by Kathy Acker
Mme. de Cleves realizes M. de Nemours has fallen in love with her even though she’s married and he, being an artist, doesn’t give a shit about other people’s feelings.
The myth of art: artists have to do everything they can to do their art. They can’t allow any desire to stop them from working. They have to deny themselves any lasting pleasure. If and when they fall in love, they destroy their lover or else transform their love into distaste or despair. So artists tend to love either objects or people who run away from them. So the female artist rejects the good male artist.
Historical example: Peter fell madly in love with Kathy even though she was married. Kathy told Peter since the law is worthless because all politicians are crooked Peter could marry her without her divorcing. Though Peter was morally middle-class, his desire made him embrace this defiance. He ran himself ragged for Kathy for six years while she fucked every artist in existence because she wanted someone richer especially more famous than Peter so she could become famous. Peter kept his jealousy secret. Kathy and his mother augmented this insecurity by repeating to him he wasn’t rich or famous enough. When he started becoming rich and famous, which was what Kathy wanted, this jealousy springing out made him viciously turn to a young girl who was in love with someone else and kill Kathy. He was so rich and famous, he got away with it. He fell in love with a Mafiosa and whipped her. At the same time he loved many other women and, partly due to the cocaine his girlfriend was freely giving him, later killed several wives.
The end of hatred. Of that myth of art. The female artist can now love.
Cezanne allowed the question of there being simultaneous viewpoints, and thereby destroyed forever in art the possibility of a static representation or portrait. The Cubists went further. They found the means of making the forms of all objects similar. If everything was rendered in the same terms, it became possible to paint the interactions between them. These interactions became so much more interesting than that which was being portrayed that the concepts of portraiture and therefore of reality were undermined or transferred.
Three different power groups: the owners of the North-Eastern banks, the top-ranking military, and the Southern oil producers and distributors control the American government. The female artist doesn’t know who her father is. Three months before she was born, her father had abandoned her mother and, according to her mother, had never tried to see her again or her daughter because he’s a robot. She knows her father’s name because a good friend of hers traced him. He is the secret head of the North-Eastern power coalition. Not even the American people know who he is.
As head of the North-Eastern power coalition he often uses the CIA for his own purposes. He once, through the CIA, hired the good male artist. He sent the male artist’s wife on a suicide mission to Cuba. The female artist learns the good male artist’s artistic status is a cover for being a hit man, that’s why he’s so pure.
Even though many of the New York City art patrons are also part of the North-Eastern power coalition, they’re trying to do her father in because he supports Rockefeller and they want to throw their weight behind Reagan. They use the Marlborough Gallery as one of their fronts.
The female artist’s husband from whom she’s separated used to fuck her mother. Her father, discovering them, kills his wife in a jealous rage. The lover revenges himself by marrying the daughter, cutting her off from her father. Now the husband loves her because he’s part of the North-Eastern Reagan group and wants to use her to do her father in.
The female artist still thinks art is the only purity. The North-Eastern art patron group videotapes and even stage-manages every bedroom and intimate scene they can for info and blackmail purposes. The porn tapes they have no (more) use for they sell as high art. One very famous artist in New York City is very fond of privately commissioning and buying these snuff films. The female artist learns her father murdered her mother. While she’s still confused, the art patrons get her even dopier then show her videotapes of the good male artist fucking every female in sight, for the good male artist sticks his cock into anything eight-and-a-half inches (the length of his cock) or less away from him. Since the female artist doesn’t know who or what to believe anymore, art is nothing, she, throwing herself into her husband’s arms, tells him everything. She doesn’t know he’s the main villain against her father.
Any action no matter how off-the-wall—this explains punk—breaks through deadness. When the good male artist overhears her telling her husband everything, even though he doesn’t trust her, he suspects the politicians are trying to do them both in.
In New York City, when the 14th precinct is busting up 42nd Street, there’s a special court called the obscenity court. The Mafia and this one Jewish guy who’s their friend own the sex shows and shops which line 42nd Street. The shows and shops pay the D.A.’s office their monthly alimony. The D.A.’s office—no dumb cop can bust on his own—orders the local cops to break up a store only when the D.A.’s office needs some publicity, for instance to help the tourist trade, or when a high-high in the police office’s retiring and some semi-high knows if it’s schmeared all over the front page of the Daily News that he’s cleaning up 42nd Street he’ll get the job. The D.A.’s office warns the bosses there’s going to be a bust and pulls only the shit workers in. Nevertheless a 42nd Street boss wouldn’t be seen (much less CAUGHT) dead in one of his own shops or shows cause some cop might, being as stupid as he’s reputed to be, not recognize this bigshot.
Ten peep-show machines fill the downstairs of a typical 42nd Street store. Occasionally a ghost businessman sticks shit-smeared razor blades into one of the slots. Upstairs a phony sex show for businessmen and men too old to get off any other way runs for a half hour once every hour and a half. These shows provide an important and unnoticed social service.
The obscenity court was filled to the till. The illegal alien India Indian who took the sex show tickets was swearing everyone in the store including the customers was responsible for the store’s disgusting activities except for him. Two illegal Haitian aliens who ran the store’s dirty film projectors for half minimum wage because they were aliens and didn’t know better and if they complained they’d get deported and they couldn’t speak English anyway and the male and female hippies who had been doing the sex show when the store got busted (they actually hadn’t been doing anything but looking at each other and making dumb sounds cause the male hated touching women and the female had such a bad ovarian infection she’d be screeching with pain if either touched or if one bit of the pain-killing synthetic morphine she was shelling out $100 a week for to kill the pain so she could keep working to pay for the pain-killer wore off—if it all wore off): they were all silently awaiting their trial. When he hired them, the boss promised to pay to get them off if they were busted. It was a small room.
The judge entered so everyone in the room stood up and swore in loud voices. Everyone sat down. Two young women who both had lots of curly white hair were told to stand. The judge asked if anyone was representing them. A skinny, obviously hating Legal Aid with a folder in his hand stood up and said he was representing them (since there was no one else). The skinny representative needed ten minutes to find out who these ladies were. It was very hot in the courtroom. Then the skinny black-suit walked up to the judge. The judge and the skinny black-suit talked in whispers. The skinny Jew told the black women to step forward. While they stepped forward the judge recited some numbers at them and the skinny lawyer recited some numbers back. Then two guards pushed the women to the back of the room behind the judge’s huge wooden stand. The room was very hot. The people weren’t allowed to talk out of respect for the judge and the process of justice. The next accused were two black men. The first black man didn’t seem to understand what was happening around him. His Legal Aid lawyer told him to plead guilty because he couldn’t get off. He said “I’m guilty” though he wasn’t sure what he was guilty of and the judge recited some numbers and his lawyer recited some num
bers back. An armed guard pushed him to the back of the room. All of the defendants except for the India Indian Haitian and hippy sex show workers were black and all of the Legal Aid lawyers who didn’t know their clients told their clients to cop pleas. The only other language used was mathematical so no one would get the wrong idea.
It must have been noon the sunlight was so bright even through the huge gray-filth-painted windowpanes when the judge called the hippy male and female to the bench. The hippy male was wearing a Bill Blass suit. The hippy female was wearing a middle-price gray suit with an ascot. They wanted to show the judge they were a cut above his usual defendant. The boss, the Jewish 42nd Street entrepreneur, had given them one of his own lawyers. The lawyer and the judge were whispering numbers. The hippies didn’t hear a word. Then the boss appeared and walked up to the judge. Reaching into his pants pocket, he pulled out a huge wad of huge bills. He clearly flipped his wad in front of the judge’s face and asked, “Haven’t I paid you enough?” “Not here,” the judge loudly replied. The lawyer and the judge said numbers again. The matron pushed the hippies to the back of the room where a small wood door led them to a hall. Out of the court of justice.
Before she worked the sex show she had earned all the money she needed especially the money for all the medicines by starring, she was either the only one or one of two, in sex films. She had thought of earning her money this way because when she had gone to a top Eastern university a doctor friend had told her her face was ravishingly beautiful. She had gotten these beginning model jobs by looking in the back pages of the Village Voice. Then men had told her she was too nice a girl to be an escort and why didn’t she go back to school or they pulled her leotard away from her breasts and told her her breasts were too large or too small. She was very ashamed of her breasts. She hadn’t been getting money for a while and more important than money, though that’s all-important, she had to keep working to show herself she was surviving whatever she had to do. When you have to survive, thinking’s either a luxury or a way, if you control it, to make what’s necessary enjoyable. One day, answering an ad, she walked into a West Village basement apartment. The photographic set-up looked expensive. The black photographer told her he needed some nudie stills for the tops of playing cards. Since it was easy money, she said O.K. He showed her the cunt and cock on top of each playing card. She says she’d return with her boyfriend with whom she always worked twosomes. “No,” said the photographer as he locked the door behind her, “we’re going to use your cunt and my cock.” “How can we do that?” she asked. “I’m very co-ordinated.” She told him she had bad gonorrhea and he said he’d use a rubber. She figured if she had to get raped, she might as well remain healthy. “This won’t take long,” replied the photographer. While the big man was shoving himself into her, the girl lay as stiff as a log and wouldn’t allow herself to feel any pleasure because this was the main way her fear would allow her to express anger.
Night
I’m sitting in a window recess. The sinuous folds of a silk curtain hide most of my body. The lights of this silver and wood splendid loft-space sparkle as if they aren’t giving off illumination but are burning only themselves up in the otherwise complete blackness. This anonymity is life. Here milling about turning around eyes go here and there while tongues move in the same direction all to look all to show disguise every dress must be the most beautiful every nipple must be the tautest the few flowers that exist are dead red isn’t blood but rouge used as mascara: the quick movements of the cheekbones: the hair that making the skin as rigid as itself makes the face invisible: the fingernails painted by hundred-dollar-a-bottle polish create the only light the only whisper only the froth. This is the province of the ones who think they live their dreams. The richest, the most famous, the most audacious: now and then a person may allow desire. The sudden swerve of the eyes at the mention of a certain sale, the quickening of I, the casually filthy blue jeans worn over the knees of someone explaining he’s making history, hard cocks a quick jet of blood, the cats stand high above complete the giddiness of this mass whom everything seductive the world can hold intoxicates; cold white and general inebriation play upon the already-fevered mind.
I want to be one of these vanguard people so I disguise myself:
Portrait In Red
Clifford does short-haul truck work. He doesn’t work out of the hall; he has to call in every day to find out whether he goes to work or not. He must work ten hours in a row when needed and, then, if there’s further work, can choose to do it. He often works a fifty-hour week. He says he’s an artist. He says he doesn’t have any time to make his art. He says his lines are his language. He is traditional and not avant-garde because he is just putting down what he sees, about which, because nobody else sees this, he can’t talk to anyone.
At 7:00 A.M. the radio begins playing rock’n’roll loudly. Clifford pisses over the toilet, forgetting to lift the toilet seat, dials a phone number, says “Cliff”, hangs up the phone. Whatever woman he’s living with at the moment turns on the light over the bed, out of the bed makes herself a cup of tea and puts some oatmeal flakes and a cup of boiling water over the pilot so she can have oatmeal when she wakes up again at noon. They avoid talking to each other or else they’ll quarrel. He says, “Have a good day,” as he walks out the door. She does her best to get back to sleep.
He spends the early part of every evening in a bar, (even though he doesn’t have time to read) he stares at a book he just bought as if it’s a precious object. Other times he sits silently and smiles. He acts very friendly to the people he knows casually. Then he goes out to dinner, or he returns home and falls asleep. If he’s in a bad mood, he stops perceiving the outside.
On the weekends he likes to go to fancy restaurants because they make him feel like he’s a rich man and not encaged. He taught himself how to order good wines and wear designer suits. He won’t go near cheap stuff. He doesn’t want to live a groveling beggar’s life. He discusses his political beliefs, describes various political events and his personal plans for the future.
I’m scared of Clifford.
I don’t know anymore why I’m scared of him.
He hates me.
He does his best to hurt me he doesn’t hurt me just out-front he does that too he sets me up: he acts nice (and when he’s charming he can be REAL charming and I’m a sucker for that) and so I open to him I say, “Oh yes darling I do love you. I’ll do anything you want.” Because when I love a man especially when I’m being fucked well I’ll do anything for him, otherwise I hate men I don’t hate them, I just don’t want them touching me cause their fingertips burn. Then we’re sitting at a fancy restaurant in front of everyone in a loud voice he starts detailing exact examples showing what a shit I am
(The woman sits down at a small white-cloth-covered table.)
CLIFFORD: You’re not able to love.
SARAH: I loved you.
CLIFFORD: You never loved me. You don’t know how to give anything.
SARAH: I moved to Seattle and gave up my career, everything in New York, just to stay with you. I gave you all that money. Why did I do that?
(They’re speaking so loudly all the middle-aged married couples in the restaurant are staring at them.)
CLIFFORD: I don’t know. You had your own reasons.
SARAH: What reasons are those? I don’t know what they are.
CLIFFORD: I don’t know. You know them. You tell me I have to grow up. YOU have to grow up.
SARAH (realizing she’s going to cry): Excuse me. (She stands up. Starts to shake more and more.) I have to go to the bathroom. (Looks around the restaurant.) Where’s the bathroom? (Wanders around the restaurant. Fake red velvet covers all the walls. Can’t find a bathroom. Sits down again.)
CLIFFORD: Now, are we going to have a nice dinner? I want to have a nice dinner. (pauses) What books did you read today?
(The Chinese waiter approaches to take the order.)
CLIFFORD: I want the curried be
ef, the wonton soup, and the fried dumplings.
SARAH: Uh … Uh I, I … don’t want anything. I’m not really very happy. Thank you.
CLIFFORD: You’re going to eat. I’m not going to watch you get sick again.
SARAH: Yes, uh, eat. Eat. (To the waiter) I’m sorry. I’m really sorry. I’m sorry. I will eat. I have to eat something.
CLIFFORD: The sweet-and-sour shrimp.
SARAH: No, no, please waiter. I hate sugar. The shrimp in garlic sauce. (The waiter, obviously despising these louts, walks away.)
SARAH: I’m sorry. I just don’t like sugar.
CLIFFORD: Get what you want. I’m getting what I want. If you like, you can eat a fried poodle.
SARAH: No.
CLIFFORD (expansively): Get five dishes six dishes. I’m paying. The thing is you can’t take it. You hand it out you hand it out hard, but you can’t take it. (Realizing what’s coming, she can’t hold her sobs back anymore.) I’m just telling you the way you really are.
SARAH: I never said anything to hurt you. All I ever said, again and again, and I say it right now, is that you have to get your life together. You have to quit trucking so you can do art full-time. Is that saying something against you? I’ve only got your welfare in mind.
