All posts tagged Surrealism

Max Ernst and Dorothea Tanning at Sedona, Arizona – By Lee Miller, 1946

Published May 9, 2013 by Jill London





Glam! The Performance of Style – Tate Liverpool: Exhibition 8 February – 12 May 2013

Published April 28, 2013 by Jill London


If you’re going to be anywhere near Liverpool tomorrow (or any time up until May 12th)  you might like to take a look at this exhibition at the Tate Liverpool. The blurb sounds interesting enough; “Bringing together more than 100 artworks the exhibition will reveal the genealogy of glam. Themes of glamour, camp, exaggerated identity, androgyny, eroticism and dandyism will be explored in the work of David HockneyAndy WarholCindy ShermanAllen JonesRichard Hamilton, Peter Hujar and many more”.

Rose Sélavy (Marcel Duchamp). 1921. Photograph...

Rrose Sélavy (Marcel Duchamp). 1921. Man Ray.

The exhibition includes Marcel Duchamp’s alter ego Rrose Sélavy (for all you surrealists), and if there isn’t a section on Quentin Crisp I will be forced to eat Mr London’s bowler hat, so hopefully there is. The exhibition also includes “a new adaptation of Marc Camille Chaimowicz’s spectacular, glitter-strewn installation Celebration? Realife featuring mirror balls, strobe and stage lighting and music including David Bowie”. Entry price: £8, Concessions and family tickets available.

The Debutante by Leonora Carrington

Published April 21, 2013 by Jill London

The Debutante by Leonora Carrington

When I was a debutante I often used to go to the Zoological Gardens. I’d go there so often I knew the animals better than the young ladies of my own age. It was in fact to get away from people that I found myself every day at the Zoo. The animal I knew the best was a young hyena. She knew me, too; she was very intelligent; I taught her French and in return she taught me her language. We spent many a pleasant hour this way.

On the first day of May, my mother was arranging a ball in my honor; for nights on end I suffered; I’ve always hated balls, especially those given in my honour. On the morning of the First of May 1934, very early, I paid the hyena a visit.

“It’s a damned nuisance,” I told her, “I have to go to my ball this evening.”

“You’re lucky,” she said, “I’d be glad to go. I don’t know how to dance, but I know how to make conversation, anyway.”

“There’ll be lots of things to eat,” I said. “I’ve seen trucks full of food coming up to the house.”

“And you complain,” relied the hyena, in disgust. “I eat once a day and you should see the stuff they give me!”

I had a daring idea, I almost laughed: “Why don’t you go in my place?”

“We don’t look enough alike, otherwise I’d go all right,” said the hyena, a bit sad.

“Listen,” said I, “under the evening lights it isn’t too easy to see; if you’re dressed up a bit, among the crowd they won’t notice. Then again, we’re about the same height. You are my only friend, I beg of you.” She thought things over; I knew she wanted to accept.

“Consider it done,” she said suddenly.

It was very early in the day, there were not many keepers about. Quickly I opened the cage and in a few moments we were in the street. I took a taxi, and at home everyone was in bed. In my room I took out the dress I was to wear that evening. It was a little long and the hyena had trouble walking on the high heels of my shoes. I found some gloves to disguise her hands, hair too to resemble mine. When the sun reached my room she walked several times up and down, more or less upright. We were so busy that my mother, who was coming to say good morning to me, almost opened the door before the hyena had hidden under my bed.

“There’s a nasty smell in your room,” said my mother, opening a window. “Before tonight you’ll take a bath scented with my new salts.”

“All right,” I said. She didn’t stay long. I think the smell was too strong for her.

“Don’t be late for breakfast,” said my mother, leaving my room.

The biggest problem was finding a disguise for her face. Hours and hours we tried; she turned down all of my suggestions. At last she said:
“I think I know a solution. Do you have a maid?”

“Yes,” I said, perplexed.

“Well, there you are. You’ll ring for the maid and when she comes in we’ll pounce on her and we’ll tear her face off. I’ll wear her face this evening in place of my own.”

“That’s not sensible,” I said. “She’ll probably be dead when she has no face left; someone will surely find the body and we’ll go to prison.”

“I’m hungry enough to eat her,” replied the hyena.

“And what about the bones?”

“Them, too,” she said. “Well, do you agree?”

“Only if you promise to kill her before tearing her face off; it’ll hurt too much otherwise.”

“Right, it’s all the same to me.”

I was ringing for Mary the maid, somewhat nervous. I wouldn’t have done so if I didn’t hate balls so. When Mary came in I turned to the wall so as not to see. I admit it was over quick. A short cry and that was the end. While the hyena was eating, I looked out of the window. A few minutes later she said: “I can’t eat any more; both of the feet are still left, but if you have a bag I’ll eat them later in the day.”

“You’ll find in the closet a bag embroidered with the fleur de lys. Empty out the handkerchiefs in there and take that one.” She was doing as I had told her. The she said: “Turn around now and look how beautiful I am!”

In front of the mirror the hyena was admiring herself in Mary’s face. She had eaten carefully all around the face so that just what she needed was left.

“Yes indeed, you’ve made a good job of it,” I said. Towards evening, when the hyena was all dressed, she announced: “I feel in fine form. I’ve the impression I’ll be a big success tonight.”

When we had heard the music downstairs for some time, I said to her: “Go on, now, and remember not to stand next to my mother: she’d know it wasn’t me, for sure. Apart from her, I know nobody. Good luck.”
I kissed her as she left but she did have a strong smell.

Night had come.

Tired out by the emotions of the day, I took a book and, near the open window, I gave myself over to rest. I remember I was reading Gulliver’s Travels by Jonathan Swift. It was perhaps an hour after that the first sign of something untoward came. A bat entered by the window, uttering little cries. I’m terribly afraid of bats. I hid behind a chair, my teeth chattering. I was hardly on my knees when the sound of beating wings was drowned out by a loud noise at my door. My mother came in, pale with fury.

“We had just sat down to eat,” she said, “when that thing in your place gets up and cries, ‘I smell a bit strong, eh? Well I don’t eat cake.’ Then she tore off her face and ate it. With one bound she disappeared through the window.”




Max Ernst & Carol Ann Duffy

Published April 5, 2013 by Jill London

ernst madonnaCarol Ann Duffy
The Virgin Punishing the Infant
after the painting by Max Ernst
He spoke early. Not the goo goo goo of infancy,
but I am God. Joseph kept away, carving himself
a silent Pinocchio out in the workshed. He said
he was a simple man and hadn’t dreamed of this.
She grew anxious in that second year, would stare
at stars saying Gabriel? Gabriel? Your guess.
The village gossiped in the sun. The child was solitary,
his wide and solemn eyes could fill your head.
After he walked, our normal children crawled. Our
were first resentful, then superior. Mary’s child
would bring her sorrow … better far to have a son
who gurgled nonsense at your breast. Googoo. Googoo.
But I am God. We heard him through the window,
heard the smacks which made us peep. What we saw
was commonplace enough. But afterwards, we
why the infant did not cry. And why the Mother did.
from Selling Manhattan (1987)

The painting, by Max Ernst, is entitled The Virgin Spanking the Christ Child before Three Witnesses: André Breton, Paul Eluard and the Artist (you will find some variations of the title on the internet and, after doing some research, I think this perhaps stems from differences in translations of the original title; La Vierge corrigeant l’Enfant Jésus devant trois témoins: André Breton, Paul Eluard et l’Artiste). The painting is on display at the Museum Ludwig in Cologne.

Find out more about Max Ernst at the Max Ernst Museum website and on the video below

Exquisite Corpse

Published February 27, 2013 by Jill London
Adjective Magnet Words

Adjective Magnet Words (Photo credit: Evelyn Saenz)

Some games are flashy interactive affairs with super graphics and addictive content that makes you want to play for just..a…little…bit…longer, whilst others, hmmm, not so much. Exquisite corpse sadly falls into the latter category but, before you look away wondering why on earth I should mention it, let me explain my reasons. First off it was invented (or maybe ‘adapted’ would be closer to the mark) by the surrealists in order to ‘channel spontaneous artistic ideas’. The surrealists’ main man, Andre Breton, thought that games in general, and games especially like exquisite corpse, were invaluable for tapping into one’s innate artistic abilities (won’t it be fun telling everyone that you tapped into your innate artistic ability before dinner?). The technique got its name from the very first round of play, “Le cadavre / exquis / boira / le vin / nouveau” (The exquisite corpse will drink the young wine). Contrary to a lot of opinion the surrealists actually knew a great deal about art, and especially about the connection between psychology and art, and they had a Manifesto for goodness sake, so cut them some slack.

If you play exquisite corpse you sometimes feel a genuine sense of tapping into something significant, something monumental even. The clouds part and you feel as though you might just be looking into the mind of God. But then again sometimes you will come up with something supremely silly that starts you giggling and before you know it you’re rolling about at the idea of a quivering noodle stroking a voluptuous moose.

Trust me, you’ll know what I mean if you play it.

How to play:

  1. Get a dictionary. Yes, the one under the leg of the computer table is fine, you won’t be needing the internet for this one. Look up an adjective, a noun, a verb, another adjective and another noun. This is the slow method so, to get some momentum going for a faster game with your family/friends, pick out several words, write them onto small separate bits of paper (one word per piece), and place them into separate groups according to whether it’s an adjective, noun or verb.
  2. Choose your 2 adjectives, 2 nouns and your verb (without looking) and write them out as following:
  3. The Adjective, Noun, Verb, Adjective, Noun.  You may get something like; the delicate swan cuddles wary babies. You can adapt the verb to be past or present tense and you might need to add something after the verb like ‘the’. You can play about with the thing when you’re finished.
  4. Do the same again 4 times = poem.

Alright, you may not be looking at the next entry for the Oxford Poetry Anthology but it might be better than you thought, or maybe it will just start you giggling while you’re standing in line at Tesco.

P.s. do let me know what you come up with, whether it’s genius and is headed for the winner’s list or whether it makes me laugh in Tesco. In fact, especially if it’s the last type.

Have fun.

Anonym: André Breton, 1924

 André Breton, 1924 (Wikipedia)

Try a similar version online:

%d bloggers like this: