Trickster. Pacific ocean. Mulatero. Orange picker in California. Snake charmer. Ratter. Nephew of Oscar Wilde. Giant lumberjack in the forests. Former boxing champion from France. Grandson of the Chancellor of the Queen. Car driver in Berlin. Thief. Etc. Etc. Etc.
If you have poison in the blood, to speak ill of others should be very careful not to bite his own tongue. Complaining can be easier to create. However, it is certainly less interesting. Craven has complained about everything and everyone, but has also created and has done so in a peculiar way, finding their own way, creating their own universe. Your magazine is a paradigm of the law of "do it yourself", which then would appropriate the first punks. Although the instinct seems to guide his pen Herostratus has also shown a genuine sensitivity and I think that ultimately must be judged by his best poems.
Pessoa
If we think as "a little genius get fame, gets a bad rap genius, a genius more get the desperation and God gets the crucifixion" is not difficult to understand the fascination may occur in some Arthur Craven. Before anything else, Cravan Arthur was a rebel, like Jesus Christ. But it was not a martyr, fortunately for Proudhon, which states that: "After the tyrants, I know nothing more detestable than the martyrs." The truth is that Arthur Cravan was so loved and hated and could never go unnoticed. Arthur Cravan certainly was a singular type. Even in physical appearance. A giant in every sense. They say it was beautiful, measuring two meters. Was a boxer and poet. Not adhere to any school or any artistic movement because, before anything else, was always a loner. However, the Dadaists were served to his name, he cited and celebrated his jokes and pranks, they found similar. But it was Cravan Dadaist or surreal, or anything. Cravan was Cravan. A colossus who was willing to take the world ahead. And, somehow, is what he did. Or tried to, until she disappeared without a trace.
Moreover, it is true that potentially interesting artists seem to become even more interesting when they are elusive. The researcher-turned-literary detective leaves behind a veil of mystery that expands the myth of its subject. (If not, ask for Archimboldi). Then Arthur Cravan belongs to a unique gallery of artists without work or, in other words, artists whose lives were his own work. A character that must necessarily be reconstructed from the statements of others. From the footprints he left on others. The issue of how it affects the work life and vice versa refers in turn to another argument that, when speaking of Arthur Cravan, it seems inevitable. This is the tendency to commit criminal acts to gain popularity. Although it may seem strange, Arthur Cravan seemed morbidly interested in popularity. His speech, rather than contradictory, it is ironic, then top it off, Arthur Craven also was a great joker. We could say that she cared a damn intellectuals of the time, mostly because they talked about him. Obviously, this mode of reasoning is not contradictory, it's just ironic. As the joke by Woody Allen Annie Hall opens. (Life sucks and takes up little.)
Then, the myth, the figure of Arthur Cravan become an icon of an era, marked especially by the disillusionment and rebellion, the myth of the cult of beauty and myth of the revolution and the avant-garde. Cravan Arthur, wanted to escape from the cloud, and hid it behind a dozen of them. (You know, like the joke that says that the best place to hide a tree is in a forest.) Arthur Craven, the elusive giant was necessarily a child of his time. A specimen of some might be proud. A joke that some knew laugh. Moreover, the dynamics of a neurotic society requires that a novelty is quickly replaced by another. The name of Arthur Cravan was fading. Although some had the fortunate idea to mention here and there and thank all those who kept alive his memory, we remember today. In particular, the English-speaking readers, since we had news of him for having appeared in the anthology of black humor, of Breton, published by Anagram. We can also trace his footsteps as an episode somewhat marginal, but an episode to end the life of Marcel Duchamp. Tomkins biographies Marcade and give it due consideration. Also mentioned in the book Bohemians, by Dan Franck, the famous dispute between Craven and Apollinaire. Until the advent of Maintenant (editorial Black Box), the evocation of Arthur Cravan was a simple comment. Now, we can read. We refer to the sources. Which is extremely lucky.
Tomkins quote the book: "Cravan had managed to insult most of the Parisian artists through their offensive Maintenant magazine, which was published from 1911 to 1913 and sold at the entrance of sports stadiums, shopping in a greengrocer. To avoid the call to military service, Craven had gone to the neutral Barcelona, \u200b\u200bwhere he challenged Jack Johnson, former world champion heavyweight. The battle, which enjoyed so much publicity, was nothing but a farce. Cravan managed to pull enough of this sad episode to afford a ticket to New York. One of his fellow travelers would be Leon Trotsky, the exiled Russian revolutionary, who recalled that Craven had confessed that he preferred to spray the jaw of the Yankees in a noble sport that left spray the ribs by a German. "
The episode on the will be forever remembered is the one pertaining to the exhibition of the Independents, which occurred in New York. Duchamp and Picabia, who organized, were commissioned to carry Cravan the audience. Cravan undressed, he yelled, boxed, made a tremendous scandal. At a party given by Arensberg (patron of Duchamp), Mina Loy Cravan know (which actually was interested in Duchamp). Although at first did not get along, then got on and got married. You could say they were happy, until Cravan disappears.
We still Maintenant, magazine and book. His angry tirades against Gide, Apollinaire, against the modern. But we have the mystery of his poetry. Cravan was an extraordinary poet, transatlantic and universal. His wanderlust took him away, so far reached where it is not possible to return.
Each hour has a color that erases
a bird leaves only a trace of him
The memory in vain colors
would gather in a bouquet of different scents
The memory can only remove ashes ...
Au revoir, Mister Cravan.
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