All art, some would say, is a form of masturbation. That theme has unintentionally arisen in some of my projects (my loner series was meant to represent loneliness, but something about making out with myself in a corner is masturbatory I guess). I bring this up because I'm reading about Futurists at the moment, and there's some poetry comparing a car crash to copulation.

tra.. . ta.. .ra.. . ta.. .mbu
Involuntary collision,
furious fornication
of two automobiles-energy,
embrace of two warriors
bold of movement
syncopation of two “heart-motors,”
spilling of “blood-gas.”
Stopping of the coming and going
stagnation immobile of curiosity,
moaning. Moaning of the wounded.
Coagulation of business.
Cumbersome remainder
of the two dead machines,
rapidly swept
from a heat of hands,
sweeping of the enormous misshapen skeletons.

Last January I claimed this was a sculpture I made:

I didn't hit another car. I hit a guardrail, an autoerotic gesture.

Oh, and “heart motors” and “love gasoline” are two things Duchamp talked a lot about in The Large Glass, which is essentially about masturbation. Art history is a series of furious circle jerks, no wonder I get off on it.


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