It is a question of the aesthetics of violation, dispossession and division of those expelled and the surviving, as well as of the re-education of our feelings of liberation, and that not just since the Hitlerian epoch.
Art, which is obligated to the traditional character, acquired and experienced laboriously, has no chance any more, it stands against an aesthetics of the victors after the re-education in our defeat.
Here it is a matter of an art that, after the re-education of 1945, fell as the saddest sacrifice of those 12 years before. Some may appreciate it and practice it, others deplore it, once more awaken it in themselves, mourn it, but nobody will change, or rescue it for the future. It is like a life sentenced to death without immortality. We will be tested on how we conducted ourselves, indifferently, following as fellow travelers of the age, saddened, joyful, lamenting or impotent. Art that is not measured at the tree of this knowledge and everything that lives by it and from it will not belong to the culture from which it grew, and the tree is a sign for the winds that tested, broke or strengthened it, the waters that nourish it, the earth in which its roots find a hold, and the lightning that forms it, and the animals to which it is a system and home, the birds, insects or worms in leaves, branches and roots, the life that is based in it, like the song of the dreams that found rest here, in art. Art will be from its bark, from its blood, against it, in its thought, as an echo from its loss, but never without it and its nature, which is our origin, or we will not be what we were. And when I see them, I am amazed at how they get along with so little happiness, and without suffering, in a presumptuousness that is without courage. And when they rage now and strike out, I ask myself, why then? They are after all victors, or unquestioned by their followers, or on their side. Do they have such a bad conscience? But the hottest iron is not Hitler, who is only used for intimidation because of Auschwitz, on whom all fatten themselves in their own businesses in natural exploitation up to meanness against themselves and forever, uncomplaining with the help offered by all of us who are, willingly or not, beneficiaries thereby. It is the greatest tragedy of mankind itself, unlamented, and there is no choir that would find words for the grave, for the funeral no music that would have tones and no theater that would know the rituals or films the images and figures. Or spaces, no God for this end of all fat apocalypses, of all floods, through the prosperity of a Sodom without pleasure. Aesthetics without art. Intimidation through blood and soil, that is, sale not only of land, deregulated to the traders what is sacred to us through our grandchildren, but also of the heart, through gradual disappearance of beauty and handing over to meanness that wallows in itself. That the land and art lie so close to each other like Nature and Culture, that is the unity of love that it is all about, as it is about the real division through that re-education from which we suffer.