhibition and he showed the commensurate gratitude and grace. He impressed his peers by his humility and his professional generosity.

To pinpoint the exact date when Currado Malaspina became the petulant, egomaniacal narcissist bent on advancing his career while destabilizing the reputations of his colleagues is hard to do with any degree of certainty. Some contend that it was about the time he published the Pointed Plunder Manifesto. Others insist it was shortly after the tragic death of his second wife Celeste.

One thing all agree on is that this flawed genius has drifted light years away from that homme de beaucoup mérite. But allow me to indulge in a brief hallucination as I post above one of the drawings Currado exhibited in Minsk. This lovely piece is inscribed to me on the back and has been in my collection for nearly 30 years.

THE WORLD IS A MIRROR OF MYSELF DYING

In the late 1970’s Currado Malaspina initiated an unlikely friendship with Henry Miller that lasted until the great writer’s death. Miller showed the young Malaspina great tenderness and took a keen interest in his work. A few of his early monotypes remain in the Miller estate and are only made available to researchers and scholars.

A few weeks ago Currado shared a few reminiscences with me while we had a wonderful lunch of rein et foie de veau at Bateau Calife on Quai Malaquais:

“’The whores of Montmartre were as cute as buttonholes’, Miller would exhale when the ravishing mists of memory would claw him away from his middle-class present. Seized by an irresistible urge to prevaricate, Miller’s eloquence was most gripping the more ignoble the myth. In a voice as raspy as a tailpipe he would rattle off names like Durrell and Cendrars and recount with excruciating detail episodes of inspired dissipation. To Henri, life was a book and the only pretext to living was to find something to write about.”

I’m not so sure I trust Currado’s account.

THE COLLECTED LETTERS OF CURRADO MALASPINA

"Desire," Currado wrote to me in a letter dated March 21st, 1993, "is both blind and brief and I'd best vanquish this impulse early and decisively."

The graceful dignity in Currado Malaspina's youthful correspondences shows a young man struggling with a tempestuous spirit. Calming what were then unutterable impulses took a heroic and ultimately hopeless discipline of self-denial. He taught himself a soft, perfect pitch in which to frame the daily crucible of his deferred raptures.


Malaspina continues to be a devoted epistolarian and his collected letters are soon to be published by Caillot Press. Clotted with vivid imagery, artful prose and philosophical insight, rarely has such a painful document of moral frailty been such a pleasure to read. Lustily illuminated with casual pen and ink jottings, this new volume will add much to the already rich catalog of Malaspina's oeuvre.

Lautréamont

Foundation Domy Morgane, The Zurich based organization founded by the Swiss collector Pierre Hertzberg, has recently announced the publication of Lautréamont, a folio of prints by my dear friend Currado Malaspina. Dizzying in its range, the works are subtle reflections on the encyclopedic reservoir of erotic French literature.

In the United States, Malaspina has seen armaments of prudential cultural gatekeepers raining blows upon his reputation. In the eyes of one American academic, Malaspina is "... a sinking barge of ossified European libertinism." This new publication is being viewed in France as a gallant slap at the shrieking mice of political correctness.

I salute you Monsieur Hertzberg!

עבודה קיץ

Micah Carpentier, 1968

To tour the Louvre with Currado Malaspina is to be subjected to an erratic and idiosyncratic reading of art history that can be in turn both illuminating and annoying.

Take for example his description of Cimabue’s “Maestà”


“The first credible depiction of Hebraic pain from the world’s most famous yiddishe mama”.

Or Poussin’s “Saint Frances of Rome Announcing the End of the Plague in Rome”


“Cirque de Soleil on 17th century quaaludes”

This summer, Malaspina was given by the Louvre the distinct honor of curating an exhibition that to my mind was long overdue. Micah Carpentier: Les Autoportraits explores an under-appreciated aspect of the Cuban master’s capacious oeuvre. Including painting, drawing, film, photography and printmaking, the show delves deeply into the epic narcissism of this deeply flawed genius. The work is stunning in its scope and in its subtlety. Never has shameless self-aggrandizement seemed so lyrical.

The catalog is equal to the task as well. Written and designed by Malaspina, his pithy annotations are true to the characters of both the author and the subject. The caption under the photo reproduced above reads:

“The famously tone-deaf Carpentier photographed as a norteño balladeer in a straw (Le Bon Marché) cowgirl hat”

LE VIOLON D'INGRES

Like Hans Hoffmann, whom he knew quite well, Currado Malaspina likes to work in the studio naked. Unencumbered by cloth, ungartered of the smocks and aprons and all the other protective garments of the trade, Currado functions best within the lightness of his flesh. In fact, all who dare visit him at his capacious rue Gassendi studio must equally repair to the sheerness of skin.

Such was the occasion for the now famous mural-sized painting, Dix-sept which proudly hangs in the Elysée Palace’s Salle de Clairvoyance in the northeast Coeur de Tremblement wing. Composed of 17 separate panels, the painting depicts the unmistakable Malaspina in various postures of vitality and repose interspersed within a rascal’s gallery of several unidentified women.

At a recent reception for the foreign minister of Israel, Delphine Frizot, sous-préfet of the famously verdant Mésange-sur-Seine was overheard sneering “il semble que la pornographie est le nouveau passe-temps de l'état.”

THE ATELIER

"The hideous work of painting offers grace to those who greet its drudgery, not with groans but with gratitude." Thus wrote Gayland Fix in his preface to the catalogue raisonné of Currado Malaspina's work, "Malaspina: The Complete Oils" (Gallimard 2002).

To pay a visit to Currado Malaspina's Rue Gassendi studio is to perform a haj to a time-hallowed glade of unguarded passion. Jealously unkempt, the space is an unseemly spring of anarchy. It swells with the stuff of art in an ungainly stillness that haunts even days after one's departure.

Yet it is here where Adona's Motto, was painted and here where The Milky Garment series was nursed to perfection. For thirty years Malaspina toiled on such masterworks as Rightous Guild, Lightly Come The Babes, Don Juan Of Jerusalem, and Une Belle Une Moche. It was here where he and Lita Abruzzi foiled the arc of reason with their savage and accursed love affair.

I am now in Paris, visiting with my good friend Malaspina and we are sharing our painterly thoughts on the significance of flesh, the shape time and the rudded soil of the South.

SATORI IN PARIS

For years Currado Malaspina imagined to himself how he might die. He preferred the prospect of dying peacefully in his sleep but was certain that it would not be the case. Skin hemorrhages and progressive liver failure were much more in keeping with his personality.

His fears mingled so seamlessly with his obsessions that it was hard for him to discern with any clarity which of his fantasies were grounded in rationality and which were symptoms of a neurosis.

At the time it seemed to him that the only possible solution was to become a Buddhist. He had no real understanding of Buddhism, but sensed an equanimity would follow the assertion of faith.

MIDNIGHT'S PROMISE

Portrait of Currado Malaspina, 2009
Drawn by Dahlia Danton

“I was inflamed by him.”

It’s well known that the great love of Currado Malaspina’s life was Dahlia Danton. He would not be spared from the anxious agonies of his longings. To call her a cruel mistress would be to miss the point completely. Malaspina was complicit in the immaculate imperfection of their union.

She visited him at his new atelier on rue Gassendi, a small, intimate space that looks out on the Bibliotheque Georges Brassens. It was their first meeting in 15 years.

“I was inflamed by him,” is what Danton said to me when I asked her why she would subject Currado to such a savage reunion.

“And how did he look?” I asked

COBI ATOYAT

Currado Malaspina’s flimsy grasp on reality was evidenced again in an interview published in the spring edition of La Nouvelle Cosmopolis. He was interviewed by Loquecia McCart, the venerable independent curator known mostly for the succès de scandale surrounding the exhibition “J'ai Touché sa Chatte.” Asked to name his three favorite contemporary artists, he predictably rattled off Micah Carpentier and Dahlia Danton. What shocked McCart was the third artist he named.

“I had the privilege several years ago,” began Malaspina, slowly drawing out his story for maximum suspense, “to spend a week in Smyrna, lecturing at the Beylik Institute to a group of very gifted graduate students. It was my habit to begin each day by walking the three kilometers from my hotel to Konak Pier to a café improbably called Maimonides. Eddie, the proprietor, a portly man with a waxed handlebar moustache, always made it a point to personally serve me his freshly baked börek, pour me his dangerously scalding coffee and sit with me at a table with the most favorable view of the Port of Izmir.

“'In the Karatas,' Eddie said one morning referring to the old Jewish quarter in the city center, 'just off of Dario Moreno Street, there is a small spice shop where I purchase my za’atar and cardamom. Its owner, Yaris Atoyat, a most peculiar man, may be of special interest to you.' Eddie knew I was an artist, but that was all he knew of me, so I assumed it wasn’t the spices he had in mind.

“The following day, after my lecture, I took a cab to Arugete and Sons Spices to see for myself what Eddie was talking about. On the walls of the shop, whose cacophonic pungency wafted into the street in thick, invisible hallucinogenic waves, were literally hundreds of oddly rendered watercolors of nudes. They were the strangest, most disturbing images I had ever seen. They seemed both ignorant of and aloof from any western tradition. I had experienced nothing like this before or since.

“I introduced myself to Mr. Atoyat and asked who the artist was who was responsible for all the beautiful paintings. He beamed when he said ‘my son, my son Cobi Atoyat is the artist'.

“And so to answer your question, my three favorite artists are: Carpentier, Danton and Cobi Atoyat.”

Cobi Atoyat 2009

M E R D R E

When the documentary filmmaker Michel Fédérovitch approached Currado Malaspina with a proposal to collaborate on his interminably deferred Jarry project, Currado jumped at the chance. It had little to do with any affinity with the noted progenitor of pataphysics, nor with any absurd interest in the world of the theatre but rather as a means to avoid confronting a chronic creative block that had turned his Rue Cournot studio into a barren patch of abandoned, half finished, ill-conceived attempts at restoring his unearned reputation.

For the sake of cruel but just brevity let me just state that Currado Malaspina is a wretched embittered has-been whose best work is way behind him. Whether it be Alfred E. Newman or Alfred Jarry, it matters little to a man whose creative intellect is a parched mesa of insignificant confections.

Enter Fédérovitch, flush with the financial backing of the pecunious software developers from Sophia Antipolis, Conjurés & Soldats and Malaspina is off his ass and drawing.

If my tone is bitter it is merely a reflection of an acutely focused resentment grounded in the fact that the image posted above fetched a pagan’s ransom at Sotheby’s in the early spring auction. Sold to an undisclosed New York collector, it broke all previous Malaspina records at € 684,000

Ouch.

B A K A

In typical European fashion, Currado Malaspina ignorantly conflates concepts and images of non-Western cultures, churns them into a torpid mush and calls it art. In a recent group exhibition at the Musée d'Art de Hesian on Boulevard de Clichy entitled “Ragoût Est/Ouest,” Malaspina presented fifteen drawings based (very) loosely on the complex ethos of Japan’s pre-industrial military nobility. Titles like Imagawa, Tokugawa and Shingen suggest direct references to the Samurai, yet the flaccid naked figures with their tightly muffined hair look like caricatures of inactive Sumo wrestlers.

None of this pendulous ambiguity deterred soft drink magnate Tony Ichinomiya from buying up the whole series. He plans to build a wing on his Honshu summer dacha just to hang his substantial yet inconsequential Malaspina collection.

FAILING UPWARD

When the Corsican collector Moisés Natali purchased, sight unseen, the entire portfolio of Currado Malaspina’s Maldoror drawings from the unscrupulously successful Rive Gauche art dealer Samassi Arsène, not a few eyebrows were raised. When Natali returned half the pieces as “unsuitable for the home of my virgin daughters,” a wave of skepticism engulfed the 5th arrondissement like a tropical monsoon.

The dubious virtue of the Natali girls notwithstanding, the drawings themselves were not free from controversy.

When the tainted works were returned to the market, an exhibition was held at the Palais de Cupidité’s sumptuous Hall of Divinities. The critics were divided but the public was enthralled. A record shattering seven hundred thousand visitors were swept up by the art and the accompanying succès de scandale. Gary Hoffmansthal of The Guardian called it a “a crass circus of low-brow hucksterism that would make even Damien Hirst soil his cottons”

Les Chants de Maldoror

It all started on a dare. Georges Perec publicly challenged Currado Malaspina to read the entire oeuvre of Henri Barbusse. From the solipsistic eros of L’Enfer through the horrific violence of Le Feu all the way to the revoltingly hagiographic Staline: Un Monde Nouveau Vu à Travers un Homme.

Malaspina hated Perec with the passion one reserves for those one envies most. So while laboring through the turgid prose of Le Couteau Entre les Dents, Currado decided to do Perec one better. He added De Nerval, Sade, Laureamont and Mirbeau to the pot and in an empty gesture of literary bravado, invited Perec, (who at the time was clearly too obsessed with the barrage of critical attacks on the Oulipo group), to join him.

Twenty years in the making, Currado has recently unveiled his long awaited series of drawings based on some of the French literary canon’s most provocative works.
Exhibited recently at Gerard/Shah on Place Paul-Painlevé, these works show the breadth of Malaspina’s deep penetration into some of the most disturbing literature of our time. He has truly conjured a visual equivalent to the dissonance and beauty these works so strongly convey.

Whether it is true that his wife left him due to his complete absorption in this project is something I cannot verify with any certainty.

SYNESTHESIA

Synesthesia – or the merging of the senses – is an enterprise that Currado Malaspina has devoted himself to sporadically and unsystematically. Each time he attempts to make works of art to be “ingested” through multiple means he has failed with miserable nobility. Like the knight-errant Alonso Quixano, Malaspina is a mythmaker, an unpaid dreamer, a follower of phantoms and ultimately a fool.

He’s in Euboea right now, renting a small cabin on a quiet cul-de-sac on the east side of Chalcis. He told me that he is spending most of his time reading Juvenal’s Satires and listening to Parsifal on his I-Pod. Occasionally, in order to offset the blunting of the senses that comes from forced isolation and habit, he visits Madame Erzulie’s very upscale gentleman’s club where he has taken an unhealthy fancy to the portly nineteen-year old twins Indra and Inemes.

He is also making small sketches of imaginary Greek sculptures and sending them to friends with cryptic annotations written on the backs. I received the drawing above with the phrase “dactylic hexameter covering an encyclopedic range” scrawled in a near indecipherable handwriting as if his hand were a club or a charred twig dipped in brine.

A BOUNTY OF NAMES

Last week I was in Paris, attending the Bourvil Institute’s annual Saussure Conference and catching up with my good friend Currado Malaspina. I had the occasion to borrow his cell-phone and was flattered to find on the dormant screen of the diminutive apparatus, an image of one of my drawings.

Taken by this unexpected high-tech homage I began to play with the tiny keys hoping to find a few more clues into Currado’s elusive temperament.

Shamelessly I scrolled down his capacious list of contacts and found that it was a veritable who’s who of global art and intellectual enterprise. Beccarie, Broad and Bourdon were followed by Cash, Deutsch and Desclos. The home phone numbers of Gogosian, Govan and Gallimard were casually listed next to the e-mail address of Currado’s grocer. Perl, Podhoretz and Prévost, each with a cutely appropriate icon were listed next to his dry cleaner Quentin Polak. It was astonishing to learn just how many illustrious people were in his orbit.

Before returning the phone, I discreetly copied down the number of Dahlia Danton with whom I lost contact several years ago after a rather acrimonious disagreement.

I tried the number when I retuned to L.A. I got her voice-mail but didn’t leave a message.

BOOK REVIEW

The more one knows about Currado Malaspina the more the creeping vines of mystery obscure any true understanding.

The French playwright, Stephanie Arnoux, whose Sapphisme recently earned the coveted Prix Cornette for best drama of 2007, struggles in her recent book, Malaspina and the Trembling Blaze to clarify our misconceptions and illuminate our understanding.

That she ultimately fails does not diminish her heroic effort but rather highlights her general thesis that Currado Malaspina is the most enigmatic and complex artist since Marcel Duchamp.

I highly recommend her book to anyone who is the least bit interested in the current trends of contemporary art.