Impure Fiction is a writing and performance collective of shifting members, founded in Frankfurt am Main, 2013. Previous performances include an adaptation of Molière’s The Misanthrope at the Montreal Biennial, 2016.
IMPURE FICTION proudly presents CHALKED MESSAGES, prosthetic BONES, non-immersive PERFORMANCES, flashing torches against false profits and the pale habitus of: “Feel comfortable using ‘I,’ many of the artists in this FESTIVALE GLOBALE are using ‘I’…” Certainly, I have not got a good heart. How often do I have to tell you that I – AM AN INTELLECTUAL?! A fake-intellectual?
As mentioned in the open letter written to the United Museums Excorporated regarding Opening Night, that on Opening Night, LIGHTING is everything. Offices are open in the daytime for a reason! At the end of every tunnel is an orifice. Where months go down in one line. She said: we don’t have to “worry” till spring, and then we’re told it’s spring NOW?! In other lines, those of a hairy face – friendly, familiar — we’re told that twenty years are no more than a day, though later on days may come again in which twenty years are embodied— “You definitely NEED more footnotes, otherwise we can’t tell if you are merely presenting someone else’s theory or your own.” But if it’s for the people what do they care…? Honestly, your hostility BAFFLES me. WE are dealing with the pettiest of pettiness here, that is, EDITORIAL pettiness.
Today’s IPF, founded 2013 in the sewers of Main, remains nocturnal and tidal – servants of fake-aware self-subjects – anti-national, un-founded and dysrhythmic; a telling lie inside writing, THEATRE and performance – all speaking from persona Vulgaris. Indeed, for as long as we are bound to remember, it would seem that humans have always shown an almost obsessive interest in IMPURE FICTION. In the inner circles, the right wig circles, often during scrapbooking – a luxury granted few, involving candles and wax IN THE NIGHT – three to five thousand women died yearly from setting their own crinoline skirts on fire. What bestial machinery! Conniving, scheming – those fingers in braids… terrible is the temptation to do DOG.
Our hearts on skewers shall become their torches. Lightning flashes along the colonnade, along the indoor streets where we lay our cobblestones. We can USE her bad temper; BAR the widows GATE the literary house, never bathe in their waters but wine – oh nudity – mysanthropic ornament and crime! Cry, cry.
A servant cleans the room, finds a brick on the table. She can read, but only aloud, rips outs a page and reads:
“Artistes, your Play better be good, we’re paying a valley for it.”