Industrial genius conceived it, the largest scale a work of art could have had, high on top of all and everything.
Art never got to anything else. It never was anything else but the industry of a bunch of dead souls good for nothing.
Beauty conceived for the pleasure of beauty? Forget about that. Paint to squeeze half of the dollar it has? Not me.
The biggest work of art is the highway. No beauty ever offered more generous pleasure. Distance, how comforting.
I look at it for hours and hours. Thousands of handscraftmen worked on it. This is the new pyramid. Why stumble in a row to get nothing else but a glimpse of the beloved but never to be trusted one.
Lines and arrows, these highways make a Cheops of absolute preciseness. The geometrical scheme offers shapes of lines and landscape all along it and of the deserted houses many where I used to live.
Hills and subtle slopes with grasses and olive trees complete it. The castles of boredom south
and boredom north,
boredom in the center of it and the sugarcubes of newscape tale on top of that. Look at it. This is the largest scale of art ever made. Even, on my account,
reduced to its most tiny thing: the olive tree. Graphic spasms encircle it. Mules carry the goods from A to B.
Gods always had a greed for the beauty of disaster, manmade. Eternal as it is, it is here and now, precious and trustfull.
Asphalt is the word. Spread that word. Make it truly that work of gods.