L’Harmonie Process is a project drawing upon the surrealist technique of pure psychic automatism1 in a collaborative fashion to unpredictable ends.
“You have to systematically create confusion, it sets creativity free. Everything that is contradictory creates life.” ‒ Salvador Dalí
“Collage is the most notable conquest of the irrational, the coupling of two realities, irreconcilable in appearance, upon a plane which apparently does not suit them.” ‒ Max Ernst
“The mind, placed before any kind of difficulty, can find an ideal outlet in the absurd. Accommodation to the absurd readmits adults to the mysterious realm inhabited by children.” ‒ André Breton 1Definition from
The Surrealist Manifesto of 1924, written by André Breton. Breton was a French writer, poet, anarchist and anti-fascist. He is known as the founder of Surrealism.
For more information or to participate in the project, visit lharmonieprocess.wordpress.com
Every human being, not merely the artist, has an inexhaustible store of buried images in his subconscious, it is merely a matter of courage or liberating procedures… of voyages into the unconscious, to bring pure and unadulterated found objects to the light. -- Max Ernst
Stream of collaboration.
Each piece is titled with its unique code* and grouped by stimulus and response.
*this is a code generated on receipt of any submission and should be quoted alongside use of the piece in any form - as a stimulus or cutup material. Reproduction of any piece in its complete original form is not permitted.
Becomes sun blood,
Like morning becomes the stain
Of dead birds, stars made of ink,
The shedding of the born
And unborn -
Fingertips of balata,
Water palatable, plausible,
Flesh to yield the colour of the moon,
In Albion gum,
A tree drips.
Elsewhere a tree is Mountain,
Is dark skin of hands,
The motion of prey and predator,
Throats of castles, clasps of
Hyper anther reaching to sun,
To birth, for unborn,
Dew is rim, is spill
Is knowing you,
Is meeting you
Who I knew before
Who I never knew,
Who is petal, grand dance of
Cerebral stems bursting
Into velamina, sky grass
Of cells, like brains became clouds
To reappear as if condensation,
As if a conscious vapour
Stream to cycle to up to down
To turn –
Each we have , a hemisphere:
I am woman, I am man,
I am man, I am woman.
Dew falls, rises from earth,
Pollinates the sky,
Coincidences of being here and done
And being there and undone. We are
Two sphered heads, fish trunks,
Wait for the interiors of each other -
Our Nebula rests.
New belief systems. Like the old ones didn’t have enough going on. Nature adhors a vacuum. Who adores the vacuous? They are pleased enough – smiling, always smiling – church music much better than thin-paper, American-text. Who would reduce the language of the KJV to something that is awe-less? I prefer the ICHTHUS Christians, pocketed throughout the old Roman empire, a fish on the door of the dark cave, signifying secrets. I see we are still in awe of star-light, but yet, we are flesh; flesh eaten up by time; flesh seared by illness and inappropriate behaviour. I saw a sculpture made from a 3D explosion of a microscopic cell, so that the whole world is there: like the universe in a locker in the “Men in Black” movies. Thinking: Will Smith range Prince the night before he died. I wonder, had he an iPhone, a Samsung, or some kind of Purple-Prince-phone, encrypted, secret hanging from a wall like the Batphone? Gotham city enters all our dreams. I can where you might entertain the simple life, and look at the sky tut-tutting at the airplane contrails, yet we are human in all our frailty and grandeur, and there’s something to be said about the little black vinyls or silver discs or packets of zeroes and ones, that can take the greatest performances from a state-of-the-art studio and make them available on the same day, at the same time, to anyone in the world with the means to play them and a few pounds in their pocket. So, if I pull out the frayed sleeve of “Around the World in a Day”, dust off lightly since its so many years since I played this record, I realise it’s the exact same copy I took into sixth form, earning the scorn of my indie-guitar loving friends. We believe what we want to believe at the end of the day, like the Aboriginals following the songlines; I don’t think they thought the world would remain only immaterial, I think, like Donne, they had an understanding that the spirit world was only too real, that we sat alongside it, avoiding its gaze or drawing our strength from its intangibles. For I believe in man, and that gives me a devil to play with, if not a God – instead, perhaps versioning of God – dubplates spinning over the same groove, as timeless as the Songlines, so that when I finally crack and reach out to something that doesn’t grow inside of me – for I am human too – then at least I’ll recognise something of its timbre, something of its melody, something of its rhythm as the world spins.