Links, Curiosities & Mixed Wonders – 13

These last times have been quite dense, in the wake of the publication of The Petrifier.
Allow me a breif summary. 1) On the Italian magazine Venerdì di Repubblica a nice article by Giulia Villoresi came out: it starts out by reviewing the book but soon shifts to the wider subject of new aesthetics of the macabre, saving some nice words for this blog. 2) I was featured on the Swiss website Ossarium for their series Death Expert of the Month, and upon answering one of their three questions I recounted a tragic episode that particularly influenced my work. 3) I also took part in The Death Hangout, a podcast + YouTube series in which I chatted for half an hour with hosts Olivier and Keith, discussing museums and disturbing places, the symbolic meaning of human remains, the cruelty and bestiality of death, etc. 4) Carlo Vannini‘s photographs served as an inspiration to the talented Claudia Crobatia of A Course In Dying for her excellent considerations on the morbid but fruitful curiosity of the generation that grew up with websites like Rotten.com.

Let’s start immediately with the links, but not before having revisited a classic 1972 Monty Python sketch, in which Sam Peckinpah, who in those years was quite controversial for his violent westerns, gets to direct a movie about British upper class’ good old days.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=LeYznvQvnsY

The blog Rocaille – dedicated to the kind of Beauty that lurks in the dark – is one of my favorite virtual spaces. And recently Annalisa visited the wunderkammer Theatrum Mundi (I also wrote about it a while ago), which in turn is one of my favorite concrete spaces. So, you can imagine, I was twice as delighted.
Another friend I unconditionally admire is relic hunter Elizabeth Harper, who runs the All The Saints You Should Know website. A few days ago she published a truly exceptional account of the Holy Week processions in Zamora, Spain: during those long days dedicated to the celebration of Christ’s death, she witnessed a paradoxical loosening of social and sexual inhibitions. But is it really a paradox? Maybe not, if, as Georges Bataille pointed out, eroticism is ultimately an anticipation of death itself, which erases individual boundaries. This might be why it is so strictly connected to ecstasy, and to the sacred.

Since we’re talking Bataille: in his obscene Story of the Eye, there’s this unforgettable passage where the protagonist Simone slips between her legs the eyeball she tore off the corpse of a priest (the engraving above, inspired by the scene in question , is by Bellmer).
This eyed vagina, or vagina oculata, is an extreme and repulsive image, but it has an archetypal quality and it is representative of the complex eye/egg analogy that underlies the whole story.
Following the same juxtaposition between creation (bringing to light) and vision, some have inserted a pinhole camera into the female genitalia. The Brainoise blog talks about it in a fascinating article (Italian only): several artists have in fact tried to use these rudimentary and handcrafted appliances in a Cronenberg-like fusion with the human body.
By the way, one of the first posts on Bizzarro Bazar back in 2009 was dedicated to Wayne Martin Belger’s pinhole cameras, which contain organic materials and human remains.
Toru Kamei creates beautiful still, or not-so-still, life paintings. Here are some of his works:

When it comes to recipes, we Italians can be really exasperating. Post a pic of chicken spaghetti, and in zero time you will be earning many colorful and unlikely names. A food nazi Twitter account.

Above is a mummified skeleton found 15 years ago in the Atacama desert of Chile. Many thought — hoped — it would be proved to be of alien origin. DNA tests have shown a much more earthly, and touching, truth.
A typical morning in Australia: you wake up, still sleepy, you put your feet down and you realize that one of your slippers has disappeared. Where the heck can it be? You’re sure you left it there last night, beside the other one. You also don’t recall seeing that three-meter python curled up in the bedroom.

Australia again: a family went out on the beach to discover the oldest message in a bottle ever found.
In a Parallel Universe is a photographic series by Eli Rezkallah which humorously overturns some infamous sexists ads from the Fifties.

Everybody knows New Orleans Mardi Gras, but few are familiar with its more visceral version, held each year in several Cajun communities of South Louisiana: the courir de Mardi Gras. Unsettling masks and attires of ancient origin mocking noblemen’s clothes and the clergy, armies of unruly pranksters, bring chaos in the streets and whipped by captains on horseback, sacrificial chickens chased through muddy fields… here are some wonderful black and white photos of this eccentric manifestation. (Thanks, Elisa!)

There are several “metamorphic” vanitas, containing a skull that becomes visible only if the image is looked at from a certain distance. This is my favorite one, on the account of the unusual side view and the perfect synthesis of Eros and Thanatos; anybody knows who the artist is? [EDIT: art by Bernhard Gutmann, 1905, “In the midst of life we are in death”. Thanks Roberto!]

Country homes in Vermont often feature a special, crooked window that apparently serves no practical purpose. Perhaps they are meant to discourage witches that might be fluttering around the house.
My Twitter went a little crazy since I posted the photos of this magnificent goat, found mainly in Siria and Lebanon. The breed is the result of careful genetic selection, and it won several beauty contests for ruminants. And I bet this cutie would break many a heart in the Star Wars Cantina, too.

The LondoNerd tells the story of the exotic magician Chung Ling Soo who died on stage (Italian only), a bizarre incident with an unexpected twist.
Here are some wonderful vintage photographs, taken in 1950 by Jack Birns for Life magazine, depicting the inhabitants of Venzone with their famous mummies. (Thanks to Juliette of Le Bizarreum for reminding me of the existence of these photos.)

Finally, I would like to leave you with a little gift that I hope is welcome: I created a playlist on Spotify for all readers of Bizzarro Bazar. A very heterogeneous musical offer, but with a common denominator which is ultimately the same underlying this blog: wonder. Whether it’s an experimental indie piece, a dark melody, a tattered and frenzied polka, a nostalgic song, some old blues about death, an ironic and weird reinterpretation of a classic theme, or an example of outsider music played by homeless people and deviant characters, these tunes can surprise you, transport you to unusual soundscapes, sometimes push you out of your comfort zone.
Each song has been selected for a specific reason I could even explain in a didactic way — but I won’t. I will leave you the pleasure of discovery, and also the freedom to guess why I included this or that.
The playlist consists of more than 8 hours of music (and I will continue to add stuff), which should be enough for anyone to find a little something, maybe just a starting point for new research and discoveries. Enjoy!

The Moon Baby

Feb5

This article first appeared on Illustrati n.41, #PANSPERMIA

That’s how it turned out to be — your mother was bleeding.
The doctors opened the woman’s body, and saved her. You should know that, despite all their cruelty and barbarity, human beings do this as well: they keep each other alive.
Your mother was out of the woods but the doctors wanted to understand why there was so much blood (another human thing, to try and understand). The flesh became a casket and revealed the secret that had been hidden till then, a secret of which the woman herself was not aware: they saw you.
You had struggled to surface, and you had failed.

They called you extrauterine, but you are actually extraterrestrial. From the dark of your mother’s womb you moved to the shining transparency of the liquid that would prevent you from dissolving. Your floating feet have never touched this planet. You have not touched the ground, you have not landed. Our bitter dimension could not damage you.
Out of time — at least out of the time of the human beings — you are floating motionless.

I found an ancient vase, hand-blown more than a century ago by an artisan who lived in a faraway continent, to honour your alien beauty. I gently immersed the minuscule, snow white limbs in the liquid, as if they were holy relics and I was their humble keeper.
Now you are watching from the shelf, suffused with gleam.
I talk to you as if I addressed my own wonder. Only a fool would expect answers from a mystery.

What do you know about the Universe?
Maybe life is precious and rare. Maybe it is more similar to a mould, a moss clinging to every minimal surface, to any rock it can find in the cold of the cosmos.
What dreams have you dreamed?
Maybe for a while you have felt the warmth, the ancient and familiar sensation, because we all know how to be born and how to die. But maybe your incomplete shape did not let you perceive the beginning nor the end.
What do you see when you look out at me from inside there?
Maybe my pain means something to you. Maybe it is only the consequence of my persevering in living.

You who are out of the game, out of the world. You who have known the basics — to take shape and vanish — without your perceptions being clouded by words, thoughts, emotions. You who, of the heart, only knew the ephemeral vertigo.
Tell me. How can we go on, blinded and wounded as we are, fallen into the morass, belonging to the race that burnt the wings in the attempt to reach the sun?

“Do not fight. Slow down the collapses. Relax the muscles. Let yourself be conquered.”
This is what the Moon Baby seems to whisper to me.
“You cannot fall. There is nothing you have to do.”

Buon compleanno Ed Wood!

Oct10

Edwood1

85 anni fa, il 10 ottobre 1924, nasceva Edward D. Wood Jr., l’uomo passato alla storia come il peggior regista di tutti i tempi. In questi 85 anni, molti sono stati i candidati pronti a strappargli il poco ambito titolo. Eppure Wood ha sempre dimostrato di avere qualcosa in più dei suoi tanti, pessimi colleghi: un amore incondizionato per il cinema, e per il raccontare storie. Il fatto che non ne fosse assolutamente capace non fa che aggiungere fascino ai suoi brutti film.

Per quanto tecnicamente risibili, infatti, le sue pellicole hanno un sapore naif che è difficile trovare altrove: se di registi negati, anche peggiori di Ed Wood, si potrebbe forse riempire un elenco del telefono, nessuno avrà mai l’amalgama inimitabile riscontrabile nelle sue pellicole.

Film orrendi per palati fini e per cinefili, le sue opere tentano maldestramente di inserirsi nel filone degli shockers degli anni ’40 e ’50, quando il genere era già ormai in declino. A partire da Glen or Glenda, del 1953, con povertà di mezzi, una tecnica inesistente, e basandosi su idee e plot quantomeno infantili, Wood continuò ad inanellare una serie di film definibili soltanto dall’espressione inglese so bad it’s good (talmente brutti da essere belli).

Non staremo qui a parlare ancora di Plan 9 From Outer Space, ritenuto il suo capolavoro, con i celeberrimi dischi volanti che penzolano dai fili di nylon o con la controfigura di Bela Lugosi più improbabile della storia; ormai, anche grazie al biopic di Tim Burton del 1994, quasi tutti conoscono le peculiarità dell’opera. Lasceremo invece la parola al film stesso, in questa selezione di citazioni dalla sceneggiatura.

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Criswell: Saluti, amico mio. Siamo tutti interessati al futuro, perché è là che io e voi passeremo il resto della nostra vita.

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Criswell: Amico mio, hai visto questi fatti basati su testimonianze giurate. Puoi forse provare che non siano successi? Magari sulla strada di casa passerai di fianco a qualcuno, nel buio, e non lo saprai mai, perché verrà dallo spazio profondo.

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Lt. Harper: Una cosa è sicura: l’Ispettore Clay è morto – assassinato – e qualcuno deve esserne responsabile!

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Criswell: [voce narrante] Al funerale del vecchio, nascosta dagli sguardi dei partecipanti, la sua MOGLIE MORTA stava guardando!

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Col. Edwards: Questa è la storia più fantastica che io abbia mai sentito.
Jeff: Ed è vera, anche, fino all’ultima parola.
Col. Edwards: Quella è la parte fantastica.

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Becchino: Hai sentito niente?
Becchino: Mi è sembrato di sì.
Becchino: Non mi piace sentire rumori, specialmente quando non dovrebbero essercene.

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Paula Trent: Non ti ho mai visto in questo stato d’animo, prima d’ora.
Jeff Trent: Immagino sia perché non sono mai stato in questo stato d’animo prima d’ora.

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Col. Tom Edwards: Perché è così importante che volete contattare i governi della nostra Terra?
Eros: Per via della morte. Perché tutti voi della Terra siete idioti.
Jeff Trent: Aspetta un attimo, amico.
Eros: No, aspetta un attimo tu. All’inizio era il fuoco d’artificio, un esplosivo innocuo. Poi la vostra granata: avete cominciato a uccidervi tra di voi, pochi alla volta. Poi la bomba. Poi una bomba più grande: molte persone venivano uccise in un solo momento. Poi i vostri scienziati capitarono sulla bomba atomica, e divisero l’atomo. Poi la bomba ad idrogeno, con cui fate esplodere l’aria stessa. Ora potete organizzare la distruzione totale dell’intero universo che ruota attorno al nostro sole: l’unica esplosione che vi rimane è la Solaranite.
Col. Tom Edwards: Macché, non esiste neanche.

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L’Alieno Imperatore: Piano 9? Ah, sì. Il Piano 9 si occupa della resurrezione dei morti. Elettrodi a lunga distanza inseriti nelle ghiandole pineali e pituitarie dei morti di recente.

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General Roberts: [il Generale sta spiegando perché la trasmissione da parte alieni è caduta] Il contatto è perso definitivamente. Le condizioni atmosferiche nello spazio profondo spesso interferiscono con le trasmissioni.

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Eros: [rivolto alla sua collega aliena] Sai, è una cosa interessante se ci pensi bene… la gente della Terra, che può pensare, è così spaventata da coloro che non possono farlo: i morti. Beh, la nostra navicella dovrebbe essersi ricaricata. È meglio se cominciamo.

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Col. Tom Edwards: Per un periodo abbiamo cercato di contattarli via radio ma nessuna risposta. Poi attaccarono una città, una piccola città, lo ammetto, ma comunque una città di persone, persone che sono morte.

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Lt John Harper: Era un disco.
Patrolman Larry: Un disco volante? E cosa glielo fa dire?
Lt John Harper: Ti ricordi il rumore che abbiamo sentito l’altra notte?
Patrolman Larry: Ci ha gettato a terra, come potrei dimenticarlo?
Lt John Harper: Esattamente, ma non ti stai ricordando il suono vero e proprio.
Patrolman Larry: Si sbaglia, Tenente. Sono d’accordo con lei che questo suono è simile, ma che mi dice della luce accecante?
Lt John Harper: Beh, non l’hai mai sentito dire? Tante volte un disco volante non brilla, e non ha nessuna luce.
Patrolman Larry: Questo prova che lei ha ragione! Cosa facciamo ora, Tenente?

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Paula Trent: Caro, non preoccuparti. I dischi volanti sono lassù. Il cimitero è là fuori. Ma io sarò chiusa a chiave qui dentro.

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Air Force Captain: Visite? Questo implica dei visitatori.

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Eros: Non vi serviranno le pistole.
Jeff Trent: Beh, forse noi pensiamo che ci servano.

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Eros: [con estremo disgusto] Vedete? Vedete?! Le vostre stupide menti! Stupide! Stupide! Stupide!

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Frasi di lancio del film:

Indicibili orrori dallo spazio profondo paralizzano i viventi e fanno risorgere i morti!

Alieni resuscitano i morti! Dischi volanti su Hollywood!

Persi per persi…

Sep4

…meglio perversi. Questo devono essersi detti William Shatner (che già una volta su questo blog aveva dato sfoggio dei suoi slanci recitativi) e l’anonimo omino assurdamente mascherato da alieno, prima di recitare questa sequenza divenuta classica nell’era di Internet.

Con tutta probabilità, la peggiore scena di combattimento della Storia. Direttamente da Star Trek.