“Never before have so few been in a position to make fools, maniacs or criminals of so many.”
HG Wells, The Shape of Things to Come.
I’ll begin with a confession: I am a failed artist. Ever since I can remember, I have wanted to paint. The only thing that stopped me was lack of talent. The first time I did a self-portrait, checking with the mirror in my bedroom to see how I was getting on, my mother put an abrupt end to my artistic ambitions by exclaiming, “Gosh, what a cute little chimp!”
It was a rude awakening for a nine-year-old artist.
About a decade later, I asked myself was art was all about. One day I found this sentence in a biography of Burne-Jones, and I jotted it down in my diary and pondered it for a day or two, “I mean by a picture a beautiful romantic dream of something that never was, never will be — in a better light than any light that ever shone — in a land no one can define or remember, only desire — and from forms divinely beautiful.”
When I read that sentence, I almost fainted. I was a sensitive girl, given to fits of swooning at the slightest opportunity. It was then I realized there was no real difference between poetry and painting, between painting and music. All, in their own ways, sought for God — albeit a God who might not exist — but a God nonetheless. God was beauty. God was longing. God was the fire in the rose.
That’s what I thought then. I was young and foolish.
Art, I found out later, was about making money. Organized Jewry taught me this. Art dealer Paul Rosenberg says, “A painting is only beautiful when it sells.” Jewish president of the Marlborough Gallery, Frank Lloyd, confirms this: “There is only one measure of success in running a gallery: making money.”
The question we need to ask is: Who runs the Art Market and how did it become a freak circus?
Let’s take a little trip round the art world with Israel Shamir. Mr Shamir, after all, is not only well-informed about art but is also a tour guide in Jerusalem. He agrees with me about the sacral nature of art. “No art without Christ,” he says. By “Christ” he means much more than the historical Jesus. He means the Logos, or Christ Principle, the rule of law in a divinely ordered universe.
Since Darwin and Freud, there has been a complete “revaluation of all values.” Everything has been turned upside down. We can mostly attribute this parlous state of affairs to the machinations of organized Jewry, in particular to a group of revolutionary thinkers known as the Frankfurt School. (For a detailed introduction to the ideas of these neo-Freudian Marxists, most of whom were Jewish refugees from Hitler’s Germany who fled to America, see Chapter 5 of Kevin MacDonald’s The Culture of Critique).
Just as one of these Frankfurters, Theodor Adorno, set out to destroy Western music, assuring the world that atonal music was a good thing because it was discordant and ugly, others in the group set out to destroy art and push it to its reductio ad absurdum: lights going on and off in an empty room, unmade beds with condoms and bloodstained panties strewn around, and sealed cans containing the artist’s own excrement.
One of the founders of the Frankfurt School, Georg Lukács, asked rhetorically, “Who will save us from Western civilization?” He began the rescue operation himself, convincing himself that the best way to do this was to create “a culture of pessimism” and “a world that has been abandoned by God.” Cool.
Another of these mental giants, Walter Benjamin, believed that the purpose of art was to make people as miserable as possible, for pessimism was an essential preliminary to world revolution. “To organize pessimism,” he pointed out portentously, “means nothing other than to expel the moral metaphor from politics.” Benjamin succeeded only too well in making himself miserable. He committed suicide.
Marxist revolutionary Willi Munzenberg made no bones about his mission in life. It was to destroy Western civilization. No kidding. To accomplish this, he said, the Frankfurters would have to “organize the intellectuals and use them to make Western civilization stink. Only then, after they have corrupted all its values and made life impossible, can we impose the dictatorship of the proletariat”. (My italics).
To summarize: Let’s create a culture of pessimism. Let’s make Western civilization stink. Let’s create a godless world and drive people to despair. Let’s corrupt society’s values and make life impossible. In short, let’s create hell on earth.
It will soon become clear to you, if you are a struggling artist, that the art world is dominated by Jews who are only too anxious to bring about this hell on earth. Their control over what now passes for art is as tentacular as it is terrifying. Art has morphed into Anti-Art. “For Jews,” Israel Shamir points out, “their group interest lies in undermining visual art, for they can’t compete with it. Even deeper group interest is to undermine Christianity, their main enemy.”
To undermine. To corrupt. To create discord. To drive crazy. To destroy. Verbs to remember. Let’s begin our tour of the art world, with Israel Shamir as our guide, and try to gain an insight into what is going on.
One day, Shamir finds himself in the Basque capital of Bilbao in Spain. He has come to check out the museum of modern art built by the fabulously rich (Jewish) Guggenheim family. The biggest building in Spain, the Guggenheim Museum impresses Shamir profoundly — it’s like something out of a science-fiction movie — but once he steps inside the building he is acutely disappointed.
Hey, what on earth is all this junk? Pieces of corrugated iron lying around like in a scrap yard. Rusty iron plates in one corner. Video screens blinking away inanely. Bare geometric forms. And, believe it or not, an entire floor devoted to a collection of Armani suits. Boy, I’m outa here! Shamir mutters to himself, making a beeline for the Exit.
And what does he do next? He hops on a plane to Venice, and now we see him poking around the famous Biennale Museum, trying to make sense out of a collection of trashed cars on display. Mopping his brow feverishly, he needs to sit down to collect his wits. No, don’t sit there, sir — those chairs are a precious work of art! You want to read a good book, Mr Shamir, to take your mind of all this junk? No problem. Here’s a bookcase full of books. Help yourself. Or rather, don’t help yourself! This bookcase, crammed with moldy old books, is also a sublime work of art! Yes, all the way from sublime, artistic Israel!
One might have thought that, after suffering all these disappointments, Mr Shamir would have packed it in and gone back to Jaffa, determined never to set foot in an art gallery again. But no, a glutton for punishment, our art guide now decides to visit a museum in Amsterdam where he is confronted by a collection of decomposed pig trunks. To his astonishment, he learns that a cadaver immersed in formaldehyde, on display in this same museum, has been purchased for $50,000 by a rich American. Wow, a corpse collector!
His disillusionment is total when, on visiting Copenhagen, he finds himself in the church of St Nicholas. Being a convert to Christianity, maybe he goes in there to pray. If so, he is saddened to have his mind polluted by the pictures he sees on the walls of that venerable old church. Here’s a color photograph of a naked old woman, withered and sick. And here, right next to it, is a huge blown-up picture of the female genitalia. And what’s this? Oh, nothing to worry about! Just a photo of a couple of guys having oral sex. Hey man, c’mon! This is a healthy and natural act! What better place for the celebration of joyous pagan sexuality than a Christian church?
So what does all this have to do with the Jews? Plenty. If you want to play that fascinating game known as Cherchez le Juif, let’s continue our tour of the contemporary art world.
You will meet many artists, quite a few of them pliant and accommodating non-Jews, who are prepared to jump through the hoops set before them by their Masters: the ubiquitous Jews lurking in the shadows. The men who call the shots. The men with the money. The men whom the artist must learn to please and flatter if he hopes to get ahead and become rich and famous.
The ambitious artist will find himself drawn inevitably into a Jewish world. He will learn to pepper his conversation with Yiddish phrases. He will never breathe a word of criticism against Israel, no matter what atrocities that country is in the process of committing. He will sneer at Muslims, the Qur’an and the Palestinians. He will find it pays dividends to insult Christianity, the religion of his forefathers. He will mention the Holocaust, whenever possible, with moist eyes; and he will paint as many pictures of Auschwitz as he can, preferably with chimneys belching black smoke.
All this has been done by goy artists. The proof for these claims can be found here in this enormous archive of art information. I have drawn upon it heavily.
Even the great Picasso knew he was appeasing the Jews when he embraced his friend Pierre Daix and confided in a low voice, “To think that painters once thought they could paint The Massacre of the Innocents!” He was clearly echoing or anticipating Adorno’s “There can be no poetry after Auschwitz.” If there can be no poetry after Auschwitz, there can be no art either — certainly not Christian art.
Andy Warhol knew better than most how to ingratiate himself with the Jews. His 1980 series, “Ten Portraits of Jews of the Twentieth Century,” features ten portraits of what Warhol referred to as “Jewish geniuses,” one of whom was Israeli Prime Minister Golda Meir — the “genius” who said there were no Palestinians, adding with her famous flair for the witty phrase: “How can we return the occupied territories? There is nobody to return them to.” Another “genius” was Sigmund Freud, whom Kevin MacDonald has described as having perpetrated the greatest scientific fraud of the 20th century — a fraud that was very useful in constructing the culture of Western suicide.
Warhol seems to have put his considerable charm to work with Henry Geldzahler, curator of the Metropolitan Museum of Art — an influential Jew who happened, like Warhol, to be homosexual. “Although they were never lovers, the relationship became intimate,” we are assured by one of Warhol’s biographers. “Andy spoke to Henry on the phone every night before he went to sleep and every morning as soon as he woke up.” I am not saying that Warhol and Geldzahler were lovers, though others have said so. That’s of no interest to me. All I’m suggesting is that Warhol, a notorious opportunist, found it helped his career to cultivate the Jews. His appeal, in the words of film critic Carrie Rickey, was to the “synagogue circuit.”
Transvestite potter Grayson Perry — here he is receiving the Turner Prize for his inspired pots — knew his success depended less on his talents than on the advertising genius of his plutocratic patron Charles Saatchi. He was well aware, moreover, that Islamophobia can always be relied on to win friends and influence people in the Judeocentric art world. “The reason I haven’t gone all out to attack Islamism in my art,” he confides fearlessly, “is because I feel real fear that someone will slit my throat.” Avoiding controversial political statements in the interests of discretion, Perry decided to devote his life to producing ceramic pots depicting “explicit scenes of sexual perversion.” It must have been a tough decision.
Non-Jewish artists such as Anselm Kiefer, Christian Boltanski and Christopher Williams have been almost as prolific in their production of Holocaust paintings as Jewish painter RB Kitaj, a man whose obsession with Auschwitz has often been noted. “The chimney in a Kitaj painting,” art pundit Juliet Steyn informs us, “functions as an indictment on Christianity.” Translation: After Auschwitz, who needs Golgotha?
As for Andres Serrano with his Piss Christ and Chris Ofili with his dung-bedecked Holy Virgin Mary — the Madonna surrounded by pictures of the female genitals cut from pornographic magazines — both these emotionally immature artists were clearly aware that contempt for Christ and his mother is often pleasing to the Jews.
Artists? These men are more like circus dogs, trained to jump through hoops and beg for bones from their masters. It’s the men with the money, the Saatchis and the Guggenheims, who crack the whip.