Art & Science
Universität für angewandte Kunst Wien
Kazimierz Dolny - Vienna
2014 - 2015
and she is never rude;
she never thinks just of herself
or ever gets annoyed.
She never is resentful;
Paul the Apostle. (5458). 1 Corinthians 13:5. The Holy Bible.
Yorba Linda, CA U.S.A.: International Standard Version (ISV).
(...) we've been to Cortona many times together; there was
a summer school there, organized by Krzysztof, and – as it
happens in Italy – the building is built of stone, and the
floors are of stone; and in the afternoons, usually, as it
happens in Italy, too, we were taking a nap, and then waking
up. And I heard, as usually we were staying on the same floor,
Krzysztof's clogs' stomping, Krzysztof was walking. And once
I couldn't stand it, I went out from my room and I ask him –
why do you walk so much? And he says: - Because I'm thinking,
and I say – What are you thinking about? (...) And this is his
answer: - And what if Paul the Apostle lied?
Król, M. Kurhaus Publishing (Producer). (2104, February 5). ( M. Barski trans. 2015 ). Dyskusja o Krzysztofie Michalskim, pt. "Filozof, który zmieniał przestrzeń". Podcast retrieved from https://youtu.be/tTMlHb5lFIE
Love. Maternal love. Eternal love. Paternal love. Parental love.
Love game. Physical love. Psychological love. Spiritual love.
Brotherly love. Delusive love. Infantile love. Love song. Love
letter. Love poem. Art of love. Accidental love. Predestined
love. Delight of love. Pain of love. Loved one. Lovably. Lovely.
Love forever. Love affair. Lack of love. Lovefeast. Love thy
God. Love thy neighbor. Love thy woman. Love thy animals. Love
thy sister. Love of desire. Courtly love. Love at first sight.
Love ballad. Biological love. Love of knowledge. Love of money.
Love of pain. Love film. Love story. Love novel. Confession of
love. Memory of love. Selflove. Shared love. Love to you. Love
for the rest of life. Love relation. The only love. I am love.
Knightly love. Demonic love. Lost love. Struggle for love...
Bobola, S. (n.d.). Dziennik. Unpublished manuscript.
(M. Barski, Trans., 2015).
Love: how numerous its forms, how various are all those aspects
and moments of life to which we apply that word. Any attempt
to reduce them to a common denominator would be foolish.
Michalski, K. (2007). The Flame of Eternity: An Interpretation of Nietzsche's Thought (B. Paloff, Trans. 2013). Princeton, New Jersey: Princeton University Press
You called me today, your voice was like a melody, light,
warmth. I was speaking to you calmly and lovingly.
Bobola, S. (2014, June 14). List. Unpublished manuscript.(M. Barski, Trans., 2015).
- writing about love is writing (...) Open writing. It begins somewhere – here and now (KD 14.II.15) – and (will) end somewhere. Open in this sense: - not closed. This here: apparent „beginning”, and that other one, would-be,
unrealized and equally apparent „end” - they're not beginning and end in
common, trivial meaning. Like in a game, which „begins” and „ends”, and where the „score” is countable. (...) The author of hereby work emphasizes then, that he does not assume common and trivial rules, coming from the concepts of beginning and end. In the name of openness -
JULIA: What's in a name? That which we call a rose
By any other name would smell as sweet.
ROMEO: With love’s light wings did I o'erperch these walls,
For stony limits cannot hold love out.
Shakespeare, W. (1599). The Most Excellent and Lamentable Tragedie. London, England: Cuthbert Burby.
Rose is the name of a flower
or a dead girl
Różewicz, T. (1947). Niepokój, Róża. Sobbing Superpower. Selected Poems of Tadeusz Różewicz (2011). (J. Trzeciak Trans.). New York, N.Y.: W. W. Norton & Company, Inc.
EINSTEIN: We do not know whether or not this ambition will ever
result in a definite system. If one is asked for his opinion, he
is inclined to answer no.
Einstein, A. (1936, March 5). Physics and Reality. (J. Picard, Trans.). Princeton, N.Y.: Journal of the Franklin Institute.
FEYNMAN: First, we do not yet know all the basic laws: there is
an expanding frontier of ignorance.
Feynman, R. (1936). Six Easy Pieces: Essentials of Physics Explained by Its Most Brilliant Teacher. New York, N.Y.: Basic Book.
How do I write then? Since the work has no „beginning” nor „end”
- it cannot also have an introduction, explication...,
(center)..., conclusion... Openness, meaning no established
rules – throws us „somewhere further”, „somewhere else” (where?
towards the river – Wisła, KD 22.II.15) – into a text
(writing-reading) or outside of it... [To myself/yourself I
turn]. Memory, emotions. It's love that tears apart the rules
(beginning, explication...), laws (a+b=c), manners („towards the
river” romanticism), styles (to write in one style like (as)
who?). And what happens: look – love – tears openness apart (!).
What is a deconstructed openness? Closeness? Open, openness?
It pushes us (throws) somewhere further, somewhere else... Not
here and not now – somewhere there... Love is pulsating
(somewhere) outside of text – words – therefore every writing
„about love” pushes us outside of text – and thereby (being
aware of it) leaves the subject, the person writing about love,
in critical (tragic) situation. (Let's) Imagine a desert – sheet
of paper, sand (spilled) alphabet, water – love (we don't have)
– a mirage. I'm dreaming.
The word says less than we would like to communicate but
the fact that there is no way of expelling misunderstandings from
life, shows that it is not about a technical imperfection only,
but about the most primal paradox of language, of communicating
oneself; words disclose little because they contain too much
content; whatever we say, whatever we talk about, our words
express more than we would like to communicate. There is another
world hidden in their depths, untold world which brings life to
words. We can of course comment on this world but by doing so we
won't terminate it, we will only widen its limits, shift the
horizon, the horizon that we will never reach anyway.
Földényi, L.F. (2011). Melancholia, (tłum. R. Reszke; Trans. M. Barski, 2015). Warszawa, Poland: Wydawnictwo KR.
I am alone. Alone with others.
Let's name two subjects. Subjects writing, writing these words
(thesis), writing about love:
1. Me. Loving subject. Cherishing subject. Intimate subject.
Subject writing poems, yearning subject. Subject weeping,
possessed with ressentiment, with memories. Subject suffering,
possessed with anger. Subject sentencing himself to banishment,
to solitude... Subject dreaming of death. Dreamy, phantasmagoric
subject. Sick subject, coming back again and again to the same
thing: - himself? - love? - you? Subject in love. Subject inside
of love. In the void of love. Love subject. Living love – as
own, only, unrepeatable. (Particular?) Subject of emotions.
Subject of desires. Of lust. Subjective. Subject in himself.
2. Me. Subject writing about love. Reading about love. Subject
thinking about love. Subject listening to love stories. Subject
writing down aphorisms about love. Subject seeking love in
books, cinema, science. Subject analyzing love, subject
deconstructing love. Subject listening to songs about love,
listening to people's confessions about love. Subject asking:
what is love? Subject looking for an answer to the question:
what is love? Subject „on love”. Outside of love. Objective.
Subject looking at his own love through the lens of stories /
discourses „about love”. Subject universalizing love.
There is also third subject:
Sobbing, gasping, lo... crying, howling slobbering trembling,
losing my breath, choking, sounds coming out from my body that
I've never heard before, never knew. Tears are rolling down,
saliva's gushing, mucus dropping from my nose down to the floor
(is it still earth?). You are not or is it me (who is)?
Is anybody (you) here? You are not, noone is. (...) I'm
wriggling, convulsions, crying, howling, sobbing strange words
declaimed in moaning, yodelling of sadness, pain, scramble,
anxiety... (...) I'm dissolving in my own (or your) excretions –
mucus/grief. Roar, despair (...) Sprawled, resentful, broken,
stabbed, scattered, melting away, losing breath, losing shape.
Smoke. Can't write. Moaning and groaning. Sickness. (...)
(…) That, what we call creation is a kind of a cosmic imbalance,
cosmic catastrophe. That things exist by mistake. (…) Isn’t love
precisely this kind of a cosmic imbalance? (…) I was always
disgusted with this notion of “I love the world”, “universal
love”. I don’t like the world. I don’t know how I – uh – I’m
basically somewhere in between “I hate the world” or “I’m
indifferent towards it”. But the whole of reality, it’s just it
– it is stupid, it’s out there, I don’t care about it. Love for
me is an extremely violent act. Love is not “I love you all”.
Love means, I pick out something and—you know it’s again this
structure of imbalance. Even if this something is just a small
detail, a fragile individual person, I say, “I love you more
than anything else.” In this quite formal sense, love is evil.
Žižek, S. Hidden Driver Productions (Producer). Astra Taylor (Director). (2005, September 5). Žižek!. Podcast retrieved from:
Naked in my bed
and you are right
G.G. (08.09.12). Personal communication. (M. Barski, Trans. 2015).
Today's (2015/5775) differences in views and in ideologic
/ religious / rational convictions, which are subject of common
discussions / arguments / wars, dependent on individual nature - culture
of the antagonists, in my opinion are rooted in love of
own truths/ideas/beliefs. In love of I – I who establishes them.
In love of own ideas-convictions. Of being (with) this love.
Of being-faithful-to-it. Of readiness to defend and fight for
it. We are, it seems, „too much” in love with our own ideas from
which truths and arguments on the nature of all things arouse.
The technocracy that we experience nowadays is partially
a result of: love of power, and partially of love of knowledge;
it moved us away from nature, today called „nature 2.0”.
It reminds me of bracket fungi. In this perspective we tend
to forget how our nature (1.0 sic!) influences our culture
(manmade: house, scripture, robot) and how „in return”
the culture influences our nature. Us. For example: 500~300
centuries of speech/orality, compared to 100~70 centuries
of signs/literacy, creates in approximation the phenomenon of
dysphasia. We (slowly) lose the ability of talking, discussing,
engaging in conversation. Living sound replaced dead symbol.
At the Egyptian city of Naucratis, there was a famous old god,
whose name was Theuth; the bird which is called the Ibis is
sacred to him, and he was the inventor of many arts, such as
arithmetic and calculation and geometry and astronomy and
draughts and dice, but his great discovery was the use of
letters. Now in those days the god Thamus was the king of the
whole country of Egypt; (…) To him came Theuth and showed his
inventions, (…) when they came to letters, This, said Theuth,
will make the Egyptians wiser and give them better memories; (…)
Thamus replied: (…) you who are the father of letters, from
a paternal love of your own children have been led to attribute
to them a quality which they cannot have; for this discovery of
yours will create forgetfulness in the learners' souls, because
they will not use their memories; they will trust to the
external written characters and not remember of themselves. (…)
they will be tiresome company, having the show of wisdom without
Plato. (360 B.C.E). Phaedrus. (2006). (B. Jowett, Trans.). Teddington, U.K.: Echo Library.
What remains for the one whohasnothing, who-has-nothing-left?
Nothing? He still has Flesh. Nothing beyond flesh? - Words?
If word is flesh, then there is nothing, nothing beyond flesh; - he
has fles-hword, or is it word-flesh. However if word is
something more, „something” different from flesh, something
symbolizing flesh, (that means)... It redirects beyond flesh...
- He has something more, something more than flesh. Word.
When the flesh disappears, is the word left? Does word vanish
together with the flesh? If word is flesh, then word leaves with
the flesh. However if word is something more than flesh...
Something more... (something that lasts independently from
flesh...) He's left with something more, something much more...
(…)"We are beyond words, now," writes Abraham Lewin. And yet - in
spite of all - he writes it. He even writes that all around
him "everybody writes," because, "despoiled of everything, only
words remain for the condemned Jews.
Didi-Huberman, G. (2012, May 9). Images in Spite of All. (Trans. S. B. Illis). Chicago, U.S.A.: University Of Chicago Press.
The unnamed I can name with a word
I can name it fatherland
Love gold a rose
I can call out or be silent.
Różewicz, T. (2007). I name it silence. Poezja, cz. 1 Utwory
zebrane, tom VII. (T. Z. Wolański, Trans.). Wrocław, Poland: Wydawnictwo Dolnośląskie.
I am exhausted. Weary. Tired. Bored. Had enough. Want no more.
Want no love (anymore). Love, no. Not love. Love. It overwhelms
me, sucks me in, spits me out, squeezes me, plunges me. Love,
love, love... Makes me sick... the very thought... the very
idea... the very word. Lo... ehh. No, please. (...) I'm writing
on the verge of sorrow, ignorance, disdain. Seems like one
moment more and I'll fall into the black void of strength;
now I'm fighting, wouldn't give up without a fight – I'm
writing. I can see my weakness, lameness, foolishness. I'm aware
of it, that's why I choose the void – consciously, to get rid of
that awareness. To enter the „unconscious”, the illogic, to feel
love once more, the hell of love (...) And this terrible irony,
disdain, words not worth reading – writing. I can't write.
2 November (1911)
This morning, for the first time in a long
time, the joy again of imagining a knife twisted in my heart.
Kafka, F. (1988). Diaries 1910-1923.(J. Kresh, M. Greenberg, withe the
cooperation of Hannah Arendt; Trans., 1948). New York, N.Y.: Schocken Books.
So, I am sick. Sick from love. What kind of sickness it is –
I ask myself (yourself) for over a year now, and I am still not
in a position (nor strength) to find out, to understand... the
truth... Whatever it is – but it is – as I can feel it
constantly, daily, in my life. The only thing I can, and what
I'm trying to do, is to note down its symptoms (signs) – that is
to diagnose it, which is, as I hope, what I'm doing within this
work. What are love's causes then, and what are its signs
(results)? One cause is a so called psychic event, an affection,
in result of which I have been deprived of the object of (my)
love. By „deprived” I mean – the absence, the absence of
possibility of relation (presence) with the object of love.
This relates to the psychic aspect (words, silence, sleep...)
as well as to the physical one (touching, having breakfast
together, walking...). By „object of love” I mean the actual
person, whom I love. Those symptoms are permanent, recurring
thoughts about the object of love. Thoughts coming in impossible
to unify (to universalize) moments: waking up at night,
traveling by car, walking, resting... It seems to me (now) that
what they have in common is the lack of clearly defined
(conscious, that is aimed at precise, decided with free will,
activity. Those thoughts are characterized
by certain sentiment, melancholy, sadness; awareness of solitude
and helplessness against the recurring thoughts – despite
the will – for them to stop recurring – that is the will of
health (freeing from the symptoms of the sickness). Since, as I
mentioned earlier, I don't know „what-kind-of-sickness-it-is”
(I'm not able to understand, rationalize, overcome it), I don't
know the cure, the antidotum either.
Placing a strawberry in your mouth. Removing seeds of watermelon
for you. The sun exploded with midday when you asked: quietly,
happily, intensely: Here in the street? We remember, it was
precisely there. We were caressing our souls.
What is lacking to the one is not there, hidden in the other.
This is the whole problem of love.
Lacan, J. (1960–1961). Le Transfert: Livre VII. (G. Cormac, Trans. 2002).
Paris, France: Éditions Du Seuil (2001).
True, love is sweet and - its absence leaves bitterness. But
this bitterness is not simply the taste of absence, a sense of
missing something, as bitterness brought on by a lack of sugar
in the organism. On the contrary, this bitterness is symptom of
being sick with eternity, of the stinging awareness of a wound
that will never heal.
Michalski, K. (2013). The Flame of Eternity: An Interpretation of Nietzsche's
Thought (B. Paloff, Trans.). Princeton, New Jersey: Princeton University Press
You see, it was only sex.
Bobola, S. (b.d.). Personal communication.
For I think I have found... I don't have it, though... You.
I found what (who) does not exist!
SOCRATES: (…) Would not any one who was himself of a noble and
gentle nature, and who loved or ever had loved a nature like his
own, when we tell of the petty causes of lovers' jealousies, and
of their exceeding animosities, and of the injuries which they
do to their beloved, have imagined that our ideas of love were
taken from some haunt of sailors to which good manners were
unknown - he would certainly never have admitted the justice of
Plato (360 B.C.E). Phaedrus. (B. Jowett, Trans.). Teddington, U.K.: Echo
Cruel Truth! Sweet Truth! Eternal Truth! It feels wonderfully…
amidst pain, hurts, lies; ah, how blissful it is to fall (...)
I write with blood, faeces, saliva, I write with Myself! (...)
I am alone here and this is why I write! I want to write it down
in the same breath. Get rid of it and be able to live again (..)
And it seems to me (...) that I won't make it, that I am
eternally condemned! And that I will suffer forever.
Night has come; only now all the songs of lovers awaken. And my
soul too is the song of a lover.
Nietzsche, F. (1883-85).Thus Spoke Zarathustra. (W. Kaufmann, Trans. 1966).
New York, N.Y.: Viking.
It's raining and it gets more peaceful, your image has somewhat
melted away (...) Fog and heavy rainfall. Dew on leaves,
succulence of senses. Solitude. (...) The wind got stronger.
Blew the last drops off the trees. Their falling to ground
reminds me of you. Sound.
S: - Do you know what is love?
J: - I do
S: - So, what is it? Tell me
J: - Nevermind
Oh (!) I saw a butterfly over there, behind a tree
Bobola, S. & Nowakowski, J. (n.d.). Personal communication.
(M. Barski, Trans. 2015).
Cuddled up to you. You're asleep and I sense: kindness, beauty - there no such words. I never felt so good before. Never. I can't sleep, I can not. And I'm not afraid - not afraid of anything. Cuddled up into you. That it will pass. That it's already passed. I felt heaven there - heaven here on earth.
I have chosen afterword instead of preface so that you, my dear
reader, had a possibility to immerse in the words of this literary
collage as directly as possible. The title of the work is „Cuddle
Song”. Synonyms: lullaby, berceuse, croon. Cuddle song is a common
name related to songs – musical pieces, referring in the first place
to love, to the experience of love. Such as Glenn Medeiros'
„Nothing's Ginna Change My Love For You”. Another thing one can
cuddle is a teddy bear: young children usually cuddle their toys
before falling asleep. The cuddle song plays in the background.
Cuddle song is also a form of a sleeping pill. The musical
characteristics of a cuddle song is a slow tempo, harmonic structure,
warm timbre. They emanate with certain romanticism, sentimentality
but also with existentialism – related to the experience of love.
Cuddle song has one more hidden layer: the body, the corporeality.
It is important for this work in which it is noted that love is
embodied. It's the key. For here open the gates of Eros' garden.
Have we opened also the ones leading to Agape?
Love is – that's the thesis of this work. And the hypothesis is the
question if we, people, are able to define it, to determine it. Pros
and cons are the contents of quotations and the contents of personal
experience of love; collected „together” in a form of literary
collage. In this work I have assigned three subjects. These words
(the Afterword) are written by subject nr II (see in the text), that
is subject who objectivises love. Who is seeking the definition of
love. Subject responsible for this work's hypothesis. Subject nr I
is the loving subject, the one who subjectivities love. Subject
verbalising his own love. The author of letters, diaries. (…) Subject
responsible for this work's thesis. Subject nr III is You. „I cannot
say anything more about You” - says subject nr I. Subject nr II also
gives up here. But this is not the conclusion. In this work there are
more subjects: all quoted authors are subjects. The narration of the
work and the final conclusion are built by the resonance of pulsating
meanings, emanating from particular blocks of text and from the
spaces in between them – arranged together within one composition.
Named „Cuddle Song” that is a song about love.
Finally, let's allow the loving one speak! (Subject nr 1).
The loving one says: I feel fine, the symptoms of the love disease
are gone, even if only yesterday I wanted to kill myself. My body is
alone. Without you. It hurts. How sweet is your body. Your word.
Their absence saddens me. It's beautiful how love sneaks „here” into
the language – to body, that can be heard and felt. The idea
embodies. The body fills with the idea. The idea thrills me; I can
feel, hear the faster rate of my heartbeat. I tremble as if some kind
of coldness-warmth was penetrating me.