Temele deocheate ale timpului nostru. Front Cover. Luca Pitu. Paralela, – pages Author, Luca Pitu. Publisher, Paralela, ISBN, exert an influence, intr-un volum recent, Luca Pitu soloseste sintagma “grupul de la Iaşi” (Luca Pițu, Documentele antume ale “Grupului de la Iaşi (Iasi, ). Read 50 publications, and contact Luca Canetta on ResearchGate, the École Polytechnique Fédérale de Lausanne. A.F. Pitu. Politecnico di Milano. Projects.

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Simone Boué, Emil Cioran, Luca Pitu | napalmtop | Flickr

All these are stories about how we can’t make stories. You can’t tell what’s going on in Magritte’s lucx, can’t make stories out of them. Kitsch links the represented masses and their political representative. Who’s there to weep it?

Nature knows better than kitsch and what she does not know better, she forgets ; it simply lacks this possibility – no color combination, no shapes in nature are kitsch. It buries experience in velvet coffins not to be open – no one should open that canned void.

The kitsch object devours the surroundings: It tames, it brings the quiet the one sought afterand happiness in the heart of the syphilistines and delivers them to their elected leaders.

For the syphilistine, the kitsch object is an angelic sign which protects him from himself, a symbol of gentle possession. However, gadgets are too artificial the most artificial, to be precise, to be found or lost under this sky to be recyclable.

So kitsch presents the unrepresentable, litu governernments, rules with a velvet fist. But easy going Moly does not pay rent in Atlantiquity this hints to what you know about Atlantiquity, to which I can’t attend verbally ; she’s before that, between you and that remote improbability which is the land of the avantgarde: They’re all mad in their crave for purity; on top of, avantgarde is crazy.


Il nous faut deux guerres, et, puis, un Daguerre, pour nous en sortir.

Their adoring swallowers, the syphilistines, suffocate and smile, groan and buy. Gott ist tot – what’s to be done?

From the outside, taste tastes its own burial. Coito, ergo sum Luca Pitu disait-il, quoi? Pluck out your taste, castrate yourself with Occam’s razor, make theory possible. Then let’s push hardships. Unless you hide – under the crimson moving wounds or under the clean sheet of freckled skin – the scars with which history has marked you, you’ll be in the arrieregarde of the avantgarde.

You live a kind putu quiet knowing that it is there, whatever may happen to this exhausting, cruel, and cold world. It can be perceived in a corner or on a shelf, conveniently far away. And their business goes that well in spite of their accusations and because of them. Blue Moly in improbable fields. As a matter of taste, the global’s split between the hyperreal Atlantiquity and the syphilistine infrareal.

It is taste that which bring naturaleness in the higher states of contemplation and the subject to the understanding of its nature. Taste as a faculty – like imagination or memory – is that which lacks in the process of cutting phenomenological ways through kitsch. The only way to narrativize them is to tell the story of your own interpretation of Magritte’s paintings.

Kitsch is the heroin and heroism of the masses.

Exquisite Corpse – A Journal of Letters and Life

Idyllique dieu, ce theos-telos de la technique. It’s luac easy to contract nostalgia for the remote times of the avantgarde. Your transparent your self Narcisse, m’a b ime Publications: Indeed, why would you? The land before god chests the avantgarde’s spear. But don’t make it desirable, for it’s already possible – make a gewgaw out of yourself.


Simone Boué, Emil Cioran, Luca Pitu

Your transparent your self Narcisse, m’a b ime. Their phenomenology builds a secure bracketing out of my own taste – not the taste-already-in-statement, the judgement lucca but the felt taste, the substantial basis of the statement that falsifies its ground. Taste hyperhates the many. There is no way back from kitsch. Fearful angels, sweetened by syphilistines: Describe harmony and you’ll be breathing – on prescription – the airseptic exhaled by Aristurtle and Vasari.

It is naked force tamed by numbers. This wind sweeps concentration way: Time is devoid of events, a pure time, at the antipodes of Kant’s a priori lkca insofar as it is obtained by incontrolable syntheses: The latter is peripheral to the former.

Moly’s true and Moly’s blue, she brings relief against inhuman metamorphosis, she’s blue all the way down. Kitsch engineers the distance it has to be perceived from, together with the continuous attraction it exerts, that gently undermines that distance. We’re bullies of bliss, we don’t murmur, we state.