Daniel Fridirici

Dear Anna in our hearts three things we love:
i.    the first avant-garde
ii.   the second
iii.  and the third one
Sie wenden Leid und Schmerzen wenn sie beisammen sein, nicht ?

i.  the first avant-garde
Now it's time for me to move away: instead of playing in German like Marx
Ernst it's time perhaps to use another tool: a times new roman silver fiddle
with no legs for example in the hope that pain and suffering will leave us at
least until the firm's lawyers get back from lunch.
After all when you address the spring storms you are much more persuasive
than when you are talking to the Altes Museum's brick wall in Berlin.
Books say that the first avant-garde appeared from the foams of the sea
in the court of a Swiss called Voltaire who lived in a cabaret.
Although his life lasted only a few years he is now doing the same thing but
every time it rains in the house he gets up from his chair and raises money in
order to oppose a war in Indo-China.
He takes a bottle of wine from a multiplication table and on his toes fills the
emptiness to about two thirds full.
Then goes to the window breaks the window with his head and spills collages
into people's heads going to the wedding with nothing but a dream.
As soon as the deal is done Voltaire is paying for the broken window glass
and is retreating in the multiplication table while the rain keeps falling and while
he reaching for the switch still stops the rain for good.

James Joy

The last time I met him (or perhaps Brancussi's shadow ?) was properly dressed.

He was taking a dog out to pasture.

I never saw that guy again.

And now bada-bing bada-bip Brancussi's deathday big celebration much feasting 

fuss cheese fire & crackers.

Guys I’ll tell you something at maximum speed that would appear to be 

an unnecessary first-sight letter addressed to today's artists, critics and shepherds.

Not for the other reason but time is passing, it'll be over this day of Brancussi as 

well we would be able to talk about some other salient facts and to get out of our 

hands (that's the way the world: the art school is also a skill's school) the divine 

essentials.

And guys if you do not understand the spirit of the time you happen to live today

do get back while you still got time to your primary habits: 

i) the critics to gossip 

ii) the artists to their additional corvée and 

iii) the shepherds to the baseball bat. 

That's why I'm writing you all helter-skelter and randomly so take it not hand over 

fist but in bulk.

Finally except for the carvings on the whistles (which are still unpardonable) we 

forgive the shepherds for all their deeds but from the others i have a rather shameful 

pretensions in the sense that any critic must be an artist at least his own artist if he 

cannot otherwise and while it's true that discordia concors.

And in the sense that any artist necessarily needs to be critical even his own critic if 

he doesn't really have much of a head for business.

In this way the meaning of the art could be safeguarded. 

As what is understood could potentially be felt and vice-versa. 

Although if art is also faith surely the artist becomes predominant as it has already 

been decided the heart has its reasons that reason does not know cos even reason 

was born from some fantasy.

Just so to pass for erudite in an idiot country in which i am the best at drawing ten 

fish out of water and the last to dig five holes in the whistles.

It is obvious that history is dead art died too and the neighbor's goat and god too.

Everyone we've ever loved has died but they have done so only on an ad hoc basis 

and all for show. 

As for the rest and otherwise all are well and if it rains in the autumn we will still have 

plenty of grain high as a pure blood horse. 

Hastily the thing to remember is a simple pouncing pattern which as things are

can be taught with great difficulty grammar fuck you like if you are not friendly

with the adverb now surely you'll never be a friend of never.

But now at least for quite a while now we entered the era of forgetting, a paradigm 

clamored even by the Mayans who woe to they found it out from the stars of the 

Pleiades constellation.

And just like that blatantly and out of the blue it's possible that allusion fragment and 

fragmentation mixed and remixed technics transcending and transcendence came to 

power along with the observation that the effective (and affective) participation 

required by Mr. Plato still remains into force given that whether we like it or not art 

maintains a connection even accidental with man.

So not Picasso Brancussi or Rafael or golden section tale quale but eventually their 

allusion.

It gets much noisier within and outwith the time because there is someone who

managed to hide himself and who has accuratelly distanced himself in illo tempore.

Someone was once in a particular place. 

Apart from that to draw straight lines like Rafael does not work for you at all.

He will ever draw the lines more straight than you are it would be too teaching and 

on top of it completely useless.

And to polish stones more insistently than Brancussi wouldn't take you anywhere

simply because the pristine elements would not let you to go beyond themselves: what 

can't be cured must be endured.

Not to mention that this bootblack's splendid stubbornness has already received the 

appropriate response.

According to his own confession textually: „someone gave me a rap over the knuckles” 

in Romanian: cineva mi-a dat peste degete. 

About the shepherds things are as clear as possible but about the artists we are in fog 

until now.

Who decides the test of what is really best (excuse my unintentional rhyme): to come 

full butt at each other or to till at the windmills like we used to ?