Cultism-the burning of efigees (through lack of cattle)
Cultism has become something overtly impractical (disfunctional).These days, the ritual sacrificing of animals is totally out of the question. Setting fire to healthy animals does not go down well with ecologists and animal rights activists (pro-life campaigners) whereas the burning of those beasts stricken with disease, quite simply plagiarism, a lame trip down memory lane, an impertinent throwback to the times of the great european cattle plague.It is therefore quite easy to understand the undying appeal and resurging fascination with Hemingway whose works, hard-headed feminists and flesh-eating bible bashers alike, find so reproachable.
In this case, however, we are dealing with works of art. Kamil Sipowicz's sculptures are cult items in their purest (generic) form. Stripped of temple and freed from ritual, they scream out ceremoniously on deaf ears to their maker (high priest) unreasonably and in vain, to return, centre stage.Isolated and lonely, they are born out of a mystical yet prefabricated and totally false conception to which we, simple mortals, have been subjected to by one of the great minds (philosophers) of the 19th century.
These efigees, personifying the Gods and lesser divines, who in the annals of contemporary art, have bitten the bullet, are a dying breed, relicts of time and space, fleeting supernovas, in the great void of the universe..In these troubled times, the exhibiting of efigees is looked at with scorn (disdain), moreover, if the efigee at hand,shys away from a clearly defined deformation (flaw). This is all the more frustrating at a time in which, the conquest of the efigee has become common as muck on an international scale. Thus it would seem suitable to burn these sculptures to a cinder, something which I recently proposed to the Artist himself but then, he too, would become the stereotypical victim of the current fad; mayhem and destruction. Quite obviously, our generation has precious little to offer. Meanwhile, these efigees that stand proud before us in all their unequivoble nudity, give us food for thought. For one, are they not an unnerving symbol of the artist's solitude? An artist who cold-bloodedly turns his back on that last thread of understanding between him and the populi? The statues are neither sacrificial beasts, nor are they anonimous remnants of some archaic civilization. They were spawned out of a profound fascination for matter. And matter, is all that they will ever be. What peaves about them most, is that distinct lack of the artist's persona (identity), that minimal 'geste finale'(token of respect); the signature.This is both offensive and sacrilegious, a preposterous defiance. The runt of contemporary art. But is not the blind purpose of the savage, the truest form of sacrilege as he blatently flashes the raw wand of heresy before our ver eyes. Cultism, sacrilege, heresy. A tasty dainty to satiate even the most snotty taste buds. Although, moronically confined to a gallery, where the air still reaks profusely of the cheap piss-wine from the last event, they manage to steal their way into the garden where, in the company of some comrade, they lament that undeniable outcome, modern woman's ksenological and tyrranical venom and the childish helpessness of the modern male. I am specifically talking about the daunting presence of Messalina, whose three-pronged clitoris serves to remind us of our unconsumed duty to the holy (sacred) trio.In her shadow, basks the timid Moloch which immediately makes me think both of the Gods of the stadium and the ceremonial mass in the field. Kaligula, however, serves to remind us of that long forgotten custom of ending the party with murder or at least a decent, bloody thrashing to the melodious sound of a lyre. Evil indian divines. A tear rolls in my eye as I savour, once more, the end of the delicious 60's when raga and sanscrit where more common than the scooter or a pair of nylon stockings.
So maybe fire as the final compliment to the actors creativity? In retrospect, that thought too, must die. The efigees in question, in some cryptical sense, have already been burned to the ground.In the name of time. Let them be seen for what they really are as they stand, grilled to a mute in the eternal flame, beef steaks for the gods.
Translation by Marek ledziewski