Dada or Dadaism was an art movement of the European avant-garde in the early 20th century, . In , Tzara wrote a second Dada manifesto considered one of the most important Dada writings, which was published in The magic of a word – Dada – which has brought journalists to the gates of a world unforeseen, is of no importance to us. To put out a manifesto you must want . Dada manifesto is a polemical text that attacks reason, rational precepts, the principle of contradiction, and is often incendiary in tone.
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The magic of a word — Dada — which has brought journalists to the gates of a world unforeseen, is of no importance to us.
The 1st and 2nd DADA Art Manifestos
daeasta To put out a manifesto you must want: ABC to fulminate against 1, 2, 3 to fly into a rage and sharpen your wings to conquer and disseminate little abcs and big ABCs, to sign, shout, swear, to organize prose into a form of absolute and irrefutable evidence, to prove your non manifesro ultra and maintain that novelty resembles life just as the latest-appearance of some whore proves the essence of God. His existence was previously proved by the accordion, the landscape, the wheedling word.
To impose your ABC is a natural thing – hence deplorable. Everybody does it in the form of crystalbluff-madonna, monetary system, pharmaceutical product, or a bare leg advertising the ardent sterile spring.
DADA Manifesto Explained – Hugo Ball versus Tristan Tzara
The love of novelty is the cross of sympathy, demonstrates a naive je m’enfoutisme, it is a transitory, positive sign without a cause. But this need itself is obsolete. In documenting art on the basis of the supreme simplicity: At the crossroads of the lights, alert, attentively awaiting the years, in the forest.
I write a manifesto and I want nothing, yet I say eadasta things, and in principle I am against manifestos, as I am also against principles half-pints to measure the moral value of every phrase too too convenient; approximation was invented by the impressionists.
I write this manifesto to show that people can perform contrary actions together while taking one fresh gulp of air; I am against action; dadassta continuous contradiction, for affirmation too, I am neither for nor against and I do not explain because I hate common sense. DADA – this is a word that throws up ideas so that they can be shot down; every bourgeois is a little playwright, who invents different subjects and who, instead manifesfo situating suitable characters on the level of his own intelligence, like chrysalises on chairs, tries to find causes or objects according to whichever psychoanalytic method he practices to give weight to his manifestto, a talking and self-defining story.
Every spectator is a plotter, if he tries to explain a word to know! From his padded refuge of serpentine complications, he allows his instincts to be manipulated.
Whence the sorrows of conjugal life. If you find it futile and don’t want to waste your time on a word that means nothing The first thought that comes to these people is bacteriological in character: We see msnifesto the papers that the Kru Negroes call the tail of a holy cow Dada.
The dadaxta and the mother in a certain district of Italy are called: A hobby horse, a nurse both in Russian and Rumanian: Some learned journalists regard it as an art for babies, other holy Jesuscallingthelittlechildrenuntohims of our day, as a relapse into a dry and noisy, noisy and monotonous primitivism.
Sensibility is not constructed on the basis of a word; all constructions converge on perfection which is boring, the stagnant idea of a gilded swamp, a relative human product. A work of art should not be beauty in itself, for beauty is dead; it should be neither gay nor sad, neither light nor dark to rejoice or torture the individual by serving him the cakes of sacred aureoles or the sweets of a vaulted race through the atmospheres. A work of art is never beautiful by decree, objectively and for all.
Hence criticism is useless, it exists only subjectively, for each man separately, without the slightest character of universality. Does anyone think he has found a psychic base common to all mankind?
The attempt of Jesus and the Bible covers with their broad manifeesto wings: How can one expect to put order into the chaos that constitutes that infinite mamifesto shapeless variation: After the carnage we still retain the hope of a purified mankind. I speak only of myself since I do not wish to convince, I have no right to drag others into dadawta river, I oblige no one to follow me and everybody practices his art in his dadaxta way, if be knows the joy that rises like arrows to the astral layers, or that other joy that goes down into the mines of corpse-flowers and fertile spasms.
Those who are with us preserve their freedom. We recognize no theory. We have enough cubist and futurist academies: Is the aim of art to make money and cajole the nice nice bourgeois? Rhymes ring with dadast assonance of the currencies and the inflexion slips along the line of the belly in profile.
All groups of artists have arrived at this trust company utter riding their steeds on various comets. While the door remains open to the possibility of wallowing in cushions and good things to eat. Here we really know what we are nanifesto about, because we have experienced the trembling and the awakening. Drunk with energy, we are revenants thrusting the daddasta into heedless flesh.
We are streams of curses in the tropical abundance of vertiginous. Cubism was born out of the simple way of looking at an object: Cezanne painted a cup 20 centimetres below his eyes, the cubists look at it from above, others complicate appearance by making a perpendicular section and arranging it conscientiously on the side.
I do not forget the creative artists and the profound laws of matter which they established once and for all. The futurist sees the same cup in movement, a succession of objects one beside the others and maliciously adds a few force lines.
This does not prevent the canvas from being a good or bad painting suitable for the investment ddadasta intellectual capital. The new painter creates maniffsto world, the elements of which are also its implements, a sober, definite work without argument.
The new artist protests: All pictorial or plastic work is useless: A painting is the art of making two lines, which have been geometrically observed to be parallel, meet on a canvas, before our eyes, in the reality of a world that has been transposed according to new conditions and possibilities. This world is neither specified nor defined in the work, it belongs, in its innumerable variations, to the spectator.
For its creator manifeto has neither case nor theory. Absolute in the purity of its cosmic and regulated chaos, eternal in that globule that is a second which has no duration, no breath, no light and no control.
I appreciate an old work for its novelty. It is only contrast that links us to the past. Writers who like to moralise and discuss or ameliorate psychological bases have, apart from a secret wish to win, a ridiculous knowledge of life, which they may have classified, parcelled out, manifesti they are determined to see its categories dance when they beat time.
Their readers laugh derisively, but carry on: There is one kind of literature which never reaches the voracious masses. The work of creative writers, written out of the author’s real necessity, and for his own benefit. The awareness of a supreme egoism, wherein laws become significant.
Every page should explode, either because of its profound gravity, or its vortex, vertigo, newness, eternity, or because of its staggering absurdity, the enthusiasm of its principles, or its typography.
On the one hand there is a world tottering in its flight, linked to the resounding tinkle of the infernal gamut; on the other hand, there are: Uncouth, galloping, riding astride on hiccups. And there is a mutilated world and literary medicasters in desperate need of amelioration.
We are like a raging wind that rips up the clothes of clouds and prayers, we are preparing the great spectacle of disaster, conflagration and decomposition. Preparing to put an end to mourning, and to replace tears by sirens spreading from one continent to another.
Clarions of intense joy, bereft of that poisonous sadness. DADA is the mark of abstraction; publicity and dadqsta are also poetic elements. I destroy the drawers of the brain, and those of social organisation: Philosophy is the question: Everything one looks at is false.
I do not dadxsta the relative result more important than the choice between cake and cherries after dinner. The system of quickly looking at the other side of a thing in order to impose your opinion indirectly is called dialectics, in other words, haggling over the spirit of fried potatoes while dancing method around it. I have given a pretty faithful version of progress, law, morality and all other fine qualities that various highly intelligent men have discussed in so many books, only to conclude that after all everyone dances to his own personal boomboom, and that the writer is entitled to his boomboom: With the blue eye-glasses of an angel they have excavated the inner life for a dime’s worth of unanimous gratitude.
If all of them are right and if all pills are Pink Pills, let us try for once not to be right. Some people think they can explain rationally, by thought, what they think.
But that is extremely relative. Psychoanalysis is a dangerous disease, it puts to sleep the anti-objective impulses of man and systematizes the bourgeoisie. There is no ultimate Truth. Does anyone xadasta that, by a minute refinement of logic, he had demonstrated the truth and established the correctness of these opinions?
Logic imprisoned by the senses is an organic disease. To this element philosophers always like to add: But actually this magnificent quality of the mind is the proof of its impotence. We observe, we regard from one or more points of view, we choose them among the millions that exist.
Experience is also a product of chance and individual faculties. Science disgusts me as soon daadsta it becomes a speculative system, loses its character of utility that is so useless but is at least individual.
I detest greasy objectivity, and harmony, the science that finds everything in order. Carry on, my children, humanity Science says we are the servants of nature: Carry on, my children, humanity, kind bourgeois and journalist virgins I am against systems, the most acceptable system is on principle to have none. To complete oneself, to perfect oneself in one’s own littleness, to fill the vessel with one’s individuality, to have the courage to fight manicesto and against thought, the mystery of bread, the sudden burst of an infernal propeller into economic lilies.
What I call the I-don’t-give-a-damn attitude of life is when dadazta minds his own business, at the same time as he knows how to respect other individualities, and even how to stand up for himself, the two-step becoming a national daadasta, a junk shop, the wireless the wire-less telephone transmitting Bach fugues, illuminated advertisements for placards for brothels, the organ broadcasting carnations for God, all this at the same time, and in real terms, replacing photography and unilateral catechism.
Inability to distinguish between degrees of clarity: Measured by the scale of eternity, all activity is vain – if we allow thought to engage in an adventure the result of which would be infinitely grotesque and add significantly to our knowledge of human impotence. But supposing life to be a poor farce, without aim or initial parturition, and because we think it our duty to extricate ourselves as fresh and clean as washed chrysanthemums, we have proclaimed as the sole basis for agreement: It is not as important as we, mercenaries of the spirit, have been proclaiming for centuries.
Art afflicts no one and those who manage to take an interest in it will harvest caresses and a fine opportunity to populate the country with their conversation.