” … the Aphex Twin of Philosophy … ” (Sascha Wolters)
“Luce lips sink ships.” (Blake Shaw)
Luce deLire is a ship with eight sails and she lays off the quay. A time traveller and collector of mediocre jokes by day, when night falls, she turns into a philosopher, performer and media theorist. She loves visual art, installations, video art etc. She could be seen curating, performing, directing, planning and publishing (on) various events. She is working on and with treason, post secularism, self destruction, fascism and seduction – all in mixed media. She can be booked for philosophical services on demand (panel discussions, written inquiries, personal conversations etc.) – to do so, please send her an email, using the button on the upper left.
The Angel of Menstruation
Cecilia Vicuña, Angel de la Menstruación (Angel of menstruation, 1973), Oil on canvas, 57.8 × 48.3 cm, Collection of Catherine Petitgas, London
A Vicuña painting named “Angel of Menstruation” shows an angel looking as though she was about to wrap herself in some red thread, while in a state of bliss. Her eyes are rolled up, her mouth is open, her wings are spread. This is how one pictures the angel of history. Her face is turned toward us, where we perceive a chain of events as ‘living present.’ She, however, senses the exceeding future (a-venir, eternal return), both inside herself and above the frame. The double catastrophe which keeps piling wreckage and hurls around her feet is the nature of problematicity itself:
With only her left toes in this world, “[s]he […] is floating or flying ‘on the air above the olive green killed by the titanium white,’ ‘with a snake of sand’ that stretches like an extra limb across the canvas” – the trajectory of ordinary time, from left to right, past present to future present.
But there is another time as well: “She plays with a string that circles her body:” (Adès) A quipu – “pre Columbian type of writing, […].“ (Roelstraete 2017) A haptic practice in knots that circle around her body – turns it inside out in fact as it follows this course of virtually inaccessible time. From some position (namely pre-colonial priests of the Inka, compare Domenici 1996) it might be readable. But the angel doesn’t even bother – connected as she is by cyclical recurrence of blood with this other time, which permeates into the world without formal resemblance, without contact – the leafs, “[t]wo tightly woven blood-red plaits [that] frame her face and her eyes [which] are red ‘because I use my blood for looking.” (Adès quoting Vicuña)
What the angel would like to say, nobody knows. The unity of history (the snake, the branch), however, has become fragile – without disappearing, without smashing violence. No storm is blowing in from Paradise; but the infinite deflection between the two kinds of time (the linear branch and the cyclical string, actual history and virtual excess) keeps her wings flapping with such excitement that we cannot get near her – to read the cord, support her balance or interrupt her enjoyment (jouissance). The storm irresistibly propels us into oblivion, to which our back is turned, where piles of debris grow skyward. This storm is what we call reality.