Why Surrealism is Art

Surrealism is logic as an art form.

Art is produced as elements are arranged following and, in many cases, not following, certain contextual rules. 

When someone tries to create surrealism without logic, it ends up as what we call randomness.  Surrealism is rather deliberate violations of logic in ways to create a caricature, or an "artistic depiction", of logic itself.  Surrealism is painted logic. Without a logical semblance holding it together, it would lose its dreamlike quality.  That a surreal scene appears to almost represent reality is what makes it surreal at all.

That the categories and objects blend and mesh is important to surrealism, and there is a structure to blending concepts that way.  Otherwise, it would just be unexpected.

There's lots of forms of surrealism; its style is particularly suited to the horror genre, but it also finds a good home in satire and, lately, memes. I prefer surrealism with a more "nostalgic" feel, but no matter the medium, the elements are the same: real concepts are welded in unexpected ways, but always with enough real logic to create a harmony, rather than a discord.

Surrealism can, however, go the other direction: too much logic, and it instead becomes a message.  No longer dreamlike, it now has a specific and easily understood meaning.  Most political cartoons are an example of this; rather than real concepts being juxtaposed in the specific logical gaps and seams, real contexts are juxtaposed along clear logical lines, creating what we call symbols.  This doesn't preclude people assigning meanings to surrealism, just that a surrealist piece does not require the meaning- it isn't inherent.

A Room

The sofa sneezed.

"Stuff it, feather brain!" muttered the sword, hanging on the wall. It wasn't a real sword, it was only a model. It had been hanging there for quite a while, and it clearly overestimated its own importance.

The sofa looked on, apathetically.

"Oh, dear me," said the coffee table.

Then there was silence. The rug, lamp, and curtains declining to comment. The lamp was asleep anyway, as the natural light from the sun filtering in the window had convinced it that it was night-time. The sunlight was not feeling very talkative either.

The silence stretched on, languishing in the feel of its body, just like a cat would on the carpet. The rug, breaking the silence, (which made the window cringe), said tentatively, "it seems to me, that it would be a dreadful waste of time..." And then awkwardly trailed off, hoping someone would catch on and agree. Nobody replied. Not that they hadn't heard it, (for it had been the only sound), but more likely because they weren't mind-readers and the rug didn't have any mind to read anyway. Nobody liked the rug. Timidly, it continued: "A waste of time, keeping on like this..."

"Don't worry, chap! Things change, you know." Reassured the coffee table.

"I'm hungry!" declared the curtains.

The sofa yawned.

The lamp started snoring.

The person walked in, plopped himself on the sofa, and promptly joined the lamp. It was 5 o'clock.

"Not again!" Exclaimed the person's shoes, for they hated to touch the sofa, and the person had callously left them on. The person was an instigator.

The air was thick. The clock ticked. The lamp flicked, and then exploded.

"Guargh!" Said the person, who was always a caveman in the mornings. He stood up to the wheeze of the sofa, who had been finding it difficult to breathe. The person was a bully. "Shillings, humbug!" He muttered, stalking out of the room.

"Fellow's up to no good," assessed the coffee table, who was always the most perceptive about that sort of thing.

"Tsk, Tsk," said the clock.

The sofa looked on, dejectedly. The sofa was a masochist.

"Doesn't anybody want to know what I think?" Asked the rug.

Nobody wanted to know what the rug thought. Frankly, the sword was surprised that the rug thought at all.

"Perhaps we aught to help the poor lad. After all, he hasn't got a family," mused the coffee table.

"Tsk, Tsk," said the clock, and then burst into song, the most pleasant melody you ever heard of, for no reason at all, but that it was 6 o'clock and it wanted to celebrate. Everyone thought the clock was weird, except the rug, who didn't think at all. The clock didn't think much of the rug, either.

"What's the matter with you people!" Exclaimed the window. "The boy's dying, right there in the middle of the room!"

"I disagree!" said the curtains.

One way or another, nobody did anything. The tragedy passed in grim silence.

"I guess its all up to you, now." Said the sword.

The sunlight beamed.

But the sunlight was getting old, each click of the clock testifying that the day wasn't as young as it used to be, and soon it was night.

"Sleep well!" was its final, tortured cry. The sobbing of the clock, its only recompense.

"Why's it all gone like this"

https://m.mixcloud.com/markoswin/whys-it-all-gone-like-this/

This is a fantastic, fast paced, high-octatane radio show with excellent writing and better acting.

Pineapples do not go on pizza

"I hate Pineapples!" I shouted at me pizza, that fateful Autumn Eve.
"We hate you too" the Pineapples replied, their eyes a wicked gleam.
A bolt, a shock, a laughing stock, my cursed forever hand
Become a spiky yellow fruit, spread horror throughout the land.

I work as a part-time villain now, spreading havock upon my homeland as vengeance for shunning my deformity.  Normal people, they lose a hand, they get a hook, a sword, a stump, y'know, something flashy and chic.  Not me!  I got a Pineapple.  You know how hard it is to be respected when you're trying to convince someone of the efficacy of your marketing program but your left hand is a pineapple?  I used to be a salesman.  Had a briefcase and everything.  Go into my regular meetings and try to set up my nice easel with charts and statistics and compelling power statements on the labor theory of value and all that, but now I have a pineapple hand.  Kinda ruins the image.  Its not even articulated, its just a full out pineapple.

So I go into one of these meetings, new pineapple and all, but I'm trying to put on a confident face, y'know?  Sales strategies and all that.  Didn't matter.  My hand is a pineapple.

So now my career is ruined and I'm a common goon wandering alleys at night threatening to bash people in the face with a pineapple for small cash.  Can't even cut the thing off... It just grows back.  If I pull with my right hand I can pull it off, and another will grow into its place before you could even say Ananas comosus, which is its Latin name because if you're going to have a curse like this you at least need to try to make it sound respectable.

I was in a bar fight once.  Slammed drunk, someone started talking smack about my citrus, and I just lost it.  Started chucking pineapples everywhere.  The pineapple massacre of '08.  Not that anyone died, but pineapples are pretty pokey so some people definitely needed stitches.  I've got a pretty good arm.  Taught me to wear gloves though, whew!

I've been researching.  Its tough, because libraries won't let you check out books because you'll tear them all up.  Prejudiced, the lot of them.  The internet is an alright place for information, but you have to go to the right source.  I went to Little Ceasers website.  I called their headquarters.  The guy on the other end heard my story, and invited me to Italy.

Turns out this curse goes clear to Rome, back when the empire was still around.  Some guy invented pizza, and it originally had pineapples on it.  Then some dude stole the patent, took the pineapples off, sold it as his own, and made bank, so the first guy was pretty ticked.  Now his spirit haunts and curses people who hate pineapple pizza occasionally, just to remind them that they and their anti-pineapple spirit ruined his life, so now they must suffer even as he.

I hypothesize that I could be cured if I could just bring myself to like pineapple pizza, but...  Forget that.  Stuff's nasty.  Ain't worth it.

The end.

Short Stroll Riot

Nobody likes a surrealist.  I should know, I'm a surrealist myself.  I can feel it, walking down the street, the boys and girls and their pets looking up at me from behind their beady little eyes.  I can see their thoughts, their speech bubbles, the narrator articulating their lives in his crisp English accent.  Fools, the lot of them!  I blow bubbles in their speech bubbles!  I narrate my own articulation!  Rebuke the proletariat!  Vive le surréalisme!

KCRW's "The Organist", Episode 17, "Barely Not Shaking"

https://soundcloud.com/kcrw/the-organist-episode-17-barely-not-shaking

The Organist is an artistic/exploratory podcast which interviews different artists and does things, and I happened to stumble onto this episode.

The first half is a fantastically produced surrealistic... Play?  Yes.  Wonderfully done.  A short adventure with a mentally-wandering narrator.

The second half is music produced by a man's youthful self who's basic philosophy was "be good at being totally awful."  Mild language.