Carmelo Bene
Quattro momenti su tutto il nulla

Dear Maestro

I am writing to tell you that I have not been able to understand the nothingness, I have followed and respected your idea of art. Art is great when it is incomprehensible, you have appeared to the Madonna...I have appeared to my limits. Four moments to not understand, four moments to respect the nothingness that becomes everything with your mere presence.

First Moment: Language

Speaking of nothingness, only a genius can speak of nothingness...how can we allow ourselves to interpret you who do not want to be interpreted. "Here, I say nothing...a say nothing that resonates like a breath of wind. I become a breath and I only care about how I sound this I say nothing, even if orally it is nothing outside of timbre and tone. Air of listening emitted by a logical sense thinking? No. It is because I am not allowed to say anything that is not an ambiguous will intended in this my identity...I am the senseless vortex of the spinning top, movement and its negation, I am the traitor Carmelo Bene because subject to the necessity of the name as resignation to destiny."

Here, dear maestro, I have dusted off your first and long "moment", essentially limiting myself to painting a moment of nothingness. Aware of the voices, in this case, the words that will turn against me like sharp blades, crucified not to die, but to justify the total absence of explanations, my absolute will not to review what you do not want to be reviewed...much less explained. Blessed are those who slip into nothingness without asking too many questions, without seeking explanations, without reading, without hearing, without criticizing...just...letting go.

Second Moment: Knowledge/Consciousness

Obscenely moving to hear her rave in her non-delirium, dear maestro, even here as a humble and limited painter of words...I remember: "What to say? Nothing. I dream of being someone who stubbornly insists on...thinking about it! Let him think, nothing exists and admitting it does exist, we would not be able to know it...and if we could know it, we would have no way to communicate it. Enough. Let's clear the field confined by specific carefree thought."

Everything you have learned has stuck, and nothing can take it off you...every work, every printed or spoken word is now an open wound, dripping blood on culture, knowledge smells of death, conscience pleads for mercy. Dear Maestro, how many times have you shouted and exhaled these things...but it served only to bring the nothingness to fill with clear, pure, and lucid "incomprehensibility" this therefore does not make nothingness a void.

Third Moment: Eros

I feel porno, not erotic, porno...from Costanzo dear Maestro, his hallucinated and hallucinating difference between porn and eroticism...exchange of pleasure from subject to object/object and object. "What is pleasure if not an excitement of the sense of power through a kind of obstacle that makes it swell...thus every pleasure also contains...pain. The sighing of lovers is nothing but the sigh of the species and all the cries/sounds...are from gone with the wind and that's it...of those two already in advance suffering the rot of procreation to which they are condemned. Labor pains, and paternal fatigues in clinics. And God? God is busy regenerating itself from itself in that eternity off-topic!"

Dear maestro, disappeared years ago but indeed never appeared in your infinite comprehension of non-comprehension. I vaguely remember but I do remember...a room of Zombies, a fat doctor to your left, and an empty chair to your right. You against everyone and therefore You against Zombies, thus a living against the dead, and as you defined yourself "eternally Nosferatu" you focused your eyes on that empty chair...and by your own admission you screamed..."it scares me"!

Fourth Moment: Art

One must be masterpieces, but what does it mean to be masterpieces? It means not to produce them, but to become masterpieces. Maestro, you said in front of those Zombies... that art must only surpass itself. Art has always been bourgeois, imbecile, stupid, whorish, and cunning, art must be incommunicable, that is why it must surpass itself. Your "last moment" is dedicated precisely to that whore. "Damn to paper/money! This horrid stepmother of art, of all the arts, this infamous profession of the artist...art, the most cunning and stupid among expedients, anyone is capable of being an idiot. A respectable individual would never think of fiddling with what is defined as...art. Authorship is a double cheat, in the idea that originates it and in the artifice that that idea distorts...realizing it."

Dear maestro, were four moments not to understand perhaps enough for this mass of curious? For this mass of critics? For this mass of reviewers? For this mass of snakes in search of rationality...it almost seems like witnessing a mad treasure hunt. Dear maestro, now that you cannot answer, I allow myself to communicate in heaven on earth and at sea or wherever you are...that the nothingness has been filled only by your non-desire to fill it. No one has dirtied their hands with nothing. No one tried, no one succeeded.

"To which double do you refer when you speak of me?...It's time to start getting familiar with the language, you applaud the obvious...you are damned...but I do not challenge you, I do not see you! This Gentleman is one who detests you, cannot stand you...if only we were capable of hate, the only humanoid feeling. I do not speak to those who break my balls with being or with existence!".

VinnySparrow