We, the ceaseless et ferro, reject all art for its own sake. First and foremost due to the logical incoherence of the proposition; art can in no wise have a sake for it has not a self! The creation of art for its own sake — pah! — such is the narcissistic impulse of ego massaging, a pastime of the directionless or the self-deficient. Man’s ego needs not furnishing or some kind of “dressing up” but rather a grand bolstering in both strength and magnitude.
We affirm, in all quarters, the artist whose craft is brought into delicate synthesis with the whole of his goals. That daring soul who realizes that all avenues of terrestrial action lead back to the will and forth to the realization of its directionality. No more will we craft or applaud the works of the escapists and the neutralists — those ossified and fascicle purveyors of utopia — remember well the genesis of the word “Nowhere!” and such is just where it shall lead us! Rather than escaping from the banal, the tedious, the painful, the arduous and the terrifying, the artist should be actively working to confront and stamp out all those aspect which he had hitherto flown from. Such purpose should be central to our art.
The Critics: we shall applaud and dismiss in the most high-handed of fashions those who frump and pout, screaming, “Everyone’s a critic these days.” They invariably say it with a theatrical shake of the head, a note of venom on the tongue, the faux-exasperation of the socialite with too much time on his hands — as if it were a bad thing. Every man should be a critic and a most scathing, blunt and incisive one at that. Our works shall be critical tools, first for the smashing of art with a capital A, the calcified remnants of dogma and “institutionalism,” then plied to the creation of dynamic new artistic collectives.
We affirm the bohemians and the hermeticists, both of whom exalt art for a purpose higher then mere, blasé stimulation, that gateway to hedonism, and champion their methods; first, art as communal binding, second, art as sacral crystallization — we shall add the third — art as driving mechanical force, a leaping off the high, jagged promontory of the age and free-flying above its accumulated filth, inhaling the salted breeze as we turn our faces, not skyward, but to the roiling earth below.
In our flight we envision soaring mega-structures of concrete and iron, glass and steel whose roots seek down the very heart of the earth, encompassing the globe like a great chitin shell, a godly suit of mail, reflecting our unshakable, metallic resolve. We see criss-crossing railways that snake across, above, and beneath the tilting ambit of those ominous structures like the luminous, colossal tendrils of our very souls, heralding sleek titanium vessels that roll out and down from the hundreds of thousands of tracks, into and out of buildings and under and out of the ground, dispatching “the road” with their stupendous omnidirectionality. We spy factories who billow clouds of smoke as grey as that which whisks from the cigarettes we smoke in symbolic delight, out of whose clanking innards pour an ecstatic conglomerate of sweating, straining eisenhausers, who, by fiery and stolid drive to terrestrial mastery, drain the fetid bogs and muck-filled swamps, cut the trees and bushes, divert the rivers and streams and glass the snowy wastes! We envision, in those conquered lands, the erection of industrial academies who hurl out upon the world a magnificent cavalcade of warrior-poets who dispense with the adage: The pen is mightier than the sword. Adopting instead the battle-cry: The pen IS the sword!
With this vision in mind we reject with utmost fervor the doctrine of separation, that codification of unwritten laws which reads: Art for the stars, man for the earth. Instead we shout: Art for the reshaping of the world — the stars can wait!