Dada & Surrealism A&i (Art & Ideas) [Taschenbuch]

 

 

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R. stood up and looked at the tree. 'Poor thing', he thought, little realising that the tree could sense this, and was currently thinking 'Poor thing' back at him, in tree language. 'This is not the tree we are looking for', said R. to no-one in particular. 'We do not need to uproot this tree', he said. He snapped out of it. The tree had lost the battle of wits. In the distance, a crowd of other trees watched. It was all they could do, really, being trees. He waited. Time passed. J. Gordon fired up the Land Rover. 'Right - I'll stick it into 'low' and just hit the pedal - I don't think we need to do anything smart, or anything. It's a small tree'. J. felt a sense of destiny surge through him. Perhaps, he thought, we should have bought a tractor. None of his friends owned tractors, and he didn't know where to get one from. It wasn't the kind of information they taught in school. Perhaps they taught it in country school, maybe. J. wished he had grown up in the country. It was so very peaceful out here. Not counting the Land Rover, of course. The Land Rover was painted green, though, and J. felt that this counterbalanced its inherent un-natural... ness. Unnatural. Non-naturalness. He thought for a moment. Un-naturalité. Breathe in... 'Hey, guys', he shouted over the din of the engine, although being a modern Land Rover it wasn't all that noisy, as, even though the makers prided (proud?) themselves on being gritty and brutal in the way that 'Taggart' was when Taggart was still in it, they had moved with the times without appearing to pander exclusively to urban customers. Breathe in again. 'Hey guys', J. shouted, 'how do you say it, if something is unnatural, but that's like something that it has as a thing about it?' R. turned from his mental battle of wills with the tree and looked quizzically at J. as if J.'s mouth had just vomited a string of nonsensical blood-stained snot. 'Wha?', he said. 'Wha?' is a bit like 'What?', but with a big bucket of incredulity fed into the mix. 'You heard', said J. R. was puzzled. This kind of question reminded him of the kinds of questions he got at work. Like 'how do you think it would be if... when we introduce some kind of co-branding solution on this channel... any suggestions?' 'Do you... want to know if something... is unnatural?' he offered, tentatively. J. shook his head. 'I know what is unnatural. The Land Rover is unnatural', he shouted. Yes, I know that too, thought R. The British car industry has produced some extremely unnatural products, he thought. Unnatural people make unnatural things. He imagined a factory somewhere in the Midlands, full of human-sized amoebas slaving over a production line to produce a car made out of small metal models of Norman Wisdom. 'Young people like Norman Wisdom. They do. Let's market it as a cute, fun, small car', says the head of the plant, a big transparent blob with a barely-visible black dot where its heart would be if it was a person and not a blob. 'We shall call it the Kingoddingstroke Blechamat -a catchy name, and we will fill it with cyanide, a substance which young people like, and we will sell it for a million billion gazillion pounds in a single shop in the middle of Iceland, but only to five people who we shall choose from a national database of double-agents, and then we shall ask them if they like it, and if they do, we shall take the car back from them, break it, and spray it in a bright yellow colour before throwing it into a hole'. R. used to work in the motor industry, and had bad memories that he was trying to smother. Most of them involved thick-headed people acting as if nothing was wrong, in such an obvious way as to suggest that something was wrong.

'And I want to say that it has 'unnatural' as a property of itself - what kind of thing is that?', said J. again. J. could not understand how anybody could fail to understand this. R. liked trashy Europop records. He had heard that kind of mangled English before in countless up-beat, quirkily-translated lyrics. 'Emotions are vibrations at the speed of light!' he said, smiling inwardly. J. was puzzled. 'What?' This went on for a bit and in the end they never worked out what the other was going on about.

While its 6" by 9" format necessarily limits the sizes of the illustrations, Gale's choices of which illustrations to include are excellent, ranging from the requisite Picabias, Ernsts, and Dalis to works by lesser-known (and sometimes non-European) artists like Remedios Varo. The author has thoroughly researched his subject, and the text is both authoritative and insightful.

This book is incredible in its design and content. Th quality of the images and text is superb. It also bridges the history between Dada and surrealism presenting works of art in vivid color along the way. It serves as a resource of the two movements backgrounds and history as well as pleasing the eye with its many examples.

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