Showing posts with label gargantua. Show all posts
Showing posts with label gargantua. Show all posts

7 Sept 2025

Once Upon a Time ... There Was a Philosopher Named Friedrich Nietzsche and He Privileged a Pissing Giant Over Clever Dwarves

Nietzsche with Snow White, dwarves, and other fairy tale characters 
in a whimsical, enchanted forest with a gingerbread house
  
We think that play and fairy tales belong to childhood: how shortsighted that is! 
As though we would want at any time of life to live without play and fairy tales! [1]
 
 
I.  
 
As the above quotation demonstrates, Nietzsche always loved fairy tales - or Märchen, as the Germans call them - a genre of short story characterised by magical or supernatural elements, archetypal characters, a fantastical setting, and (all too often) a conventional moral lesson in which good triumphs over evil and order is restored to a chaotic world. 
 
So, no surprise then that he should write one of his own ...
 
 
II. 
 
Whilst in Turin, in April 1888 - only nine months before his collapse - Nietzsche scribbled an untitled short text about a giant and some dwarves into a notebook where it remained unpublished for many years [2]
 
Less than 150 words in the original German, it's a queer story about the mortal danger of being urinated upon when you are of restricted stature, by someone monstrously bigger in size. For it's not only unpleasant, when you're a dwarf, if a giant pisses on you, but there's the very real risk of drowning (a prospect that even the most ardent urophile might blanch at) [3].
 
Thus, the dwarves recognise that they have to find a way to prevent the giant from relieving his bladder - and, indeed, stop him from shitting on them as well.     
 
(Somehow, I don't think Disney are going to be bidding for the rights to make this into a film anytime soon.)  
 
For the oldest and wisest dwarf, this double danger presented something of a philosophical problem; clearly action needed to be taken in the face of an existential threat. But the situation necessitated not only trying to scare the giant away by tickling him and biting his toes - "customary means to encouraging and enforcing bowel and bladder control" [4] - but morally measuring up and rising to the challenge as a people.   
  
 
III. 
 
What are we to make of this ...?
 
The story seems to suggest that powerful individuals - in this case one who is great in size and strength - can become threatening to the well-being of others smaller in size and weaker in strength and therefore need to be restrained and, if possible, persuaded to curtail their natural instincts.         
 
But that would be a rather surprising lesson coming from Nietzsche who not only refuses to posit a doer separate from their deeds [5], but usually writes in praise of greatness and dislikes the little people who, in the name of morality and civilisation, wish to cut others down to their own size, à la David, slayer of Goliath (1 Samuel 17) [6]
 
Zarathustra, for example, is forever bemoaning the fact that everywhere he looks, everything has become smaller; houses, men, virtue and even happiness [7]. Small people, he says, mistake mediocrity for moderation and fundamentally only want one thing: that nobody shall do them any harm - and that includes not pissing on them.  
 
So, despite initial impressions, Nietzsche's tale is probably a satirical (uro-scatological) attempt to reverse values and "twist the standard Märchen perspective that establishes cultural relationships between giants and little people" [8].    
 
Ultimately, argues Richard Perkins: 
 
"The giant expresses a natural and cultural superfluity that squanders its great capacities. He represents 'overflowing' as such, and, in an important sense, his crude bodily eliminations illustrate the supreme value that Zarathustra designates as the 'gift-giving virtue' [...] The giant pisses away his virtue as gold glistens and as the sun radiates its creative brilliance." [9]   
 
And on that watersporty note ... 
 
 
Notes
 
[1] Nietzsche, Human, All Too Human (II. 1. 270), trans. R. J. Hollingdale (Cambridge University Press, 1986), p. 277. 
 
[2] For those who can read German, the tale can be found in the Critical Student Edition of Nietzsche's Complete Works: KSA 13: 483: 16. 
      For those who can't, an English translation by Richard Perkins is available in his essay 'A Giant and Some Dwarves: Nietzsche's Unpublished Märchen on the Exception and the Rule', in Marvels & Tales: Journal of Fairy Tale Studies, Vol. 11, Nos. 1-2 (Wayne State University Press, 1997), pp. 61-73. 
      This essay, which I shall quote from later in the post, is available to read or download on JSTOR: click here
 
[3] One wonders if Nietzsche ever read Rabelais's The Inestimable Life of the Great Gargantua (1535), in which the famous giant urinates on the city of Paris from the heights of Notre Dame, causing the people to flee, fearful that they'll be washed away in a torrent of piss (and, indeed, over 250,000 Parisians - not even counting the women and children - do drown in the resulting flood, according to Rabelais).     
 
[4] Richard Perkins, op. cit., p. 71. 
 
[5] Refuses, that is to say, to fall into the metaphysical and grammatical trap of thinking that there's a free-willing subject who can - and in certain circumstances ought - to change their behaviour. This clever moral move allows notions of blame, guilt, and sin (i.e., bad conscience) to enter into the world; see the Genealogy where all this is examined by Nietzsche in depth. 
      The key point is this: to ask a giant not to express his strength and not to piss when his bladder's full, is like asking an eagle not to prey upon a lamb. 
       
[6] One thinks also of how the good people of Lilliput are initially fearful and mistrustful of Gulliver and how, even after he has saved their land from invasion and extinguished a fire at the royal palace by, funnily enough, pissing on it, they turn on him and decide to blind him and starve him to death. 
      See Jonathan Swift's novel Gulliver's Travels (1726).   
 
[7] See 'Of the Virtue that Makes Small', in Thus Spoke Zarathustra
      See also 'On the Vision and the Riddle' in the same text, where Zarathustra (assuming the role of a giant) carries a dwarf on his shoulders in order to give the latter a glimpse of greatness. Unfortunately, however, the dwarf fails to understand the profundity of what he sees and Nietzsche is able to show why the metaphor about 'standing on the shoulders of giants' (i.e. accepting intellectual dependency on past figures) is something that needs to be critically re-examined. 
 
[8] Richard Perkins, op. cit., p. 66.  
 
[9] Ibid., p. 70. 
      Perkins also directs us towards another unpublished piece in which Nietzsche gives his philosophical project a scatological twist: a fragment dating to late 1883 (see KSA 10: 635-37), which concludes with the startling injunction to shit and become as gods! For a discussion of the theoscatological in Nietzsche (and Lawrence) please click here. 
 

24 Apr 2025

Joan Miró: Monumental Printmaking by An Artist Assassin

Joan Miró: Gargantua (1977) 
Etching and aquatint with carborundum on Arches wove paper 
159.5 x 120 cm
 
 'I try to apply colours like words that shape poems, 
like notes that shape music.' - JM
 
 
I. 
 
I have to admit, I've never been a big fan of Joan Miró - even after all that time living in Barcelona, just down the road from the Parc de Joan Miró, where his magnificent 22-metre high sculpture Dona i Ocell (1983) proudly stands [1].  
 
However, when I heard that there was an exhibition of thirteen large prints by this Catalan artist at Shapero Modern (94, Bond St., London, W1), I knew I wanted to go take a look ... 
 
Because even though Miró is not one of my favourite artists, I do admire the fact that his work is so difficult to classify - some might even describe it as genre-defying - as he moves in a unique space opened up in between Surrealism, Expressionism, and Fauvism. 
 
I also love the fact that in numerous interviews Miró expressed contempt for conventional techniques, declaring himself to be un assassí who wished to eliminate the clichéd visual elements that typically characterise bourgeois painting.
 
So - to the gallery! 
 
 
II.
 
Obviously, I was there to look and not to buy: the lovely print above, signed in white crayon and numbered by the artist (25/50), is £85,000 and that's a bit more than I can afford, unfortunately, and even the more reasonably priced works are still more than I would seriously consider splashing out on. 
 
However, I like to imagine that even a pauper such as myself can appreciate and be touched by art; even if unable to purchase the works. 
 
And, to be honest, I'd rather just briefly glimpse a picture in passing than own it and feel compelled to stare at it in an attempt to get my money's worth of aesthetic pleasure; or attempt to incorporate the picture as an essential part of some fancy interior design; or live in the secret hope that it might one day be sold for at least twice the price paid for it (if not an extraordinary amount more).
 
There are, says D. H. Lawrence, very few people who "wouldn't love to have a perfectly fascinating work" hanging in their home, so that they could "go on looking at it" [2] - well, I'm one of this tiny minority: I love art, but have no desire for property (I even prefer a blank wall, despite Lawence suggesting this is merely a form of snobbism). 
 
 
III. 
 
Although Picasso pipped him by a year, Miró was 90 when he died in 1983 and that's a good age by any reckoning; six years older than Matisse when he passed away and two years older than Renoir. And the fact that he was still producing new work until the very end probably qualifies him as a monster of stamina
     
According to the exhibition's press release, in the final decade of his life, Miró "devoted himself primarily to the art of printmaking, producing some of the most dynamic and ground-breaking prints of his time" [3]
 
And we should be grateful for this; for all thirteen works here are fabulous and demonstrate that he was not only still experimenting in his later years, but had an "exceptional command of printmaking techniques" [4]
 
I was particularly fond of La Femme Arborescent (1974) and Le Rat des Sables (1975), but there wasn't one that didn't delight; mostly due to their vibrant colours, but also to their compositional power and the fact that Miró has the astonishing ability "to transform physical movement into a visual language, blending abstraction with subtle figurative suggestion to convey the pure vitality of dance" [5].  
 
 
IV. 
 
The exhibition is on until 4 May: I would encourage readers who view this post before that date and who may find themselves wandering round Mayfair at some point, to visit and enjoy (even if they can't afford to buy a print). 
 
For even a few moments spent in the presence of these paintings will, I promise, make happy [6].    
 
   
Notes
 
[1] I have explained my fondness for this work in a post published on 16 Feb 2013: click here
 
[2] D. H. Lawrence, 'Pictures on the Wall', in Late Essays and Articles, ed. James T. Boulton (Cambridge University Press, 2004), p. 257. Note that Lawrence concedes, however, that most pictures, like flowers, quickly die and lose their freshness and should thence be immediately thrown away or burnt. 
 
[3-5] Press release / Overview: Joan Miró: Monumental Printmaking (6 Mar - 4 May 2025) at Shapero Modern, London, W1 - click here to read on the gallery website.    
 
[6] That's not something I can promise of the portraits on paper by Egon Schiele, currently shown at the nearby Omer Tiroche Gallery (21, Conduit St., London, W1), but these too are well worth seeing: click here for a post inspired by this exhibition.