Inception one - Magicae Cubum

4cec2c64b54f9b0aa3c0915843d0fedd2018b243a961b2239cb737d6bd7748ed

The path to Magicae Cubum

This is the beginning of inception one.

On this journey I will show you the origin of my ⬛️.

Follow me, as I take you down the rabbit hole created by my obsession.

Be vigilant - as always, nothing is as it seems.

It is in your hands. Unity is key!

I was drowning in a flood of light and sound. A world at war raged around my head, swallowing the best of our generation; an inferno kindled by madness. I began each day by reading the news and vomiting my breakfast

We had created so many wonders – the automobile, the aeroplane, the telegraph. Instead of being inspired by the magic of our creations, I felt empty. They were like a mocking parody of our human powers.

Great art is usually the creation of times of great upheaval. Yet I was barren. The war and the crisis produced no inspiration in me, except to consume ever greater quantities of tobacco and alcohol. Even Cubism seemed a slave to the industrial misery of our times.

To escape the unproductive chaos in my mind, I retreated to my tiny apartment. I ate nothing, drank nothing, and read nothing. I avoided polluting my body and mind with outside influences.

I lay on the floor, imagining that I could hear the bombs and the screams of the dying in the streets outside. An atheist, still I prayed, though only to myself. I sought forgiveness for my own role as a propagandist in the service of our violent, unworthy world.

It may have been 7 days or 40, I cannot say. I found myself staring at a tin box, gifted to me by Mayakovsky. It rattled when I shook it and I remembered that he had gifted me not the box but what was inside. He told me that it contained a door.

Opening Mayakovsky’s box I found a handmade stamp. On one side he had written “eat” and on the other “me”. My maniacal friend was not one to be denied & so I placed the sacrilegious host upon my tongue and pressed it against the roof of my mouth. It dissolved rapidly.

For a long time nothing happened, then I felt my body drifting away from the world. Like an umbilical or the string on a balloon, I was tethered ever more tenuously to objective reality. I was being born into a dream state.

An overwhelming anxiety filled me up. I shivered, and my teeth chattered; feverish. I could think of nothing but death. Finally, I closed my eyes, let go of the world and allowed myself to travel inward w/o direction or conscious control.

I saw a woman, or so it seemed by their dress and hair. But nothing was as it seemed, and no assumptions were possible. Not of the person, nor of the box-like building that they entered. They waved me to follow and I obeyed.

The building was a box. And inside the box were more boxes. All were black and featureless. Like three dimensional mirrors facing each other and receding into the infinite distance. I was surrounded by a variety of repetitions.

My guide lifted a finger to their lips & with their other hand pointed around the room. A revelation struck me like a tram that I was seeing aspects of my soul, disordered and cluttered. The fever passed & I was able to explore without fear, like a ghost haunting my own mind.

I opened box after box in my vision, finding nothing, until I realized that nothing was precisely what I was meant to find. What I was being shown and what I was exploring was intangible. It was my subjectivity itself; shifting, strobing, evolving.

When I returned to the world of my senses, the intangible of my mental landscape had transformed the outer world. I thought I was “seeing with new eyes” but, no, I was seeing through my own and not through the eyes of the state or church or capitalist or king.

This world of my subjectivity was a world of ecstasy and colour; the pure experience of my senses, unbridled by objective form. It was a breezy meadow, unblemished by a path and a world without the border guards of aesthetic rules. It was, in fact, the purest form of beauty.

My own subjectivity at first took me away on its powerful currents. It was beautiful but wild and unpredictable, prone to disaster and collapse. I sought out my guide, for she was the factor of control.

My guide wasn’t a gendarme of my subjectivity, forcing it into prisons of objective control, which had plagued Futurism and Cubism. She was its creative potential, the organizer of my subjectivity according to my subjectivity’s own rules.

In the dialectical tension between the free-flowing current of emotional experience and the organizing principle of my subjectivity’s history, novel patterns emerged. My guide turned my subjectivity into new, singular aesthetic principles. I was ready to lead a revolution.