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Where there is a stink of shit
there is a smell of being.
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I heard a sobbing deathwail burble and burst. Sun bathed the bedroom as monstrous convulsions shook her. It looked like her ass was laughing, and I told her so:
“You’re crying,” I said, “but your ass is laughing.”
And with a gesture of rediscovered cheerfulness, I slapped that ass. And in that instant, I stiffened with maliciousness and threw myself upon her.
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When Breton discovered my painting, he was shocked by the scatological elements that stained it. This surprised me. I started from shit, which from the psychoanalytic point of view could be interpreted as the happy omen of the god that – fortunately! – threatened to pour down on me. Subtly, I tried to make the surrealists believe that these scatological elements could only bring luck to the movement. Invoke though I might the digestive iconography of all ages and all civilizations – the hen that laid the golden eggs, the intestinal delirium of Danae, the ass whose dung was gold – they refused to trust me. I made up my mind at once. Since they would have nothing to do with the shit I offered them so generously, I would keep these treasures and this gold for myself.
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The excremental enthusiasm of the libertines transforms the ordure in which they roll to a bed of roses. The pleasure of the libertine philosophers derives in a great part from the knowledge they have overcome their initial disgust. By the exercise of the will, they have overcome repugnance and so, in one sense, are liberated from the intransigence of reality. This liberation from reality is their notion of freedom; the way to freedom lies through the privy. But the conquest of morality and aesthetics, of shame, disgust and fear, the pursuit of greater and greater sexual sophistication in terms of private sensation lead them directly to the satisfactions of the child; transgression becomes regression and, like a baby, they play with their own excrement.
cover for the force & form edition of coil’s ‘scatology’ by sleazy.
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Hans Bellmer, Untitled
“I wonder if I will wear the tight seamless trousers made of your legs, ornamented all along the inside with faux-excrements? And do you think I will, without swooning prematurely, button over my chest the heavy and trembling waistcoast of your breasts? As soon as I am immobilized beneath the pleated skirt of all your fingers and weary to undo the garlands with which you have enwreathed the drowsiness of your never-born fruit, then you will breathe in me your perfume and your fever, so that, in full light, from the interior of your sex, mine will emerge.”
— Hans Bellmer, Petite anatomie de l’inconscient physique ou l’anatomie de l’image (Little Anatomy of the Physical Unconscious or the Anatomy of the Image), Paris: Le Terrain Vague, 1957
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All that is taboo, forbidden or sacred, is devoured by the digestive tract, an enormous grinding machine disintegrating the molecules of the mass thus obtained in order to reduce it to excrement.
I know I’ll never make a sequel to Pink Flamingos because it would have to end with Divine taking a shit and the dog eating it.
Monument to D. A. F. Sade by Man Ray, photograph with drawing, 1933.
Notice the beautifully illuminated Golden Section.
Sunday Dalí: Scatological Object Intended to Function Symbolically, 1932.
Dalí described this work in his own words:
A woman’s shoe, in which a glass of lukewarm milk has been placed, in the middle of a ductile plastic that is excremental in color.
The mechanism dips the sugar cube painted with the image of a shoe, so as to observe the disintegration of the sugar cube and, as a consequence, the image of the shoe in the milk. Several accessories (pubic hairs stuck to a sugar cube, small erotic photo) complete the object which is accompanied by a spare box of sugar and a special spoon for stirring the grains of lead inside the shoe.
Dalí, Salvador. Oui: The Paranoid-Critical Revolution. in Dawn Ades's "Surrealism: Fetishism's Job." in Anthony Sheldon, ed. Fetishism: Visualizing Power and Desire. London: The South Bank Centre. 1995.
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