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E IL TOPO P R PERIODICO D’ARTISTA ANNO XXVII N°24 2019

JIMMIE DURHAM


Il topo Il topo stava risalendo uno stretto sentiero di montagna. Un grande toro aggressivo stava arrivando dalla direzione opposta. C’era spazio per uno solo dei due. Il topo disse al toro, “È KAK il tuo nome?” il toro prese come un insulto che qualcuno potesse anche solo immaginare che un nome così ridicolo fosse il suo. Si arrabbiò e si agitò così tanto che cadde dalla montagna.


one picture is worth a thousand words. So what? How many dollars is it worth?


ROBERT

BURNS

e Plough, st with th e N r e h g her up in 85 on turnin , e s r, 17 u o M Novembe To a beastie, tim’rous ’, in ’r w o ekit, c astie! W E E, sle a panic’s in the bre sty, t a h sae ha Ow start awa a n d e e n le! Thou ring bratt Wi’ bicke n an’chase thee laith to ri le! I wad be ’ring patt Wi’ murd dominion rry man’s o s n, ly u tr I’m social unio ’s re tu a N en opinion Has brok es that ill fi ti s ju ’ n A startle akes thee anion, Wihich m orn comp -b h rt a e r o y po At me, th -mortal! An’ fellow ; ay thieve ut thou m un live! b , s e il h a, w , thou ma I doubt n or beastie o P ? n e th a thrave What -icker in A daimen request: ‘S a sma’ ve, wi’ the la in s s le b a I’ll get r miss ‘t! And neve ruin! sie, too, in u o h it b e ewin’! Thy we in’s are str ane, w e th ’s a Its silly w , now, to big a new ing An’ naeth e green! O’ foggag s ensuin’ er ’s wind b m e c e D n! An’ bleak ll an’ kee Baith sne aste, are and w b id la s the field in’ fast, Thou saw inter com w ry a e w the blast, An’ , beneath re e h ie z ell, An’ co ught to dw r past o th u o h T l coulte ! the crue Till crash thy cell. Out-thro’ tibble aves an’ s le ’ o p a e ble! bit h weary nib ble, a That wee y n o m thee a’ thy trou Hast cost d out, for e rn tu ’s u or hald, Now tho But house sleety dribble, e winter ’s To thole th ranreuch cauld! An’ c lane, rt no thy a u o th , sie vain: But, Mou t may be h ig s re fo g an’ men In provin s o’ mice e m e h c s laid The best a-gley, Gang aft an’ pain but grief t h g u o n us An’ lea’e r promised joy. Fo wi’ me! ompared c t s le b rt a thee: Still thou toucheth ly n o t n e y e’e The pres ard cast m w k c a b I But oh! ects drear! e, On prosp canna se ard tho’ I An’ forw ’ fear! I guess an


Federico García Lorca Nueva York (Oficina y denuncia) A Fernando Vela

Debajo de las multiplicaciones Hay una gota de sangre de pato; debajo de las divisiones hay una gota de sangre de marinero; debajo de las sumas, un río de sangre tierna. Un río que viene cantando Por los dormitorios de los arrabales, y es plata, cemento o brisa en el alba mentida de New York. Existen las montañas. Lo sé. Y los anteojos para la sabiduría. Lo sé. Pero yo no he venido a ver el cielo. He venido para ver la turbia sangre, la sangre quel leva las máquinas a las cataratas y el espíritu a la lengua de la cobra. Todos los días se mantan en New York Cuatro millones de patos, cinco millones de cerdos dos mil palomas para el gusto de los agonizantes, un millón de vacas, un millón de corderos y dos millones de gallos, que dejan los cielos hechos añicos. Más vale sollozar afilando la navaja o asesinar a los perros en las alucinantes cacerías, que resistir en la madrugada los interminables trenes de leche, los interminables trenes de sangre y los trenes de rosas manitadas por los comerciantes de perfumes. Los patos y las palomas, y los cerdos y los corderos ponen sus gotas de sangre debajo de las moltiplicaciones, y los terribles alaridos de las vacas estrujadas llenan de dolore el valle donde el Hudson se emborracha con aceite.

Yo denuncio a todo la gente Que ignora la otra mitad, la mirad irredimible que levanta sus montes de cemento donde laten los corazones de los animalitos que se olvidan y donde caeremos todos en la última fiesta de los taladros. Os escupo en la cara. La otra mitad me escucha Devorando, orinando, volando en su pureza, como los niños de las porterías que llevan frágiles palitos a los huecos donde se oxidan las antenas de los insectos. No es el infierno, es la calle. No es la muerte. Es la tirnda de frutas. Hay un mundo de ríos quebrados y distancias inasibles En la patita de ese gato quebrada por un automóvil, y yo oigo el canto de la lombriz en el corazón de muchas niñas. Óxido, fermento, tierra estremecida. Tierra tú mismo que nadas por los números de la oficina. ¿ Qué voy a hacer, ordenar los paisajes? ¿ Ordenar los amores que luego son fotografías, que luego son pedazos de madera y bocanodas de sangre? No, no: yo denuncio. Yo denuncio la conjura De estas desiertas oficinas Que no radian las agonías, que borran los programas de la selva, y me ofrezco a ser comido por las vacas estrujadas cuando sus gritos llenan el valle donde el Hudson se emborracha con aceite.


Mouse Blessings There is a mouse in my kitchen. A good, brave, wild animal Who races back and forth From one chairlegs forest to another In broad daylight, Counting coup on the world. Brave from hunger, or because of hungry babies, Or maybe just a free animal mouse In a city she did not choose. Her name is Laughing Bread-Stealer. Grandmother! Thank you for sending mouse Who gives her blessing By stealing my bread so bravely.


Euros Bowen YR ARAN Isod mynegiant ystum unigedd, Dan niwl gwydn a heulwen, Â chysgod cilfachusgar Du a gwyn o wead gweunydd Goleuni hir ac olion nos, Yn sefyllian meddiannus Presenoldeb, heb bresenoldeb un Yn henllain Cwm Cynllwyd, A sadiai erwau distawrwydd : Gallt, craig, holltau, crib, Yn llunweddu llonyddwch Trech na niwl ac ymdrech nawm : Anghyffredinedd ar dawel gyffredinedd daear, Yr hedd hyfrwd ar ddyfroedd, yn tewi hynt awyr Cynefin dir ȃ chyfrin dȃn A saif : difrys afael Anogaeth unigedd Goleuni hen ac olion nos O’r allt a’r graig, yr holltau a’r grib.


Il Toro Europe was a cowgirl. In Napoli there is a painting from Pompeii in which she is depicted showing off her new-found pet bull to her girlfriends. Well, many of false gods have sedu ced young women over the years but the bull was actually Zeus, who gave Europa a ride over to Bari or Marseille or someplace, where she established herself well. Later European painters paint this story very differently; Europa is usually tricked or kidnapped and taken against her will. Obviously this version makes the silly male the actor, the boss, the director. Europa is the passive victim according to the European men.


Ricordo la sera del lancio del numero zero a Milano, 1992. La nostra performance nella nebbia, il suono immateriale che dava inizio a una rivista dal nome incompleto E Il Topo. Con spirito situazionista e sotto l’alto patronato dadaista mettemmo in scena Il Cieco E Il Topo. Se The blind man, la rivista di Duchamp è apparsa solo due volte negli ultimi cento anni, E il Topo ci ha consegnato 11 apparizioni tra il 1992 e il 1996 prima di cadere in letargo per 16 anni. Posso dire che la sua rinascita - il numero 12 si chiamava Rebirth - era dovuta al vostro desiderio. Questa rivista che è stata collaborativa e contributiva nella sua prima vita, è divenuta il supporto ideale per amplificare la sua funzione di hub, per ospitare azioni collettive e per prevenire qualsiasi politica editoriale. Un manuale permanente per progetti, dove tutti abbiamo suonato, composto, invitato, scritto, creato, derivato, delirato nei numeri che dal 2012 hanno visto aumentare le adesioni alle idee Topiste pubblicate nel Manifesto del 2014 su un giornale coreano. Mi basta ricordare la prima Red Letter con Steve Piccolo e John Lurie, cosi come IAIN BAXTER&, Sparrow o il numero vivente di David Liver. Ma mi piace pensare che sia stata la rivista ad avere questo effetto euristico su tutti. Mi piace pensare che la sua identità incerta e sfocata abbia suscitato quello spirito di ardore e scetticismo, quella tensione di «appassionati dilettanti» cara a Dick Higgins. Ci vorrà molto tempo per sminuire la realtà aumentata e rivelare le tracce di eventi che non sono mai esistiti. Per questo motivo e senza motivo abbiamo affidato a Jimmie Durham questo numero con la certezza che sarà l’ultimo racconto dove in un mondo sfocato E Il Topo si trasforma in E Il Toro. Armando della Vittoria


I remember the evening of the debut of issue n° zero in Milan, 1992. Our performance in the fog, the immaterial sound that gave rise to a magazine with the incomplete name E Il Topo. In a situationist spirit and with the high patronage of Dada we staged “Il Cieco E Il Topo.” While The Blind Man, the magazine of Duchamp, has appeared only twice in the last 100 years, E Il Topo offered 11 apparitions from 1992 to 1996 before going into hibernation for 16 years. I can say that its rebirth – number 12 was in fact called “Rebirth” – was the result of our desire. This magazine that was collaborative and contributive in its first life had become the ideal vehicle to amplify its function as a hub, to host collective actions and to prevent the formation of any editorial policy. A permanent manual for projects, where we have all played, composed, invited, created, ranted in the issues that since 2012 have seen a growing consensus regarding the Topist ideals published in the Manifesto of 2014 in a Korean newspaper. It will suffice to mention the first Red Letter Edition with Steve Piccolo and John Lurie, the issue of IAIN BAXTER&, Sparrow or the living issue of David Liver. But I like to think that the magazine itself has asserted this heuristic effect on all of us. I like to think that its uncertain, blurry identity has fostered that spirit of ardor and skepticism, that tension of “dedicated amateurs” cherished by Dick Higgins. It will take a long time to diminish augmented reality and to reveal the traces of events that have never existed. For this reason and without reason we have entrusted this issue to Jimmie Durham, in the certainty that it will be the last tale, where in a foggy world E Il Topo is transformed into E Il Toro. AdV

Je ne puis vivre personnellement sans cette revue. Mais je n’ai jamais placé cette revue au-dessus de tout. Si elle m’est nécessaire au contraire, c’est qu’elle ne se sépare de personne et me permet de vivre, tel que je suis, au niveau de tous. E il topo ne fut pas à mes yeux une réjouissance solitaire. Elle obligea l’artiste que je suis à ne pas s’isoler ; elle le soumit à la vérité la plus humble et la plus universelle. Et celui qui, souvent, a choisi son destin d’artiste parce qu’il se sentait différent, apprend bien vite qu’il ne nourrira son art et sa différence, qu’en avouant sa ressemblance avec tous. Françoise Lonardoni, Gabriele Di Matteo, Albert Camus


E IL TOPO A project by Jimmie Durham

Editor-in-Chief

Armando della Vittoria Editorial Staff

Sergio Armaroli, Mattia Barbieri, Iain Baxter&, Marco Bazzini, Lorenzo Bruni, Rugiada Cadoni, Guillaume Clermont, Théo & Mario Coppola, Gabriele Di Matteo, Marinette Dozeville, Francesco Fossati, Stefania Galegati Shines, Piero Gatto, Debora Hirsch, Angelo Leonardo, Frédéric Liver, David Liver, Francesco Locatelli, Françoise Lonardoni, Monica Mazzone, Pietro Montone, Rossella Moratto, Giancarlo Norese, Steve Piccolo, Paola Pietronave, Fabien Pinaroli, Luca Pozzi, Mirko Rizzi, Claudio Salerno, Gak Sato, Gabi Scardi, Franco Silvestro, Aldo Spoldi, Dagmara Stephan, Sophie Usunier. Publishers

EdiTorre del Greco Zero

E IL TOPO magazine - Piazza Irnerio 13, 20146 Milan, Italy - redazione@eiltopo.org - www.eiltopo.org Edizioni Zero, redazionevenezia@zero.eu - www.zero.eu

Profile for Francesco Fossati

Jimmie Durham - E IL TOPO - issue 24  

Jimmie Durham transform E IL TOPO in E IL TORO. This special project of the American sculptor, essayist and poet, is about Europe.

Jimmie Durham - E IL TOPO - issue 24  

Jimmie Durham transform E IL TOPO in E IL TORO. This special project of the American sculptor, essayist and poet, is about Europe.

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