<nettime> I Am For... 1961

[d.garcia@new-tactical-research.co.uk]

Yesterday at a ripe old age of 93 Claes Oldenburg died. For those who 
may know him only as a purveyor of bloated corporate pop art of his 
later years may be surprised just how radical he was when he started out 
and just how different he was from the pop-artists who bought 
uncritically into consumerist ethos. His early ‘floppy’ sculptures ( 
constructed largely by his wife who got little recognition) are raw and 
challenging. His drawings are some of the most vivid of the era. But to 
get a real flavour of his outlook you can do no better than his 
manifesto “I Am For…” 1961. Sixty years later it still rings true.

I Am For… (Statement, 1961)
I am for an art that is political-erotical-mystical, that does something 
other than sit on its ass in a museum.
I am for an art that grows up not knowing it is art at all, an art given 
the chance of having a starting point of zero.
I am for an art that embroils itself with the everyday crap and still 
comes out on top.
I am for an art that imitates the human, that is comic, if necessary, or 
violent, or whatever is necessary.
I am for all art that takes its form from the lines of life itself, that 
twists and extends and accumulates and spits and drips, and is heavy and 
coarse and blunt and sweet and stupid as life itself.
I am for an artist who vanishes, turning up in a white cap painting 
signs or hallways.
I am for art that comes out of a chimney like black hair and scatters in 
the sky.
I am for art that spills out of an old man’s purse when he is bounced 
off a passing fender.
I am for the art out of a doggie’s mouth, falling five stories from the 
roof.
I am for the art that a kid licks, after peeling away the wrapper.
I am for an art that joggles like everyone’s knees, when the bus 
traverses an excavation.
I am for art that is smoked like a cigarette, smells like a pair of 
shoes.
I am for art that flaps like a flag, or helps blow noses like a 
handkerchief.
I am for art that is put on and taken off like pants, which develops 
holes like socks, which is eaten like a piece of pie, or abandoned with 
great contempt like a piece of shit.
I am for art covered with bandages. I am for art that limps and rolls 
and runs and jumps.
I am for art that comes in a can or washes up on the shore.
I am for art that coils and grunts like a wrestler. I am for art that 
sheds hair.
I am for art you can sit on. I am for art you can pick your nose with or 
stub your toes on.
I am for art from a pocket, from deep channels of the ear, from the edge 
of a knife, from the corners of the mouth, stuck in the eye or worn on 
the wrist.
I am for art under the skirts, and the art of pinching cockroaches.
I am for the art of conversation between the sidewalk and a blind man’s 
metal stick.
I am for the art that grows in a pot, that comes down out of the skies 
at night, like lightning, that hides in the clouds and growls. I am for 
art that is flipped on and off with a switch.
I am for art that unfolds like a map, that you can squeeze, like your 
sweetie’s arm, or kiss like a pet dog. Which expands and squeaks like an 
accordion, which you can spill your dinner on like an old tablecloth.
I am for an art that you can hammer with, stitch with, sew with, paste 
with, file with.
I am for an art that tells you the time of day, or where such and such a 
street is.
I am for an art that helps old ladies across the street.
I am for the art of the washing machine. I am for the art of a 
government check. I am for the art of last war’s raincoat.
I am for the art that comes up in fogs from sewer holes in winter. I am 
for the art that splits when you step on a frozen puddle. I am for the 
worm’s art inside the apple. I am for the art of sweat that develops 
between crossed legs.
I am for the art of neck hair and caked teacups, for the art between the 
tines of restaurant forks, for the odor of boiling dishwater.
I am for the art of sailing on Sunday, and the art of red-and-white 
gasoline pumps.
I am for the art of bright blue factory columns and blinking biscuit 
signs.
I am for the art of cheap plaster and enamel. I am for the art of worn 
marble and smashed slate. I am for the art of rolling cobblestones and 
sliding sand. I am for the art of slag and black coal. I am for the art 
of dead birds.
I am for the art of scratching in the asphalt, daubing at the walls. I 
am for the art of bending and kicking metal and breaking glass, and 
pulling at things to make them fall down.
I am for the art of punching and skinned knees and sat-on bananas. I am 
for the art of kids’ smells. I am for the art of mama-babble.
I am for the art of bar-babble, tooth-picking, beer-drinking, 
egg-salting, in-sulting. I am for the art of falling off a barstool.
I am for the art of underwear and the art of taxicabs. I am for the art 
of ice-cream cones dropped on concrete. I am for the majestic art of dog 
turds, rising like cathedrals.
I am for the art of bread wet by rain. I am for the rat’s dance between 
floors. I am for the art of flies walking on a slick pear in the 
electric light. I am for the art of soggy onions and firm green shoots. 
I am for the art of clicking among the nuts when the roaches come and 
go. I am for the brown sad art of rotting apples.
I am for the art of meows and clatter of cats and for the art of their 
dumb electric eyes.
I am for the white art of refrigerators and their muscular openings and 
closings.
I am for the art of rust and mold. I am for the art of hearts, funeral 
hearts or sweetheart hearts, full of nougat. I am for the art of worn 
meat hooks and singing barrels of red, white, blue, and yellow meat.
I am for the art of things lost or thrown away, coming home from school. 
I am for the art of cock-and-ball trees and flying cows and the noise of 
rectangles and squares. I am for the art of crayons and weak, gray 
pencil lead, and grainy wash and sticky oil paint, and the art of 
windshield wipers and the art of the finger on a cold window, on dusty 
steel or in the bubbles on the sides of a bathtub.
I am for the art of teddy bears and guns and decapitated rabbits, 
exploded umbrellas, raped beds, chairs with their brown bones broken, 
burning trees, firecracker ends, chicken bones, pigeon bones, and boxes 
with men sleeping in them.

I am for the art of slightly rotten funeral flowers, hung bloody rabbits 
and wrinkly yellow chickens, bass drums and tambourines, and plastic 
phonographs.
I am for the art of abandoned boxes, tied like pharaohs. I am for an art 
of water tanks and speeding clouds and flapping shades.
I am for US Government Inspected Art, Grade A art, Regular Price art, 
Yellow Ripe art, Extra Fancy art, Ready-to-Eat art, Best-for-Less art, 
Ready-to-Cook art, Fully Cleaned art, Spend Less art, Eat Better art, 
Ham art, pork art, chicken art, tomato art, banana art, apple art, 
turkey art, cake art, cookie art…

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