A Place to Keep Stuff

Here, a poem written by Claes Oldenberg put to pictures.

I am for an art that is political

erotical

mystical

that does something more than sit on its ass in a museum

I am for an art that grows up not knowing it is art at all

an art given the chance of having a starting point at zero

I am for an art that embroils itself with everyday crap & still comes out on top

I am for an art that imitates the human

that is comical, if necessary

or violent, or whatever is necessary

I am for an art that takes its form from the lines

of life itself

that twists

and extends

and accumulates

and spits and drips

and is heavy and coarse

and blunt

and sweet

and stupid as life itself

I am for an artist who vanishes, turning up with a white cap painting signs and hallways

I am for an art that comes out of a chimney like black hair and scatters in the sky.

I am for an art that spills out of an old man's purse when he is bounced off a passing fender.

I am for an art out of a doggy's mouth, falling five stories from the roof.

I am for an art that a kid licks, after pulling away the wrapper.

I am for an art that joggles like everyone's knees, when the bus traverses and excavation.

I am for an art that is smoked like a cigarette

smells like a pair of shoes

I am for an art that flaps like a flag, or helps blow noses

like a handkerchief

I am for an art that is put on

and taken off, like pants,

which develops holes, like socks

which is eaten, like a piece of pie,

or abandoned with great contempt, like a piece of shit

I am for an art covered with bandages, I am for an art that limps

and rolls

and runs

and jumps

I am for an art that coils and grunts like a wrestler. I am for an art that sheds hair.

I am for an art you can sit on. I am for an art you can pick your nose with, or stub your toe on.

I am for an art from a pocket

from deep channels of the ear

from the edge of a knife

from the corners of the mouth

stuck in the eye

or worn on the wrist

I am for art under the skirts, and the art of pinching cockroaches

I am for art that grows in a pot

that comes down out of the skies at night, like lightning,

that hides in the clouds and growls

I am for art that is flipped on and off with a switch.

I am for art that unfolds like a map, that you can squeeze, like your sweetys arm, or kiss, like a pet dog. Which expands and squeaks, like an accordion, which you can spill your dinner on, like an old tablecloth.

I am for an art that you can hammer with,

stitch with, sew with,

paste with, file with.

I am for an art that tells you the time of day,

or where such and such a place is.

I am for an art that helps old ladies across the street.

I am for the art of the washing machine

I am for the art that comes up in fog from sewer holes in winter. I am for the art that spits when you step on a frozen puddle. I am for the worm's art inside the apple. I am for the art of sweat that develops between crossed legs

I am for the art of neck hair and caked tea-cups, for the art between the tines of restaurant forks, for odor of boiling dish water.

I am for the art of sailing on sundays

and the art of red and white gasoline pumps.

I am for an art of bright blue factory columns and blinking biscuit signs.

I am for the art of cheap plaster and enamel

I am for the art of worn marble and smashed slate. I am for the art of rolling cobblestones and sliding sand. I am for the art of slag and black coal. I am for the art of dead birds.

I am for the art of scratchings in the asphalt, daubing at the walls. I am for the art of bending and kicking metal and breaking glass, and pulling at things to make them fall down.

I am for the art of punching and skinned knees and sat-on bananas. I am for the art of kids' smells. I am for the art of mama-babble.

I am for the art of bar-babble, tooth-picking, beerdrinking, egg-salting, in-sulting. I am for the art of falling off a bartstool.

I am for the art of underwear

and the art of taxi cabs.

I am for the art of ice cream cones dropped on concrete.

I am for the majestic art of dog turds, rising like cathedrals.

I am for blinking arts, lighting up the night

I am for art falling

splashing

wiggling

jumping

going on and off.

I am for the art of fat truck-tires and black eyes.

I am for Kool-art

7-UP art

Pepsi Art

Sunshine Art

15 cents art

Vatronol Art

Dro-Bomb Art

Vam Art

Menthol Art

L&M Art

Ex Lax Art

Venida Art

Heaven Hill Art

Pamryl Art

San-o-Med Art

Rx Art

9.99 art

Now Art

New Art

Fire Sale Art

Last Chance Art

Tomorrow Art

Franks Art

Ducks Art

Meat O Rama Art

I am for the art of bread wet by rain. I am for the rat's dance between floors. I am for the art of flies walking on a slick pear in the electric light. I am for the art of soggy onions and firm green shoots. I am for the art of clicking among the nuts when the roaches come and go. I am for the brown sad art of rotting apples.

I am for the art of meowls and clatter of cats and for the art of their dumb electric eyes.

I am for the white art of refigerators and their muscular openings and closing.

I am for the art of rust and mold. I am for the art of hearts, funeral hearts or sweetheart hearts, full of nougat. I am for the art of worn meathooks and singing barrels of red, white, blue and yellow meat.

I am for the art of things lost or thrown away, coming home from school. I am for the art of cock-and-ball trees and flying cows and the noise of rectangles and squares. I am for for the art of crayons and weak grey pencil-lead, and grainy wash and sticky oil paint, and the art of windshield wipers and the art of the finger on a cold window, on dusty steel or in the bubbles on the sides of a bathtub.

I am for the art of teddy-bears and guns and decapitated rabbits, explodes umbrellas, raped beds, chairs with their brown bones broken, burning trees, firecracker ends, chicken bones, pigeon bones, and boxes with men sleeping in them.

am for the art of slightly rotten funeral flowers, hung bloody rabbits and wrinkly yellow chickens, bass drums & tambourines, and plastic phonographs.