The
Plot
Against
Art,
Part 1
Dr
Lasha Darkmoon
September 19, 2009
“Never
before have so few been in a position to
make fools, maniacs or criminals of so
many.”
HG
Wells, The Shape of
Things to Come.
I’ll begin with a confession: I am a
failed artist. Ever since I can
remember, I have wanted to paint. The
only thing that stopped me was lack of
talent. The first time I did a
self-portrait, checking with the mirror
in my bedroom to see how I was getting
on, my mother put an abrupt end to my
artistic ambitions by exclaiming, “Gosh,
what a cute little chimp!”
It was a rude awakening for a
nine-year-old artist.
About a decade later, I asked myself was
art was all about. One day I found this
sentence in a biography of Burne-Jones,
and I jotted it down in my diary and
pondered it for a day or two, “I mean
by a picture a beautiful romantic dream
of something that never was, never will
be — in a better light than any light
that ever shone — in a land no one can
define or remember, only desire — and
from forms divinely beautiful.”
Waterhouse, The Lady of
Shalott, 1888.
Art as it
used to be, when painters knew how to
paint. This would now be considered
kitsch.
When I read that sentence, I almost
fainted. I was a sensitive girl, given
to fits of swooning at the slightest
opportunity. It was then I realized
there was no real difference between
poetry and painting, between painting
and music. All, in their own ways,
sought for God — albeit a God who might
not exist — but a God nonetheless. God
was beauty. God was longing. God was the
fire in the rose.
That’s what I thought then. I was young
and foolish.
Art, I found out later, was about making
money. Organized Jewry taught me this.
Art dealer Paul Rosenberg says, “A
painting is only beautiful when it
sells.” Jewish president of the
Marlborough Gallery, Frank Lloyd,
confirms this: “There is only one
measure of success in running a gallery:
making money.”
The question we need to ask is: Who runs
the Art Market and how did it become a
freak circus?
Art Should Make You Miserable
Let’s take a little trip round the art
world with Israel Shamir. Mr Shamir,
after all, is not only well-informed
about art but is also a
tour guide in Jerusalem. He
agrees with me about the sacral nature
of art. “No art without Christ,” he
says. By “Christ” he means much more
than the historical Jesus. He means the
Logos, or Christ Principle,
the rule of law in a divinely ordered
universe.
Since Darwin and Freud, there has been a
complete “revaluation of all values.”
Everything has been turned upside down.
We can mostly attribute this parlous
state of affairs to the machinations of
organized Jewry, in particular to a
group of revolutionary thinkers known as
the Frankfurt School.
(For a detailed introduction to
the ideas of these neo-Freudian
Marxists, most of whom were Jewish
refugees from Hitler’s Germany who fled
to America, see
Chapter 5 of Kevin
MacDonald’s The Culture of Critique).
Just as one of these Frankfurters,
Theodor Adorno, set out to
destroy Western music,
assuring the world that atonal music was
a good thing because it was discordant
and ugly, others in the group set out to
destroy art and push it to its
reductio ad absurdum:
lights going on and off
in an empty room,
unmade beds with condoms
and bloodstained panties strewn around,
and sealed cans containing the
artist’s own excrement.
Tracey
Emin's My Bed
Piero
Manzoni's Artist's Shit
One of the founders of the Frankfurt
School, Georg Lukács, asked
rhetorically, “Who will save us from
Western civilization?” He began the
rescue operation himself, convincing
himself that the best way to do this was
to create “a culture of pessimism” and
“a world that has been abandoned by
God.” Cool.
Another of these mental giants, Walter
Benjamin, believed that the purpose of
art was to make people as miserable as
possible, for pessimism was an essential
preliminary to world revolution. “To
organize pessimism,” he pointed
out portentously, “means nothing other
than to expel the moral metaphor from
politics.” Benjamin succeeded only too
well in making himself miserable. He
committed suicide.
Marxist revolutionary Willi Munzenberg
made no bones about his mission in life.
It was to destroy Western civilization.
No kidding. To accomplish this, he said,
the Frankfurters would have to “organize
the intellectuals and use them to
make Western civilization stink.
Only then, after they have corrupted
all its values and made life impossible,
can we impose the dictatorship of the
proletariat”. (My italics).
To summarize: Let’s create a culture of
pessimism. Let’s make Western
civilization stink. Let’s create a
godless world and drive people to
despair. Let’s corrupt society’s values
and make life impossible. In short,
let’s create hell on earth.
It will soon become clear to you, if you
are a struggling artist, that the art
world is dominated by Jews who are only
too anxious to bring about this hell on
earth. Their control over what now
passes for art is as tentacular as it is
terrifying. Art has morphed into
Anti-Art. “For
Jews,” Israel Shamir points out, “their
group interest lies in undermining
visual art, for they can’t compete with
it. Even deeper group interest is to
undermine Christianity, their main
enemy.”
To undermine. To corrupt. To create
discord. To drive crazy. To destroy.
Verbs to remember. Let’s begin our
tour of
the art world,
with Israel Shamir as our guide, and try
to gain an insight into what is going
on.
Gallery Hopping With Mr Shamir
One day, Shamir finds himself in the
Basque capital of Bilbao in Spain. He
has come to check out the museum of
modern art built by the fabulously rich
(Jewish) Guggenheim family. The biggest
building in Spain, the Guggenheim Museum
impresses Shamir profoundly — it’s like
something out of a science-fiction movie
— but once he steps inside the building
he is acutely disappointed.
Hey, what on earth is all this junk?
Pieces of corrugated iron lying around
like in a scrap yard. Rusty iron plates
in one corner. Video screens blinking
away inanely. Bare geometric forms. And,
believe it or not, an entire floor
devoted to a collection of Armani suits.
Boy, I’m outa here! Shamir
mutters to himself, making a beeline for
the Exit.
And what does he do next? He hops on a
plane to Venice, and now we see him
poking around the famous Biennale
Museum, trying to make sense out of a
collection of
trashed cars on display. Mopping his
brow feverishly, he needs to sit down to
collect his wits. No, don’t sit
there, sir — those chairs are a precious
work of art! You want to read a good
book, Mr Shamir, to take your mind of
all this junk? No problem. Here’s a
bookcase full of books. Help yourself.
Or rather, don’t help yourself!
This bookcase, crammed with moldy old
books, is also a sublime work of art!
Yes, all the way from sublime, artistic
Israel!
One might have thought that, after
suffering all these disappointments, Mr
Shamir would have packed it in and gone
back to Jaffa, determined never to set
foot in an art gallery again. But no, a
glutton for punishment, our art guide
now decides to visit a museum in
Amsterdam where he is confronted by a
collection of decomposed pig trunks. To
his astonishment, he learns that a
cadaver immersed in formaldehyde, on
display in this same museum, has been
purchased for $50,000 by a rich
American. Wow, a corpse collector!
His disillusionment is total when, on
visiting Copenhagen, he finds himself in
the church of St Nicholas. Being a
convert to Christianity, maybe he goes
in there to pray. If so, he is saddened
to have his mind polluted by the
pictures he sees on the walls of that
venerable old church. Here’s a color
photograph of a naked old woman,
withered and sick. And here, right next
to it, is a huge blown-up picture of the
female genitalia.
And what’s this? Oh, nothing to worry
about! Just a photo of a couple of guys
having oral sex.
Hey man, c’mon! This is a healthy and
natural act! What better place for the
celebration of joyous pagan sexuality
than a Christian church?
“Whatever they proclaimed as art, was
art,” Shamir concludes ruefully. “In the
beginning, these were works of some
dubious value like the ‘abstract
paintings’ of Jackson Pollock.
Eventually we came to rotten swine,
corrugated iron, and Armani suits.
Art was destroyed.” [My
italics.]
The Jewish Connection
So what does all this have to do with
the Jews? Plenty. If you want to play
that fascinating game known as Cherchez
le Juif, let’s continue our tour of the
contemporary art world.
You will meet many artists, quite a few
of them pliant and accommodating
non-Jews, who are prepared to jump
through the hoops set before them by
their Masters: the ubiquitous Jews
lurking in the shadows. The men who call
the shots. The men with the money. The
men whom the artist must learn to please
and flatter if he hopes to get ahead and
become rich and famous.
The ambitious artist will find himself
drawn inevitably into a Jewish world. He
will learn to pepper his conversation
with Yiddish phrases. He will never
breathe a word of criticism
against Israel, no matter what
atrocities that country is in the
process of committing. He will sneer at
Muslims, the Qur’an and the
Palestinians. He will find it pays
dividends to insult Christianity, the
religion of his forefathers. He will
mention the Holocaust, whenever
possible, with moist eyes; and he will
paint as many pictures of Auschwitz as
he can, preferably with chimneys
belching black smoke.
All this has been done by goy artists.
The proof for these claims can be found
here in this enormous
archive of art information. I have drawn
upon it heavily.
Even the great Picasso knew he was
appeasing the Jews when he embraced his
friend Pierre Daix and confided in a low
voice, “To think that painters once
thought they could paint The Massacre
of the Innocents!” He was clearly
echoing or anticipating Adorno’s “There
can be no poetry after Auschwitz.” If
there can be no poetry after Auschwitz,
there can be no art either — certainly
not Christian art.
Andy Warhol knew better than most how to
ingratiate himself with the Jews. His
1980 series, “Ten Portraits of Jews of
the Twentieth Century," features ten
portraits of what Warhol referred to as
"Jewish geniuses," one of
whom was Israeli Prime Minister Golda
Meir — the “genius” who said there
were
no Palestinians, adding
with her famous flair for the witty
phrase: “How can we return the occupied
territories? There is nobody to return
them to.” Another "genius" was Sigmund
Freud, whom Kevin MacDonald
has described as having
perpetrated the greatest scientific
fraud of the 20th century
— a fraud that was very useful in
constructing the culture of Western
suicide.
Warhol's portraits
of Gold Meir and Sigmund Freud, from his
Ten Portraits of Jews of the
Twentieth Century series
Warhol seems to have put his
considerable charm to work with Henry
Geldzahler, curator of the Metropolitan
Museum of Art — an influential Jew who
happened, like Warhol, to be homosexual.
“Although they were never lovers,
the relationship became intimate,”
we are assured by one of Warhol’s
biographers. “Andy spoke to Henry on the
phone every night before he went to
sleep and every morning as soon as he
woke up.” I am not saying that Warhol
and Geldzahler were lovers, though
others have said so. That’s of no
interest to me. All I’m suggesting is
that Warhol, a notorious opportunist,
found it helped his career to cultivate
the Jews. His appeal, in the words of
film critic Carrie Rickey, was to the
“synagogue circuit.”
Transvestite potter Grayson Perry —
here he is receiving the
Turner Prize for his inspired pots —
knew his success depended less on his
talents than on the advertising genius
of his plutocratic patron Charles
Saatchi. He was well aware, moreover,
that Islamophobia can always be relied
on to win friends and influence people
in the Judeocentric art world. “The
reason I haven’t gone all out to attack
Islamism in my art,” he confides
fearlessly, “is because I feel real fear
that someone will
slit my throat.”
Avoiding controversial political
statements in the interests of
discretion, Perry decided to devote his
life to producing ceramic pots depicting
“explicit
scenes of sexual perversion.”
It must have been a tough decision.
The potter wore
bobbysox
... Grayson Perry poses with his wife
Phillippa and daughter Flo after winning
the Turner Prize.
Non-Jewish artists such as Anselm
Kiefer, Christian Boltanski and
Christopher Williams have been almost as
prolific in their production of
Holocaust paintings as Jewish painter RB
Kitaj, a man whose obsession with
Auschwitz has often been noted. “The
chimney in a Kitaj painting,” art pundit
Juliet Steyn informs us, “functions as
an indictment on Christianity.”
Translation: After Auschwitz, who needs
Golgotha?
RB Kitaj's
Passion
(1940–45): Cross and Chimney
Entrance
through the Gate Exit from the Chimney
by
Joseph Bau
As for Andres Serrano with his
Piss Christ and Chris
Ofili with his dung-bedecked
Holy Virgin Mary
— the Madonna surrounded by pictures of
the female genitals cut from
pornographic magazines — both these
emotionally immature artists were
clearly aware that contempt for Christ
and his mother is often pleasing to the
Jews.
Chris Ofili's
Holy Virgin Mary and Andres
Serrano's Piss Christ
Artists?
These men are more like circus dogs,
trained to jump through hoops and beg
for bones from their masters. It’s the
men with the money, the Saatchis and the
Guggenheims, who
crack the whip. |