This Post Has No Title, These Words Have No Clue

Akira Takizawa has yet to recognize the gun, the mobile phone, or the fact that he is naked. (Detail of frame from 'Eden of the East', episode 1, "I Picked Up a Prince")

Insofar as a common and significant link ‘twixt the intimacy of driving a knife into another person, to the one, and coital penetration, to the other, is testosterone, the act of shooting the place up starts to seem very nearly masturbatory.

The psychoanalysisα of that proposition is probably as fascinating as it is grim. At some point it seems to denigrate the American shooting crisis while exploiting the very notion of rape culture, and it is easy enough to call any mass-murderer a pathetic wanker. Yet the analogy persists, and it is easy enough to regret, before it is written or uttered, any phrase about shooting his load in public.

Killing is intimate. Killing is also distal.

He can tell her he loves her; she can believe him; it can be true; and the link between this passion he shares and the violence he might commit against another is testosterone.


α The temptation to dismiss, out of hand, expected pop-culture strains of evolutionary psychology according to their obvious weakness presuming coital penetration as inherent to the existential justification of sexual differentiation, would be erroneous in at least one context, as the apparent fault becomes at least symbolically relevant; to the other, invoking semiotic values might be an overstatement. But where the pop strains of evopsych would discuss men evolving to penetrate women, Y previously evolved, and, indeed, continues to this day to adapt and select and evolve, not as delivery unto X, but as environmental distribution of gamete for X. Where human males may have specialized for gamete delivery, this is merely specialization of gamete distribution. And while it is true enough that word games are easy, and phagogenesis could, artistically, at least, be argued an intimate precursor to general environmental gamete distribution, the greater danger is the potential for evopsych to finally recognize the argument that masculine raison d’être really is to be a wanker.


Let’s call it … um … er … yeah.

Anyway, over at AZCentral, the headline for Bill Miller’s McClatchy article is, “Police: Burglar forces elderly woman to make him sandwich“. And there is something … um … er … yeah. Something about that. I mean, make your own headline. I did.

A 39-year-old man has confessed to breaking into the home of an elderly woman early Monday in Fort Worth, Texas, and forcing her to watch as he performed a sex act on himself, police said.

Mitchel Wayne Stewart also ordered the 77-year-old woman to make him a sandwich before he fled with her cell phone, police said.

Oh. Damn. Proper. That was the word I was looking for. I kept hanging up on dignified, or even nice. (As in, “That’s a nice way of putting it.”) Except, well, obviously … er, um … yeah.

So let me get this straight: You break into a house, get yourself off in front of an old woman, compel her to make you a sandwich, then steal her mobile phone and leave?

Like I said, write your own headline. After all … oh, right.

Art is ….

Strangely, the artist isn’t the biggest wanker of the bunch.

Controversial performance artist Jordan McKenzie, 40, has made 55 images by ejaculating over canvas and sprinkling carbon over the results to immortalise them ….

…. Father Kit Cunningham, of St Etheldredas Church in Clerkenwell, said: “All we can do is pray for the artist.”

The clergyman, based at the oldest Roman Catholic church in London, stressed: “The extraordinary thing is that someone actually thought it was art and put it on at his gallery.

“We are clearly dealing with a very mixed-up person.”

Come see everything ... artistic ejaculations

• • •


Sometimes, we respond in the moment and forego an opportunity to build something more complex than the base reaction, which may range from irony and mild amusement to shock and shuddering disgust. In this case, I went with mild amusement. And, I suppose, irony, as there seems something amiss to me about a Catholic priest—one whose livelihood depends on one of the largest creative endeavors in human history—denouncing something as unartistic.

That is, of course, the lazy route. Further consideration raises all manner of morbid questions. For answers, why not turn to the artist himself, or, at least, the Centre for Recent Drawing’s explanation of the exhibit, which opens as I write this, and runs through February 1:

During the last decade, McKenzie has produced a significant body of work that includes performance, installation, drawing and sonic art, all of which is notable for its brave and often shocking use of the body to explore taboo and push the boundaries of what is acceptable.

This latest series of drawings, collectively entitled Spent, is no less controversial. Referencing the universal themes of procreation and creativity, these works are produced using human bodily fluids: the artist ejaculates on a sheet of drawing paper and covers it with a layer of carbon dust. When dry, the excess dust is removed, leaving a black imprint of the spurted semen.

Signed and dated, the images collectively become an acknowledgment of human futility in the face of time as well as a violent record of male sexual drive. Caught and frozen as black-on-white eruptions, these simple auto-drawings plot desire, libidinal drive and sexual economies whilst powerfully evoking mortality and the will to overcome its inevitability. Each one has both an aggressive, chaotic imprint and a fragile delicacy that complement the medium, adding to the body of work by various artists that explores and articulates the notion of the artist as (pro)creator. On a more humorous level, they also subvert this, becoming an ironic take on the machismo of action painting by reframing it in a hyper-sexual manner.

On the upside, I suppose that’s more comprehensible than the guy walking ’round Britain with a rock.