Recreating (and advancing) pk’s censored domains: Macroinformation.org &
Knatz.com / Teaching / Society & Its Pathologies / Social Survival / Evolution /
@K. 2005 01 27
One thing I love about the female, one thing of many, is her intrinsic mystery. Physically, physiologically, the vagina is hidden. The girl can be stark naked, standing straight up and down, turn pirouettes, and you still can’t see anything.
One thing I hate about women is that you can’t see anything. Oh, sure: the tits, the ass, the bush … it’s all right there. But not the vagina.
The girl can be spread-eagled on her back with her legs encompassing Mason-Dixon to Canada: how much vagina do you see? Oh, her vulva may be wide open … (How many men think the vulva IS the vagina? I heard of one women who complained to the doctor of pain and the doctor found that the women, for years married, was still a virgin, her hymen intact. On the other hand she had a terribly inflamed urethra! Her husband had frustrated both of them and hurt certainly her by forcing his way into the hole that piss is supposed to come out of but nothing is supposed to go into.) (And even with the vulva as open as if it had its own Statue of Liberty, where, please, is the clitoris?)
(I’m joking. I knew one gal who had a clit like an Italian sausage, boy did it love to be bumped; but I’ve known far more women you needed a microscope for; and one so well buried under flesh she wouldn’t have felt a hammer.)
The penis, when welcome, can get the vagina to open. One can see an open vagina: after a lot of work: if one is in the right position: face right in the pussy: a millimeter from the asshole: if one’s done a proper amount of sucking.
Now males … Men are ridiculous. It’s all up front, right out in the open. Vulnerable. Embarrassing. An absurd display.
I didn’t see much of my father past age four or five, but on one occasion he took me to the zoo. I remember him exclaiming aloud: we were near the zebra cage — I had no idea what had stimulated such spontaneous awe from my father — till I heard a splat. Only then did I realize that my eyes, if not my mind, had taken in a huge erection, just now slipping back into its sheath. Some huge creamy wad had hit the concrete of the miserable cage the poor beasts were confined in. Kids don’t see half of what they see till their attention is drawn to it. (Neither do adults.) The eye sees; the mind selects. OK, that zebra was hung. But that zebra was almost the size of a horse! Horse peters aren’t big compared to the horse the way human dicks are big compared to the human. Forget about the mythologies of Blacks or whatever; all human males are outsized in the genitalia compared to other animals. Uh, wait now: I meant penises. Plenty of other critters have big balls.
Jesus, there was one guy in the army medical lineup who looked like he was wearing a pair of soccer balls under his dick. (My own balls are on the skinny side, but they do their job as though they were Jupiter and Saturn.)
Look at a horse walking. There’s its face, its chest, its forelegs … or there’s its magnificent flank … or, Yai, look at those buttocks! and fetlocks or what-have-you. You’ll notice that it’s a stallion by its size long before you notice the male apparatus. Look at an elephant, a porcupine, an eagle, a trout … A dog walks by, tail raised: you see his balls easily enough. OK, where’s the penis? Hidden in a sheath: and not that big a sheath. My dog was naked every day: but it wasn’t until we mated him that I saw his dick: and then only fleetingly, as it finally slipped from the bitch’s tight hold on it.
A stallion may rear. A bear may stand, or a prairie dog, a chimp, a gorilla. You don’t see much.
But a man: let a man walk naked toward you … How can we stand it? Aren’t we afraid it will catch on something? Doesn’t anyone remember what it was like the first time some accident rapped their balls? Death would be welcome.
I’ll never forget junior high school when we were all dragged to the museum. Hell, I’d been in museums before then. I remember vividly the resentment I felt seeing young girls gazing at broken marble dicks on this Roman or that Greek. Did the girls feel a comparable resentment seeing me trying to feign disinterestedness before the Venus? The Venus’s marble tits were right out in the open! Her arms were broken off but nothing had broken off her nipples. E’en so: lower down: what was there? Nothing!
Or very little. Where in hell did the male put his penis?
I don’t think the girls themselves knew. [note]
(By the way, speaking of broken dicks or chipped balls on statues: I used to go weak kneed at the Met when I’d so much as think of the Etruscan room — with its famous warrior: armored everywhere but where he needed it. The cracked crockery balls, the broken dick, the guy up on a pedestal, were almost at eye level! The time-mutilation of the warrior was right in our face!
(A friend whose regular gig at the Met was to lecture pointed out to me that that statue was rare among Etruscan artifacts for its huge size. Indeed it was unique. Etruscan statues were typically small. Oh? He was leading but I guess I wasn’t following very well; because he pressed on: the statue, one of the most famous items on display, was a total fake.
(Jerry not only knew that it was atypical, that it was fake: he even told me the year it was made, the name of the fraud-artist: and the address of his studio in Italy!
(I’ve told this story before: A decade later the Times ran a front page story giving the exact same information minus the name and address!
(Can you imagine how much more upset I was by the statue once I realized that the mutilation was deliberate? ! That son of a bitch! Knows his audience.)
I tell you, the vagina is amazing. First it’s invisible. It may stay invisible for close to a couple of decades. Or, if you know where to look, and have the opportunity, it looks like a little worm: or the side of a walnut, only the size of a little acorn. Then it looks like a bigger worm, a bigger walnut, a walnut cracking open … Then it looks like the muff that ate the Bronx. [note]
I have more to say about the above. I want to talk of yin and yang, of how one goes out where the other goes in and how one goes in where the other goes out.
I want to talk about the perversity of the clitoris: sometimes the hardest thing to find even when you’re looking for it: and think you know where to look! how it can slip back into hiding even after you’ve gotten hold of it. how inept the woman seems to be at making it available: even when she’s begging it and you!
I’ll fit that and perhaps more in: later.
2005 01 31 Something else though today demands to be fit first. I’ll develop it at my IonaArc blog (and mirror it at perhaps more than one Knatz.com location: including here.)
One word though while I’m here: the mature human male testes display conspicuously. The aroused mature human male penis displays, temporarily, even more conspicuously. The mature human female buttocks, mammaries display conspiculously: from nearly every angle. Ah, the core of the mature human female: her ovaries, NEVER display. And the testes of the immature human male hide almost as deep within the body as the female ovum.
The Muff That Ate the Bronx:
Oh, this is so delicious. I never dreamed that I would find an excuse to use that line: which I assure you is not mine.
Back in 1974 when I met GH Rothe — just after meeting Gail Bruce — Gatja gave me a book published in Germany of her etchings: those etching having been done before she traveled the Americas, lost a husband, moved to New York, and took up mezzotint.
Uh, what shall I say? Every etching in the book was phallus, yonis, and hair. (The etching she gave me soon after we first met that is now hanging on my bedroom wall (dedicated below the signature) is titled Penis Garden.) (Damn, I may just scan it: or at least scan one from the book!)
(Gatja herself had boobs that could have smothered Poland: bludgeoned almost anything.)
Gail — now Gail, realize, was the multi-time Vogue cover girl, the Penn model, the Howard Hawks protégé — took a flip through my book. Took another flip, handed it back, nudged me, and, punctuating her comment with an abrupt nod from the world-class face that suspends over legs that come up to her arm pits, said, “The muff that ate the Bronx.”
Now of course Gail herself could have been repeating, quoting: her husband, some old friend, some stranger on the street: Howard Hawks, perhaps.
And by-the-further-way, that line just now about Gail’s “legs coming up to her armpits”? There I’m quoting Stephanie, my one-time business manager for PK Fine Arts, Ltd.
Oh, yes: why didn’t I think I’d ever use it? Well, I never dreamed I’d live to chat like this about my self. And back then, I didn’t gossip about my artists: except promotionally: wouldn’t dream of saying anything not broad daylight flattering about them. PK Fine Arts, Ltd. was about Gatja and Gail and about Gatja’s work and about Gail’s work (and about the serigrapher’s ability (and my ability) to make Gail’s work look good!)
2005 01 27 PM. The above work, minus the scans, was done after midnight, I’m back with the scans a bit after noon. It was just this hour that I realized that my poor Rothe etching book(lette) got the worse of the mildew and foxing that all of my papers have been exposed to since 1982 when I lost house and home. I was unable to scan any complete image: and consider us lucky that I was able to scan any part of it at all. Some of the shadowing is age and ruin, not the art. The hairy one needs a shampoo. Again, that’s dirt and age and chemical action, not the art.
The book was I believe a museum publication, the title Helgart Rothe. I can’t reliably read the name of the author of the liner notes: I’ll guess at Max Bense. What the hell, Gatja allowed my name to be misspelled when any of her other publishers borrowed my writing for their notes on Rothe: permission never asked. (We think we live in a world of laws and ethics. Ha!) (Right now, I am asking no one’s permission to use this material: the stolen-from should also be allowed to steal.) (Allowed! That’s another joke. Nothing is allowed, everything is allowed. What it comes down to is simply a question of who gets made to pay.)
I tried to sell any and all of Rothe’s work that came my way. In 1974 she bought me a brand-new VW bus and loaded me up with several of everything she had at least several of. The one image that I never asked for more of, made no offer to buy when she gave me my last chance to buy, was her mezzotint called Busenbaum: Breast Tree.
Sex doesn’t sell: at least not in the three to four figure graphic multiples business. Sexy is fine; but not sex. Inge, who introduced me to Gatja, told me of walking in a park in Munich: on one bench, a man was reading the financial papers, stark naked. On the bench opposite, a nubile blond, also naked, was seated with her legs spread open. That’s Germany. Can you imagine anything similar in any city in the US? I can not.
[2015 08 13 Since writing the above I see that “gays” have liberated nudity: dykes on bikes, and so forth, in city after city. How long will it last?]
Gatja watched me very carefully as I took my first look at her etchings. Then she showed me the book from which these etchings are quoted, still carefully watching me look.
I was running the Circle Gallery on Madison Avenue at the time. Circle’s bread and butter was Rockwell, Neiman … The huge place on Third and 63rd had one suite of etchings by Hans Belmer. Circle sold thirty-five million dollars worth of the Neimans. (That may be a retail evaluation: it was a lot in any case.) I doubt that Circle ever sold one of the Belmers. They hadn’t published it; they just had it: one suite, one example each.
When I looked at the Rothes I saw a number of things I liked. First, they were evocations, not depictions. They were dark, heavy, Germanic. I like that: to an extent. They were very sexual, but not erotic. They were passionate, but not erotic. They were ambiguous: in a way that maximized meaning; didn’t dilute it. That not altogether graceful (or sure) line to the upper right in the detail above: does it delineate testes? or buttocks? Any of the lines might be scrotum, breast, thigh, belly …
I looked at them and of course I saw Miro, but not at all Spanish: playful, but heavily playful: northern, not Mediterranean. Mainly, I saw Arp. But again: not only is Arp marble while Gatja is paper, but Arp is thoroughly Gallic; Gatja is German-German-German. MOMA had an Arp show in the 1950s featuring the most amazingly erotic but thoroughly ambiguous marbles I’ve ever seen. Male and female were morphing into each other every which way. I didn’t think Gatja’s work was one-hundredth as good: which merely made it the second-best of the kind I had ever seen.
Now, have I ever said any of these things when trying to sell the intensively anatomical mezzotints? Not on your life. I was trying to sell them! I’d say things like, “There’s only three left in this edition”, or “Brewster sold this the first week they had it in the window” …
I just saw Bunuel’s That Obscure Object of Desire  for the first time (odd, because I used to keep pretty current on Bunuel). Mathieu wants Conchita, keeps thinking he’s getting her. She keeps telling him she’s a virgin, he still keeps thinking Not for long! He knew she was a dancer, now she’s working a Flemenco club in Seville, says she has to take a nap for a half hour. He sees that her nap consists of dancing nude in a private room.
Bunuel had two actresses take turns to play Conchita: Carole Bouquet and Ángela Molina. Similar build, both good looking (but both distinct) (and not even close to the same height), both are also good at taking their blouse off at the drop of a hat. Ah, but further down, Conchita is always in a chastity belt, some Byzantine girdle, either actual or willed. But now that she’s dancing for the boys, she’s stark naked: except for the flowers and crap stuck in her hair, her earrings, bracelets … and Flamenco dancing shoes. Anyway, there, finally, is her dark bush. And …
There’s nothing there!
Her ass is more promising than her pussy.
I resurrected this module, then realized that I’d previously resurrected it among / Stories / Theme / Sex. No: it’s better here: so, I deleted that one, edit this one.
Male / Female
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