valentino da budapesti

the 19th cookbook
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2001-11-14 03:38:41 (UTC)

This is a translation. That is,..

This is a translation. That is, this is a zeroes and
ones version of a very analogue series of handmade books.
If I am not a liar, and I disclose all dirty little pieces
of unecessary information, I can say that the version you
are reading here is alive due to the demands of a
university english course. But besides this, I am very
curious about how my nouns and verbs stand up on their
own. The original paper books are more visual than
verbal. They record my life not only in words but also in
drawings, collages, photographs and everything and anything
that can be put on to paper. Even the text becomes part of
the aesthetic; some pages need the texture of the
handwritten alphabet to visually complete them.
So here I am. My words are stripped of their
aesthetic function, no red ink or white ink or calligraphy,
they must live or die solely on the strength of their
arrangement. And now for the experiment:

First a friend, then a mistress, then a wife, but now
limping slowly toward distrust and dislike, she is
black&white photography. And I visit her for an entire day
today. I am starting to distrust her because of her
deathly corrosive, poisonous nature. I am careful in her
company and do not fuck her without caution, but I feel
that the days of our relationship are numbered. My
beautiful carcinogenic bitch. But I visit her for an
entire day today. Printing photographs that should have
been printed a year ago. And in the evening...Mad bouts of
revisionism, as I try to finish old books. I paint over
pages, rip out photographs, glue in photographs, anything
and everything to correct the dispoition of faulty
sections. The only things I won't touch are the words.
Whatever I have written stays unaltered, sheltered by a
holy immunity. Unfortunately, even when I think that I am
slowly catching up, I realize how far behind I am. This
here is volume XIX, but the last book that is untouchably
finished is volumeX. So there are nine books needing work
in the budapesti library. Some need photographs, some need
a few words, but all have pages that scream and beg and
curse, waiting for their God to end their misery.