Essay Titles
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Giotto, St. Francis Preaching to the Birds
WHAT IS SONOSOPHY? A BRIEF HISTORY
from The Sonosopher Trip (Sonosophy vol 3)
Sound (son) wisdom/mind (sophia): It is its own logic and therefore illogical to all save what interpenetrates bone, blood and flesh.
Sonosophy goes unnoticed in its quotidian manifestations, yet is ever present as an uncanny sense of things when we are most alone or most aware, such as in extreme moments of joy and terror. Thus, Sonosophy makes intelligible the absurdities that normally are deaf to our need for meaning.
By this art, Orpheus could so sound his lyre and voice that trees and streams and animals responded to him. Pythagoras, in a more scientific vein, could discern the music of the spheres and unravel the workings of number, which is the essence of the reality of beauty.
Next, Francesco practiced this identical technique by simple language acts of communion. In these latter days, the Dadas have resurrected this very practice that needs to be re-adapted, as always, to the needs at hand.
In Giotto’s depiction, the saint speaks to the birds and they gather to listen to the everlasting good speech. Francesco spells out the words in his own mind-heart and then casts the spells into the air. The birds in their turn, creatures of air and song, are completely tuned in and get it, and thus praise the confraternity of created things to which we all belong.
CANTICLE TO CREATED THINGS
By Saint Francis of Assisi
Translated from the early Italian by Alex Caldiero
Oh Most High, Almighty and Good,
yours are the praises, the glory and honor
and every blessing.
To you alone, Oh Most High, they are due
and no one is worthy to name you.
Be praised, My Lord, with all to whom you gave birth
especially for brother sun who brings the day
and by whom you give us light.
He’s beautiful and in his radiance and splendor,
Oh Most High, he resembles you.
Be praised, my Lord, for sister moon and the stars
that you fashioned brilliant, precious and fair.
Be praised, my Lord, for brother wind
and for air and every kind of weather, clear or cloudy,
by which you sustain those to whom you give birth.
Be praised, my Lord, for sister water
who is most useful and humble, rare and pure.
Be praised, my Lord, for brother fire
by whom you illumine the night,
he is fair and joyful, vigorous and strong.
Be praised, my Lord, for sister our mother earth
who maintains and guides us
and yields much fruit, bright flowers and grass.
Be praised, my Lord, for those who forgive because they love you
and bear infirmities and trials,
and blessed are those who abide in peace
for by you, Oh Most High, they will be crowned.
Be praised, my Lord, for sister our bodily death
from whom no living being can escape:
sorrowful whoever dies unprepared,
blessed whom she finds doing your holy will,
for the second death will not harm them.
All you created things, praise and bless my Lord,
thank and humbly serve Him.
In earliest times Orpheus led the way for both poets and philosophers toward a vatic understanding of the world. His songs would rouse trees and rivers and animals; every kingdom was under his sway; his music made everything dance, that is, become conscious that they were living beings. It was a grand dance, a ballroom dance where the ball is the earth and the room the universe.
The details of how this was accomplished we no longer know or understand. We have lost or rather forgotten the techniques to make metaphors not only express connections among things but create access points from thing to thing. Pythagoras called these exchanges ‘number.’ Ovid called them ‘metamorphoses.’ The Alchemists called them ‘transmutations.’ This is the reason I never tire of looking at hermetic picture books that still speak in child-like idioms and keep their inner meanings inviolate.
Thus, Francesco, with a slight stoop, lifts his hand and begins his sermon. The birds sit or flap about and listen because they know it is good for them. The saint is portrayed, as only Giotto could know him, that is, for himself--as I now know him: for myself. Francesco preached a gospel that was an exact simulation of the one delivered by Jesus. He leans into the air, making the air shift all at once: the air around his body and the air around the trees, the air that flows and floats into the atmosphere: the air constituting the singular content of his breath. The little birds respond and come almost too close. But in this communion there’s no such thing as too close.
Francesco was the first sonosopher of post ancient times. He is the first practitioner of this art who lived in what could be recognized as our world. But already so much has changed that essentially it’s not really the same world.
McLuhan has spoken at length regarding this pre-Guttenberg world with its predominantly aural reality. One major difference from our day was the ability of things to bleed into each other by the mere mention of their names. The sonosophical technology of that day allowed folks to live in a singular spatial sphere wherein orally shaped acts would course thru and become objects.
He spoke to the birds, preached the gospel to them and they heard his every word and gathered around him and sang back their understanding and were filled with the Holy Ghost, itself under the appearance of a dove. What did he say? How did he say it? How was it understood?
According to Giotto, in addition to sound, gesture was a component of his communications. There is every indication that the birds reciprocated and responded just like a church congregation, antiphonally. And what came out of his mouth was language unheard of since the time of Orpheus, the original sonosopher who could sing to the animals and play his harp just so and the tones would make the trees and flowers bend and want to gather around him and join him. Animals both wild and domesticated would attend his concerts so enraptured that they would not let him be, but would follow him wherever he went. Francesco had undergone this identical Orphic training and teaching wherein you learned the language of the birds, the old school name for sonosophy.
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From time to time there arise those with peculiar aural powers: they hear the cry of pain and comprehend its grammar and syntax. They see and are moved to touch the untouchable while those with normal sight are merely repulsed. Who are these saints who listen and move within their own portable atmospheres? They are fearless and absurd, with exited minds constantly seeking exit. They preach to birds and converse with wolves. Their ears are conch shells resonant with ancient oceans.
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In our time, there are some who desire to awaken that same power to move and to enlighten by sounding back and forth out and into the body and the bodies in the proximity of their body, and weave geometric patterns enuf to fill rooms and other chambers with actual vibrating webs felt more than seen, known more than felt. No metaphor can describe what this is all or even partially about. The birth of language remains a mystery even tho we witness it whenever a child is born and starts to make first sounds. These sounds begin to bounce from and interact with the world, then directly into the soul of the little ones. At that point another sonosopher is born, and life on the planet becomes richer and more beautiful. These transformations are natural. Francesco continuously sang the beauties of this world of nature, addressing everything as brother or sister: brother wind and sister moon, sister water and brother fire. His canticle still reverberates in the smallest angles of the chapel in Assisi where his bones are tuning forks ready to vibrate, when struck by the voice of prayer.
Francesco’s adventures are recorded in a book called ‘The Little Flowers.’ In addition to the little acts of love, the little flowers signify the humble followers who walked and still walk in his shoes, that is, barefoot. After all, she is our sister and mother Earth.
It is told in this little book how when directed to go preach the gospel to every living thing, Francesco’s disciples asked him which way each should go. He instructed them to start spinning in place, round and round and round until each one fell, drunk from the motion; from within that ecstasy opening their eyes, wherever their gaze fell that was the way each was to go.
In another book, Saint Francis by Nikos Kazantzakis, are recorded the further musical exploits of the good friars.
As we were dancing and whistling, an astonished young noblewoman came up to us.
“What happened to you?” she asked with a laugh. “Who fed you all that wine and made you drunk?”
“God!” replied Francis, clapping his hands. “The Lord Christ of the many casks. Come, join us yourself. Drink!”
“Where do you come from?”
“From nothingness, madam.”
“Where are you going?”
“To God. On the way between nothingness and God, we dance and weep.”
Nowadays, the monks who go by his name are not very musical. But this is not about music. They don’t appear ready to twirl. But this is not about dance. They perform the duties of house sitters for the pilgrims and tourist. But this is a story of sonosophy. And that is another story.
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Alex Caldiero and Gaitanu Cusolito
Two Fishermen
from “voices of fire and water: living with volcanos”
The day I went down to the seashore, walked on black sand, headed for the boats, one with a man standing beside it, a fisherman. Long white hair, long white beard, bare chested, barefooted, a simple pair of shorts, he looks up when I say good morning in Sicilian. I tell him my name, he tells me his, it’s Gaitanu. I ask him about his fishing, about his life on the island, the island that is also a volcano, smoking, now and then fire explodes, going on for over 3000 years– Another man comes over. He joins us. I tell him my name, he tells me his, it’s Gaitanu. He too is a fisherman. He too has long white hair, a long white beard, bare chested, barefooted, with a simple pair of shorts. We talk together, me and the two Gaetano’s. Both fishermen going on six generations, as far as they can remember. They know the Sea as they know the inside of their own bellies. They read the wind the way others read books.
Both fishermen refer to the volcano-island as HE (IDDU), pointing to the volcano. They explain HIS moods and dispositions. And to emphasize their words, one picks up a black rock out of the black sand and says: this is the island – it is a rock in the shape of the Island – Meanwhile the other picks up a rock black out of the black sand and says: this is the heart – it is a rock in the shape of a heart – the heart of the island, the living being beating pulse of ocean sky and fire!
The fishermen then go on to say how HE tells them all they need to know about the weather, the tides, the winds, the waves, the sky and clouds. “HE can be a gentle father and warn and advise us, or a father who reprimands his children for their own good.” They continue to tell of their lives as the life of the island and of IDDU, the volcano; HE, the giver, the taker, the maintainer, both the thirst and the water, both the ground and the sky, the reason to look up and down, to partake of the fruits of the sea and the earth and in their midst, HIS primal fire that marks the way.
10 Aug. /2 Sep. 19
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How I Made Heaven
The work started the day my son Zach discovered the dead sparrow under our basement heater. It had flown in by mistake thru an outside vent and gotten stuck somehow and died a little quiet death there in the dark where it lay undisturbed for I dont know how long, but long enuf for its eyes to become two dried out cavities. My son placed the dead bird on my desk for me to find. I looked at it for quite a while. It became my memento mori, reminding me of that transfiguration which I dont want to call death because this word no longer has a deep and dreadful meaning. As my memento mori, the little winged corpse took the place of the human skull I’ve always wanted but could never get.
One day I found the perfect box, so I placed the dead sparrow into it. At no time, you must understand, did I think of the box as a coffin. I enjoy putting things in boxes to contain and make them grow in ways that defy reason (more about this some other time). When I next opened the box, to my surprise I saw the bird floating in blue sky. Another time, the dead sparrow was surrounded by clouds. I decided to paint the box—so I did. It took me a while to get the color blue just right (it may not be right even now, but it’s close). Then I painted clouds. I even included a cloud on one of the outer sides. Lastly, I noticed a dark part, that is, the bottom outer third. I painted that in in black.
Having painted the box as described above, I placed the dead sparrow inside it and closed the lid. Occasionally I would peek in to catch a glimpse of the bird, or completely open the lid so I could see the whole scene. On one occasion after viewing the bird peacefully dreaming afloat in blue sky, I said to myself: THAT is heaven, and suddenly realized that I had indeed made heaven. A few days later, I decided to write about it and how it is that for me heaven is become less of a metaphor and more of a real place, especially since I can hold it in my hands and wonder.
From The Event
Catalyst Magazine, November 2016
ANDY WARHOL MEETS JOSEPH SMITH
A personal souvenir from the land of Zion
by Alex Caldiero
Catalyst Magazine, June 2014
A friend called, said: there’s an artist visiting at BYU from New York, wanted to meet some interesting local folks, I thought of you. What d’you say?...I say: alright… Well then, come tonight at 6 pm to the Comfort Inn in Provo. She gave me the room number and I hung up already regretting being so agreeable. What I dislike more than interesting people is being considered an interesting person.
I headed for the Comfort Inn and, as is my custom I’m right on time. Up one flight of stairs and I’m at the door. Knock. A woman answers. It was she. But she’s nothing like I expected. There’s something old worldly about her, aristocratic and refined. She is wearing a purple gown and a rather long scarf wrapped around her neck and down her body. We shake hands and that’s when it hit me, like a revelation: I’m astonished by the flow of something half magnetic, half erotic that flows from her hand into mine. She welcomed me in with a heavy French accent. This is Isabelle Dufresne. And I asked myself what’s with me? She’s old enuf to be my mother or my aunt. I’m uneasy and not a little disturbed by the stimulation—I’m turned on and I donno why.
My friend formally introduced us and we sit and chat about nothing in particular, until Ms. Dufresne starts in about art, her art. Her recent work involving apocalyptic angels. She sees herself as on a mission to save the world from male dominated violence. You see, she declared, the angels will soon come and end all wars. They will fly down from the heavens and straddle the guided missiles and ride them out of harms way. After all, weapons of destruction are phallic in nature and appearance: guns, swords, missiles, and such. The angels will render every one of them impotent and ineffectual. These are the apocalyptic angels: angelic cowgirls in the holy rodeo war of the last days.
[image 1: angel and fighter plane; see gallery below]
She then showed me some of her works expressive of this theme. She came to Provo as a visiting artist at Brigham Young University where she is using the Art Department’s computers and printers to produce these spectacular images of the end of times. My friend explained that Isabelle was kept under wraps during her five-day visit, and given access to the equipment but not to the students, and met with only a chosen few of the faculty. Very mysterious lady, I think.
At a certain point in Ms. Dufresne presentation, my friend made a random comment: Alex, you may have heard of Isabelle by another name…Ultra Violet…and the very moment the words “Ultra Violet” are pronounced, I catch a glimpse of a broach which no doubt had been in plain view all along, but until that instant was invisible, a broach with rhinestones spelling out the name ULTRA VIOLET! That explains everything, I said to myself: the phallic nature of her art, my perception of her erotic aura…it explained everything and much more, but it didnt explain what in heaven’s name she was doing in Provo and why BYU.
As I gazed at Ultra Violet with her new name, in a manner of speaking, I began to see her in a new light…I flashed back to certain images, now recollected almost subliminally, from certain films, risqué in the best sense of that word…one in particular, I, A Man (1967), involved Ultra in a long, prolonged kiss that gave the concept of copulation a deep and more focused meaning…and so I flashed back to the sixties and to New York and Andy Warhol and the factory and the clique of folks that hung around and revolved about Warhol as planets round a sun…a star. And everybody was transformed into a star basking in his divine light.
[image 2: Andy Warhol and Ultra Violet; see gallery below]
She told me of how after a near-death experience due to illness, she began to seek for a higher truth and a higher power than that promised by the impresario of fame and glamor…and how in her search she encountered two Mormon missionaries who changed her life. She received a burning testimony of the truthfulness of the restored Gospel and Joseph Smith as true prophet of God and the instrument thru which the truth was restored upon the earth in these latter days. She told me of how the Holy Ghost came upon her and revealed the error of her ways and how the light of truth shined upon her and so she underwent a spiritual transformation. She saw the error of her ways, and she was born again. Thus she left behind the life of sex and drugs and partying and debauchery and sin. Through her conversion Ultra emerged a latter-day saint. And from that day on, she was an active and upstanding member of the LDS church, humbled by her calling as the Homemaking Leader in the Relief Society of the Manhattan ward.
At that point, the last thing I wanted to talk about was the apocalypse or her re-born self. I wanted to know about her past; the art scene of the sixties; the people she knew and what she thought of them. But my every overture was met with curt and abrupt replies and she’d head back to the angels and the gospel message.
[image 3: Ultra Violet and Salvador Dali; see gallery below]
During this back and forth from Warhol to Jesus Christ, she let slip something Dali said of her. For a while, Ultra or Isabelle had been Salvador Dali’s studio assistant and his lover…she interjected, not with a little delight, “Dali said I was surreal.” And I wholeheartedly agree. After all, he was one of the big daddies of surrealist truth, and truth by any other name is truth.
Then she went on to describe her work for the dead. This is a Mormon temple practice by which living people get themselves baptized by proxy for some dead individual. She says that it gave her no little joy knowing that Andy, that is Warhol, had accepted the gospel. She had a testimony and an assurance that he accepted the baptism and is now blissfully painting a plethora of heavenly soup cans in the celestial kingdom. For me, this image of Andy Warhol in Mormon heaven is completely believable as uttered out of the mouth of Ultra Violet, a mouth that in former days indulged in orgiastic play, but which now exuded words of wisdom and spirituality. (I’m thinking of Ultra’s book “Famous For 15 Minutes: My Years with Andy Warhol” and the chapter titled “Blow Job”). And so it was with those associated with Warhol, one after another, each had their 15 minutes of fame and then departed, except for Andy himself, who I believe will be remembered way past 15 minutes, as a major American artist of the 20th century.
When I pressed her again to tell me about the people she knew, such as Duchamp, her only response was: “Too much homosexuality”. And with that, she’d digress back to the impending apocalypse and bring out more images from her apocalyptic angels series. She wanted to stay on track, for straight is the way and narrow the path that leads to salvation…salvation from debauchery and drugs and sin.
The evening drew to a close and we said good night, arranging to meet next day for breakfast. As I drove home, I moved thru a surreal landscape, that is, not unreal or unbelievable, but super real and sharp and miraculous, a landscape wherein the least likely events happen together and form an alternate reality…as Lautreamont described it long ago: "A Chance meeting on a dissecting table of a sewing machine and an umbrella" Such a meeting had just occurred and I was filled with wonderment.
In the morning, the three of us sat together for breakfast at the Provo Comfort Inn. Ultra took out a typescript she was working on and asked me if I would read and edit it. I’d be happy to, I said. (Later, I wrote her to say how much I enjoyed the writing and that I would not change a thing. She writes as she speaks, with an accent that is part of her persona…and so I wouldn’t change a thing. However, I was certain from all I saw the night before that my recommendation would fall on deaf ears. She wanted to be politically-grammatically correct. Who knows? Maybe her conservatism was activated by being in Zion, in the shadows of the everlasting hills.)
Then, breakfast over, and after another bout on the nature and role of celestial art, we exchanged gifts: I gave her a book of my poems she gave me an image of one of her apocalyptic angels. We parted with a hug and a traditional French kiss on both cheeks. As I walked to my car, I could clearly taste and feel on my lips the subtle residue of a blend of flesh, makeup, and sweat.
And so, as happens to everyone, sooner or later, this past June, Isabelle Dufresne, a.k.a. Ultra Violet, shed her mortal coil. In the days following her passing, I got one e-mail after another telling me that Ultra Violet was no more. My friends gave me their condolences, as if I were a member of her family…and so it is that I realize how in the kingdom of the saints there are those who do not sing to the choir, but yearn nevertheless for song. And I want to believe that sister Violet has flown off, escorted by her angels, back into the arms of Jesus, Joseph Smith and Andy Warhol. And in that august company, she is ever singing with her newfound ultra violet tongue…ne plus ultra.
[image 4: Ultra Violet then and now; see gallery below]
