By Harry Eiss
Richard Dadd is a trickster, a pre-post-modern enigma wrapped in a Shakespearean Midsummer Night's Dream, an Elizabethan Puck dwelling in a smothering Victorian insane asylum, foreshadowing and, in excellent, Mad Hatter conundrums, getting into the fragmented shards of contemporary nightmarish oxymorons lengthy sooner than the artists presently attempting to supply them the joker's ephemeral maps of discourse. i believe of Bob Dylan's Ballad of a skinny guy, that cryptic refusal to minimize the warped mirrors of truth to prosaic lies, or, might be All alongside the Watchtower or Mr. Tambourine guy. much more than Samuel Beckett's awaiting Godot, which apparently sufficient comes off as overly esoteric, too studied, too unsleeping, Dadd's whole life foreshadows the forbidden front into the numinous, the belief of the inexplicable labyrinths of latest lifestyles, that splendidly wealthy Marcel Duchamp panorama of puns and satiric paradigms, that surrealistic parallax of the bright gamester Salvador Dali, that smirking irony of the works of Roy Lichtenstein, Robert Rauschenberg, John Cage, and Robert Indiana, that fragmented, meta-fictional fight of Kurt Vonnegut's Slaughterhouse 5. John Lennon definitely sensed it and could not support yet push into meta-real worlds in his personal lyrics. examine Strawberry Fields perpetually, i'm the Walrus, and the extra self-conscious Revolution quantity nine. In Yer Blues, he even refers to Dylan's major personality, Mr. Jones from Ballad of a skinny guy. If Lennon's music is taken heavily, actually, then it's a darkish crying out via a suicidal guy, Lord, i am lonely, wanna die; or, if taken as a metaphor for a lover's misplaced emotions approximately his unfulfilled love, it falls into the romantic rant of a customary blues or teenage rock-and-roll music. although, even in this point, it has an understatement approximately it, a feeling of giggling at itself and at Dylan's Mr. Jones, who is aware anything is happening yet simply now not what it truly is, after which, by way of extension, we all who've woke up to the truth that the studied Western international does not make feel, we all who fight to discover which means within the nonsense pictures, characters, and happenings within the music, and maybe, coming to a end that the nonsense is the feel. whilst Andy Warhol made the deliberately overly seen punning hide for the Rolling Stones' Sticky palms album, depicting a man's crotch (presumably Mick Jagger's - notwithstanding now not actually) coated through denims with a true zipper to be unzipped to bare the sticky underpants from a man's cum, the relationship with musical creativity and sexual creativity used to be humorously conjoined, however the genuine irony wasn't loads that sexual double entendre, because it was once a self-mocking, a giggling on the writer, a enjoyable conceptual undermining of the quest for that means via artwork, a featuring of the artist as trickster, a great deal in response to Carl Jung's trickster because the impulse to anarchy, a light-hearted metaphysical shaggy dog story just like Robert Rauschenberg's mattress - a literal duvet and pillow (rumored to were from the particular mattress he shared with Jasper Johns. Which basically makes the blending of realities even thicker, simply because even if the rumor is correct, it turns into genuine, maybe even extra actual just because it suits so well into human maps of meaning), that's then remodeled with splashes of paint, held on a wall, and targeted a piece of paintings, within the culture of Duchamp's ready-mades and the complete irreverent Dada circulation.