ThanksGiving to America Forever

I saw a MTV video on how well the Native Americans are doing in their lands and it made me sad. If you are American be ashamed...be very ashamed. These suicides must stop, this alienation must be addressed and the Money can not always be the main factor in our decision-making process. People are far more important than any resources. Money must come secondary always. Greed is too fast to kill and is the ultimate enemy of the world. Human life is paramount. The most value resource that lies on our planet is the human life. It is precious everywhere. Happy Thanks Giving to all X.

Here is the MTV Video

Click Here To Watch

November 13 at 9:00pm ·

The highly anticipated untold story about America begins.

I don't want people to think one way is the only way. We are all important in our world. The way we think differently makes us stronger but one rule fits all is nonsense. However you are, however you think, be forever yourself. You are vital to the development of our wider World.

The Greatest Speech Ever by Russell Means:

In response to both, I read my thoughs out like this...

CHRISTMAN NUMBER ONE

This is a West African Crisis. I don't care about being a number one for Christmas but I want all to know just how I feel right now. I adore the people's of West Africa and they deserve much better than the shit they have been offered by the chancers and wannabe.....Allow me the chance to sing my little song and have my X-Factor say for humanity.





It does seem rather strange that West Africans are not allowed access to their own medicine. Simply being reliant on Western Aid. There is news that Colloidal Silver and Snake Venom are effective cures for Ebola. This is a human disaster it seems utterly vulgar that big pharmaceutical companies stand to profit and are immensely keen to see how effective their modern treatments work on those effected. You don't think this humanly possible, that a country or a series of countries would use West Africans as a testing ground for Chemical Warfare. You couldn't image that the world would be that cruel but I have so little faith in World Leaders. I think about what Henry Kissenger did in Cambodia with his own private army and dropped all those bombs on innocent villagers on the borders of Vietnam. How they used mustard gas and napalm and cared so little about those they mass murdered. They are all ruthless and want to prove to each other just as powerful they are by crushing the most vulnerable on earth. I think back to a time when countries became nuclear and started testing in the oceans. They never once considered the damage they caused to the marine life. The destruction of a nuclear blast. This is not just once it was for China, India, USA, UK etc etc...Each country wanting to flex their military power.

It seems unthinkable that Western and Asian countries could be using Africans in a similar fashion but it does seem that way. Are we to see outbreaks of plagues in Zambia, Malawi, Kenya and Uganda when the Super Powers want to test out their Chemical Agents and prove to the world that they are equally as heartless. I think back to the 1990's and the way in which the World Press addressed the bombs that went off in Nairobi and Dar and only mentioned the Europeans or American casualties and simply avoided writing about the terrible deaths and injuries inflicted on the East Africans, as if their lives meant so little. I fear for the future and really want us all to be acutely suspicious of what is happening around the Continent of Africa. The Super Powers are utterly ruthless and care so little about the Continent outside their resources. This is of real concern to anybody who is still thinking. We are being brainwashed with reality television, the Premiership, soap operas that seem to preoccupy our screens and lull us into a false sense of security. We are hypnotised into thinking that the ruling classes are decent and worthy of their positions of enormous powers but we should wake up to their devious ways. Man is the most destructive animal on the planet. We must keep a check on the Super Powers as they run riot around the globe, thinking so little of the most vulnerable. Life is precious and nobody's life is more valuable than those that live on African soil.

Say Goodbye | Wave Goodbye

Address | to the Kingdom


Your Majesty, Your Lordships and Ladyships and Your Lucky-bugger-ships. My Right Honourable and Less Honourable, My Commmon Woman and My Common Man

 I have a Dream.........And now I am awake.

Give us back our hearts. We’re finding life too hard without them. What about our dignity, our self-respect and our precious care for our fellow-men-and-women. What does pity mean to you....anything other than a weakness? You have crushed all that we have upheld to be decent. You are by-far the most dishonourable, dishonest and disgusting people on this earth. You hold positions of power yet you are not worthy of our spit, on your highly polished black shoes. You have forsaken all of us.

We know now what it takes to run the world and the price is far too high. You have sold our humanity merely to ensure the safety of your assets. Now we ask you to leave. Not through the front door but quietly out the back. Don't even think to pinch a single thing in making your disgraceful exits. You have no shame. You have no love. You have nothing for us now. You are as empty as the Bank of England. You have brought such ugliness to our shores, the like of which has yet been recorded.

Through your lack of compassion and lives lived without conscience you have sentenced us all to lives of misery and shame. The weight of what you have done here and now in your lifetimes will be felt for generations and generations to come. From your greed and lust for power you must vanish, disappear never to return. Your time is now ticking down and soon it will be over.

Nobody here on planet earth will house you even if you asked. You are to be the unwanted, the discarded; the filth that sort to take down our Kingdom. You will become one of those that live without shelter and you will learn what it is like to place your lips around a diseased cup. To be so thirsty that you would rather put your parched tongue on poisonous waters than die of dehydration

You deserve no more respect, no more privilege, no more favours from the public. You have broken every rule and everything that we hold dear, you are no longer in charge of anyone or anything. We wave you good bye with our Union Jack.

My Spirit

Sometimes there are no words. No clever little phrases. When all hope has gone and all those we thought were good turn out to be rotten to the core. So here are my thoughts and feelings of now. When words are not enough. When there is nothing more to say. All we have left is our Spirit.....

BE WATER MY FRIENDS

Ok. I am going to come back to this again and again because this is quintessential about how we push our passions forward, collectively in Art. Let us avoid the World of Cunts and instead focus on the beauty of our planet, head on. Bruce Lee is a guide. He is a fabulous mentor and the greatest teacher the world has ever known about how our body works physically. This is so important as a philosophy, as a way we now need to think, in our semi-enlightened times..







Listen to this Modern Day Hero. The Gospel cannot be changed as it is set in stone. It is bound in books and even the letters are not allowed a day-out. The WORD is unheard.

GO WITH THE FLOW

Proudly being yourself doesn't come naturally to most
hence as Bruce Lee would say, "be more like water".

To express one-self is never easy but let us try it out.
Flow more like water and whatever medium you may choose,
be it oil paints, pencils or pastels, watercolours or words
be flexible and free to shout out as you see fit.
Smile when being insulted, even when it makes
you shake so be strong, bold, grin and bare it.
When you become more like water all obstacles
are moveable, all barriers will be broken.
So my friends be fluid.
Be more like water.

Find those ocean waves that sleep deep~inside~us~all.
Find your outdoor voice and start to claim your rights.
The Powers that be are invisible yet seen by all of us,
so find your natural rhythm. That beat that roars within.
And wheneth the shit~doth~hit~the~fan be
the best shit~fan~hitter~no~good~wannabe.
Be~formless, be~shapeless, flow inside the current.
All of us are out~of~the~loop until we find our wave.
So my friends be fluid.
Be more like water.

Listen to yourselves, you all~too~uptight~fannies.
You listeners without ears. Yoohoo only seem to
understand what is coasely sociably acceptable.
Hardly thinking faintly hearing; never ever learning.
You feeble~naughty~cunts; you greedy ne'erdowells;
you brave, courageous underdogs.
Listen to yourselves and relish in
the hearing of, how your water flows.
So my friends be fluid.
Be forever more like water.


Joe Pollitt 2014

This is Kela Kuti and is ideas of Water...

Prayers for the Afghans | 2009/2010

Title: Prayer for the Afghans
Material: White house paint, women's handkerchiefs, Afghans block prints
Date: 2009/2010
Size: Varies
Artist: Joe Pollitt
Signed, dated and unframed


Image of wooden printing blocks from Afghanistan:






Prayers for the Afghans

Here is the process of creating the work. Using Afghan wooden printing blocks with white house paint and a small female handkerchief, the work aims to be an ascension and a spiritual purity. Using white paint on a white canvas the work reflects the souls of the innocent bystanders lost and killed in Afghanistan.

Matangatana | Forefather of Contemporary African Art

Malangatana Ngwenya obituary

Leading Mozambican painter and poet who depicted his country's struggle in his work

• Joe Pollitt


• guardian.co.uk, Monday 17 January 2011 18.54 GMT


• Article history

Malangatana Ngwenya's Women in Motion (2003), one of his rose-period works

The Mozambican painter and poet Malangatana Ngwenya, who has
died aged 74 following respiratory complications, was one of Africa's leading contemporary artists, and his work is known round the world.
A lifelong Marxist, he depicted the suffering and struggles of a
troubled nation, and campaigned for peace. While Ngwenya,
meaning crocodile, provided the title of a 2007 documentary film,
he was most widely known as Malangatana.

Once Mozambique had achieved independence and freed itself from conflict, he encouraged its continuing cultural life. A National Art Museum was established in the capital city of Maputo, and the art college Núcleo de Arte became primarily concerned with encouraging
young, black artists.

Núcleo de Arte was where Malangatana had started evening classes
in 1958, followed three years later by his first solo exhibition. He courageously presented his ambitious Juízo Final (Final Judgment),
a commentary on life under oppressive Portuguese rule. Mystical
figures of many colours, including a black priest dressed in white,
evoke a vision of hell. Some of the figures have sharp white fangs,
a recurring motif in Malangatana's work, symbolising the ugliness of human savagery.

Fame soon followed, as his works were toured and seen abroad.
A year after his first show, the German champion of African arts Ulli Beier pointed to Malangatana's originality. In 1963, he contributed to
the anthology Modern African Poetry published by the journal Black Orpheus, and soon after became an active member of Frelimo, the Front for the Liberation of Mozambique. The following year, he was detained by the PIDE, the Portuguese secret police, and sentenced
to 18 months' imprisonment. Among the congenial company he
found behind bars was the country's leading poet, José Craveirinha.

Malangatana at his home in Maputo, Mozambique, in 2005. Photograph: Martin Godwin

Malangatana travelled to Portugal in 1971 on a Gulbenkian
Foundation grant, and for three years studied printmaking and
ceramics. Portugal's Carnation Revolution of April 1974 saw an authoritarian dictatorship giving way to democracy: one of the
factors that had weakened the old order was the armed conflict
in its African colonies. Malangatana, once again an openly
declared member of Frelimo, returned to Mozambique to witness
the coming of independence on 25 June 1975.

Two years later, fighting broke out between Renamo, the
Mozambique Resistance Movement, backed by South Africa, and Frelimo. More than a million people died, either from fighting or
from starvation; five million civilians were displaced; and many
were made amputees by landmines, a continuing problem. The
civil war ended in 1992, and the first multiparty elections were
held in 1994. Throughout this time – artistically, his blue period,
which saw a number of powerful works – Malangatana was the
artistic embodiment of the continuing struggle, and took an active
role in the Frelimo government.

From 1981, he was able to work full-time as an artist, and the
following year Augusto Cabral, director of the Natural History
Museum in Maputo, commissioned him to create a mural in its
gardens. In a celebration of the unity of humankind and the often
brutal world of nature, the work depicts wide-eyed figures in
earth-coloured pastels, with extended limbs and claw-like hands.

Cabral, an ardent supporter, had played a crucial role in
Malangatana's early life. Born in Matalana, a small village north
of Maputo, Malangatana spent his childhood at various mission
schools and herding livestock with his mother; his father was
often away, working in gold mines in South Africa. At the age of
12 he ventured into the capital, then known as Lourenço Marques, where he earned some money as a ballboy at the tennis club.
He asked Cabral, one of its members, whether he had a pair
of old sandals he could spare. The young biologist – and amateur painter – took him home. Malangatana asked to be taught
painting, and Cabral gave him equipment and the advice to paint whatever was in his head. Putting aside his teenage training as a traditional healer, Malangatana did just that, encouraged by
Cabral and the prolific Portuguese-born architect Panchos Guedes, another tennis club member.

In his later years, Malangatana secured a progressive cultural development plan within Mozambique, and in 1997 was named a Unesco artist for peace. There was a dramatic shift in his artistic
output: his palette moved into a calmer rose period. He is survived
by his wife, Sinkwenta Gelita Mhangwana, two sons and two
daughters.

Duncan Campbell writes: While on an assignment for the Guardian
in Mozambique in 2005, I was fortunate enough to be introduced to Malangatana, who was then living in a large house near the airport which was part gallery and part archive. I had already been shown
some of his work, which was not only in public galleries in Maputo,
but also widely used for book covers and CDs. What was remarkable about him was that he brushed off questions about his own work and insisted instead on taking us on a magical conducted tour of local
artists from painter to sculptor to batik-maker. He was anxious that
they should receive publicity rather than him. For their part, they
clearly held him in high esteem. "He is my general," one of the young artists told me.

He was a generous and entertaining host, telling us with a smile that
his father had been a cook for the British in South Africa. A volume
of his paintings, entitled Cumplicidades, published in 2004 with a foreword by the Mozambican writer Mia Couto, illustrates the
impressive range of his work. I treasure my copy, which is inscribed
"for Dunken Cambell from my heart".

• Valente Malangatana Ngwenya, artist, born 6 June 1936; died 5 January 2011

Sahara Rose | 2007

Title: Sahara Rose
Location: Tunisia
Date: 2007
Material: C-21 Prints
Size: A4
Artist: Joe Pollitt
Signed and framed by the artist


Description:

Sounds of the Sahara

I'll tell what we can do.
We don't do.
We don't do nothing.
Nothing to no-one.

Say nothing to no-one so loudly..
say something to some-one so quietly.
Say nothing to no-one, no more.

Write as if a drum..... Beats.
A goat or a human drum skin. Beats.
Write it out like a drum-beat.

Drum, drum it out of your system.
Drum it out and say nothing,
for nothing can be said no more.

The past has failed us all.
Lied such lies upon more juicy lies.
Lied all day, lied away and yesterday
and today. Maybe they will lie to us
tomorrow, again.



Joe Pollitt 18th May 2010

How to Explain Pictures to a Dead Hare | Curated by Raul Zamudio

"How to Explain Pictures to a Dead Hare"
Curated by Raul Zamudio Taylor
May 15, 2014

PRISTINE GALERIE | MEXICO
http://www.pristinegalerie.com/index.php?lang=english

THIS EXHIBITION IS DEDICATED TO THE MEMORY OF 
VICTOR ZAMUDIO TAYLOR, MEXICO


Artists:
Damali Abrams (GY/US) / Isaac Aden (US) / Stefano Cagol (IT) / Gianluca Capozzi (IT) / Gordon Cheung (UK) / Patricia Dominguez (CL)/ Rainer Ganahl (AT) / Pablo Helguera (MX) / Alan Dehghan (IR) / Lazaro Juan (PH) / Dominika Ksel (US) / JT Leroy (US) / Ferran Martin (ES) / Alex Nuñez (US) / Joe Pollitt (UK) / Vidishi Saina (IN) / Edgar Serrano (US) / Ala Dehghan,(Ir) / Roi Vaara (FI), Elan Jurado (USA).

STATEMENT:

How to Explain Pictures to a Dead Hare is a group exhibition whose title cites Joseph Beuys’ watershed 1965 performance by the same name. Like Beuys’ performance in which he “explained” artworks to a dead hare in the gallery where he enacted his piece, the exhibition presents works that question the art object’s ontology and the politics of spectatorship via diverse media including photography, video, painting, sculpture, work-on-paper, installation, performance, and sound and olfactory works.

Dominika Ksel’s interactive Untitled (2012), for example, manifests in the interiority of the spectator. Similar to Lygia Clark’s Sensorial Mask (1967), which was worn over the spectator's head and blocked external perception in order to trigger self-awareness and reflection, Ksel’s piece is a kind of rave of the mind; for its optical and audio ecstasy of light and sound within the cranium proceeds from the inside to the outside rather than the other way around. Through this radical reconfiguration of art and its consumption, of object and subject, Ksel's work shares an affinity with what Antonin Artaud stated about his Theatre of Cruelty: “it is through the skin that metaphysics must be made to re-enter our minds.”

Learning Poetry

Say Nothing, Nothing Said.

Minority speak; the chosen few, the disabled amongst you. The Cancer patients and those with runny noses.                           Nonsense and more nonsense being published today. Nonsense is now in print.                                                                                         We are writing a book that makes no sense, destined to have a our sell-out-tour for sure.                                                                           Diversity and medieval Christianity. Culture-clash and all things in the sweet-shop that taste a little off.                                             Spring-boxes, kiwis, gooseberries and Warwickshire verses Ashanti towns. Nonsense being written out today.                             Where are we @ in the bigger scheme o' things? Still no further forward, and long way back to go.                                                           The mind boggles on coffee-pots, oil paints and full-frontal images of everything far too easily accessed.

And microwaves and dishwashers; and floppy flat caps, and curly hair and dark-skins among us all,                                                 saying something or nothing. Political animals up in our grill...What have they to say today?                                                                  Say something to someone at some point and all will be revealed. Hacking away decoding, the nonsense we are typing.                   Having fun in the cages, the patterns that are emerging, in order to read every single thought, every broken stutter,                         and every inch apart of you. "What rot is this our democratic right to exist?"

Say nothing to no one so quietly. Say something to someone so quickly. Say something of interest,                                                             like the joy of being happy. Of angels in the bed whilst lying in sunken baths watching                                                                               spotty ladybirds on playful cupboard doors. Colourful butterflies fluttering and teacups inside                                                                     flying-sauces on broomsticks spliffing. Speak of clouds in the sky and birds singing lullabies.                                                           Nothing is being said so, 'READ ALL ABOUT IT!'

Let the Leaders make mugs of themselves trying in some vain way to have a say. Let them all fall.                                                           Watch the fools play magic tricks, as all escape the wrath in their cityscapes, of busy-nesses on laundry-days.                                         There, I said it again. My nothingness is now so visible it even makes my eyeballs weep. Join me in my nothingness                               and be a part of everything. Drop out and sink to the floor, and allow yourselves the luxury of failing.                                                       It is what is NOT being said, is being said.                                                                                                                                                       It is between those moments of space and time, which allows us to think a little clearer.                                                                           The publishers are a-publishing and the writers are re-writing.  Say your nothing now!                                                                               Speak of the truth that is unspoken? Shall we fall to our knees and pray until the day we die?                                                                     The devil is in the detail, the Devil is at the door...and she has come-a-knocking. Tap, tap...tap..once more...

I see at a glance you're listening. Your blackberries all a-flame. Following the threads and saying your nothing,                                       as clear as clear can be. Spit it out! Shout it out! Like the humble bumblebee.                                                                                                 Look again at the mysteries of the world and say you're nothing vocally.                                                                                                       Say you're nothing to nobody whilst watching others slapping on their makeup;                                                                                           sucking on a pear-drop or candy-coated lollipop;  staggering to the drawing board, writing out the bills                                                         with blankety-blank cheque books and pens. The vast majority invisibly screaming;                                                                             silently in the dungeons that are, all-too-often, way too deep.

We see behind the curtain, a shadow lurking. And looking and listening so closely,                          checking on what nonsense are we writing? What could we possibly say but nothing, for nothing can be said.                                        Pointless and useless yet works on every level. It is our nothing that is being written about so loudly,                          like an orchestra without the strings and violins flowing within bars of silences of emptiness. We can see the nothingness now?                                                                                                We shared again our morning news, full of nonsense and understood nothing. For the first time ever, we understood what nothing meant. We are looking for a publisher, to put into-print our heartfelt-scribbles on these rather elaborate ideas of nothingness, but all the publishers are busy. Busy printing novels, biblical-bubbles with notes and prefaces on nothing, so we shall wait in line without the snorting.

Say Nothing, Nothing Said.

Minority speak, the chosen few, the disabled amongst you. The Cancer patients and those with runny noses...Nonsense and more nonsense being published today. Nonsense is now in print....I'm writing a book that makes no sense, bound for the coast and destined to be a sell-out-tour for sure.

Diversity and medieval Christianity. Culture-clash and all things in the sweet-shop that taste a little off...Springboxes, kiwis, gooseberries and Warwickshire verses Ashanti towns. More sense. No sense. Nonsense being written today. Where we @ in the bigger scheme o' things? Still nowhere forward, with a long way to go. Mind boggles on coffee-pots, oil paints and full-frontal images of everything far too easily seen.

And microwaves and dishwashers...And floppy flat caps, and curly hair and brown skins amongst us all saying something or other..Political animals up in my grill...What have you to say or have your say today? Say something to someone at some point and all will be revealed. Hacking away decoding, the nonsense we are typing. Having fun in the catching, the patterns that are emerging, in order to read every single thought, every broken stutter, every inch apart of me. ..."What rot is this our democratic right to exist?"

Say nothing to no-one so quickly. Say something to someone so quietly. Say something of interest, like the joy of being happy. Of angels in the bed. Sunken baths and spotty ladybirds on playful cupboard doors. Colourful butterflies fluttering and flying-sauces inside teacups on broomsticks. Speak of clouds in the sky and birds singing lullabies...Nothing is being said...Nothing being said, 'READ ALL ABOUT IT!'

Let the politicians make fools of themselves trying in some vain way to have their say. Let them all fall. Watch the tools escape the wrath in their cityscapes of busy-ness on laundry-day ...There, I said it again. My nothingness is now so visible it makes my eyes weep. Join me in my nothingness and be a part of everything. Drop out and sink to the floor, and allow yourselves the luxury of falling.

It is what is not being said, is being said. It is between those moments of space and time, allowing us to think more honestly. Say you're nothing to nobody today and everyday...come on....The publishers are a-publishing and the writers are re-writing. Say your nothing now! Speak of the truth that is unspoken? Shall we play with the Gods once more? The Devil is in the detail, the Devil is at the door...and she has come-a-knocking. Tap. Tap...tap..once more...

I see at a glance you're listening. Your gooseberries all aflame. Follow the thread and say nothing, as clear as clear can be. Spit it out! Shout it out! Like the humble bumble bee..Look again at the mysteries of the world and say you're nothing vocally. Say you're nothing to nobody whilst watching others slapping on some lipstick, sucking on pear-drops and candy-coated lollipops; writing out on blankety-blank cheque books and pens. The vast majority invisibly screaming, silently in the dungeons that are all-too-often, way too deep.

We see behind the curtain, a shadow lurking. And looking and listening so closely....What nonsense are we writing? What could we possibly say but nothing, for nothing can be said no more. Pointless and useless yet works on every level. It is our nothing that is being written about so loudly, like an orchestra without the strings and violins blowing within this white-space of emptiness. Can you see the nothingness now? I read a wonderful article this morning, full of nonsense and understood nothing. For the first time ever, I understood what nothing meant.

I am looking for a publisher, to put into-print my heartfelt-scribbles on this rather elaborate idea of nothingness, but all the publishers are busy. Busy printing novels, biblical-bubbles with notes and prefaces on nothing, so I shall wait my turn like every body else.