The birth of the art, effectively, marked the physical consumption of the human being
Georges Bataille

DEMONLOVER
To visit the public toilets at the bus and train stations,, in airports, movies and commercial centres had turned for C. into a necessity more than a habit, a game transformed into passion, since she discovered the facts and garbage of an anonymous artist (he was signing only MS) who was decorating them with images evacuated more than graffiti or drawn.
Images that seemed to go out from the most intimate orifices of an anatomy that C., considering his preferences and desires, was imagining masculine. C. was liked to the gift or involuntary donation that the unmoral painter was dedicating him to every WC that she was visiting, especially in dedicated to the virile physiology, where it was penetrating with self-confidence being known justified. She didn’t know why, but whenever she was going out of one of these toilets, defying with arrogance the disapproving look of some persons and the insinuation accomplice of others, C., as observer who chases the works that excite him up to where it is necessary without fear or shame, was feeling transgressor and brave than the artist, who  was making use of his passing stay in these public places to give tests of his existence, while the non-existence makes way for itself across its most intimate conduits. During days, at the beginning, and then weeks and months, C. was watching in every filthy cubicle where  the need was forcing her to penetrate like in a sacred sanctum, a palaeographic cave,  where the uncontrollable hand of the artist had printed signs of his humiliating step along the same ritual, the presence of this ridiculous iconography, these obscene and deformed figures that were constituting a luck of grotesque genealogy of the human species realized in the period of major visibility of our immaturity and inhumanity.
At first, with the mini-skirt lifted and the panties knotted to the ankles, contemplating the work newly discovered in the wall or in the door, she was trying to emulate the lines quickly, while hearing crossly going and coming of other users of the oppressive place. Later she started photographing with the mobile, always having the sensation that artist MS had to imagine her this way, producing this last form of respect, occupying with the imperious needs for her slender body a cubicle for men, accommodated without any complex or fear in the cup of the toilet, with the tiny lit phone in one hand and perhaps also a piece of role hoisted in other one. All these images, one way or another, as if there were the torn to pieces mirror of the story, were returning her an image of herself that C.  had spent many years denying. An image that was coinciding with her most feverish fantasies or her most urgent desires.
Sometime, when entering the gentlemen's service, not without experiencing the euphemistic irony of the antiquated denomination, she was meeting a giddy and solitary, more or less young user than she was waiting, looking in the mirror in order to fix the pants and shirt fitting, to fix his hair or to wash his hands, C. was inviting him  in a direct way to accompany her to the cubicle. For her surprise, not always, in spite of her undeniable attraction and youth, she was obtaining it. In the occasions when if she was conquering to these pieces of a masculinity surprised in flagrant intimacy, with the lowered pants, discovering their vulnerable identity, C. could enjoy the supreme pleasure of appropriating this palpitating nakedness while she was discovering a new work of her favourite artist, an unthinkable conjunction that was making her discharge in a new way, as if the orgasm was becoming permanent and also painful because of this unwanted extension. Other times there was the simple discovery of another work the one that was untying the memory of these furtive moments in which the instinct was becoming esthetical without losing anything of its savagery and sensuality. The hand sliding belly below, the bite of the low lip, the open eyes, the electrocution of the contact … During these exciting months, C. was considering herself the most satisfied woman of the world.
When after sterile explorations in the habitual stages she discovers that artist MS has disappeared, consumed for some of his most diabolical creations, or changed city in order to satisfy other audience, without importing the sex, C. falls down in a sharp depression, a sadness of which till then, for temperament, she was considered unable. The idea of keeping alive, in the sense that she gives to this word, seems to her unbearable without the possibility of being again these disfigured images that return her a reflex of visions and more secret intuitions. In order not to resign from her search of the admired artist, C. promises to be in Internet with at least the intention of finding someone who, from another city or country, corresponds to her obsession. She doesn’t receive any answer. Finally, C. decides to create, using as documents her own versions or perversions of the original and the photos of the mobile, stored now in the memory of her portable computer, a partial and limited catalogue of the works that she had found in her frantic search along that so intense period of his life.
Is here a representative sample of the earnings of this virtually endless inventory.

FOR HIS WORKS YOU WILL KNOW HIM

# 1 The lame is mine. The thing is mine. Make it yours. Make me yours. Choose me, receive me, take me, and gather me. Do it as you want, but do not force me under the blanket, like a cheap prostitute, to limp with an amputated leg in front of the pig of your friend. What the hell do the two of you have …
# 2 Nazarene in front of the mirror. There is no hazard in the birth. Nazareth, Seville or Louisville. It does not matter, how declares the mirror. The scrawl of the cross seals the mouth of the sectary so he does not declare his criminal creed: the colour is the only important thing in the world. The one of the  tunic,  of the skin, of the hair,  of the blood. An announcement of Benetton designed in the antechamber of the hell. The aggressive penitent of the KKK brandishes his explosive charge as a penis, melted wax or spilled big raindrops. A cartridge of dynamite ready to commit an outrage mortally against other (I, you, he) or others (we, you, they).
 # 3  The constipating one. The constipation is an illness of the soul. I feel re-treated while I set to retreat. The cloudy waters of the fund do not return me my most authentic reflex. I feel dispossessed of myself while I give up of my accidents. That expresses the gesture of my face contracted between two matorrals of hirsute hair. Laxative or purgative nothing can against the obstinacy with which the secret eye scrutinizes my excreta. I feel artist.
#  4 I am to plan. To plan or smoothed, for the case it is the same, in spite of the figurative volume. It looks with the same disgust or repugnance with which I look at it still of foot stopped opposite to me. Creature of toilet, abortion of sewer. It does couple with the partner of intestinal problems and joins anally to her. Kilos of fat remain it and the asymmetry dominates its overloaded extremities. The bulging teeth and messy hair denounce its state of alteration. It doesn’t like the meeting with his feminine double sitting to perpetuity in the throne of this focal kingdom. Why do I feel so free, nevertheless, so relieved now...
# 5 Éxodo. Towards where directing the escape. The history is a nightmare from the one that nobody can wake up. This night creature provided with thin ears to watch the invisible thing does not fly off in the morning, as believed the philosopher. Convict for life to drag the bundle of the procreation, stuffs his grotesque anatomy in a rented disguise that it does not fit anything well. These black orifices implanted in full face neither request nor ask about anything, beg neither compassion nor comprehension. They limit themselves to scrutinizing the insignificance of my pretensions. The sleep of the reason has generated to this monster.
 # 6 In the portal of Bethlehem. Poor Bethlehem, be who you are, all the jokes refer to you and you don’t even know. Poor Bethlehem, associated now with this portal of shit. Beauty and abjection do good couple: the beauty of the abjection and the abjection of the beauty. The humour is never as stupid as when it goes along the territories of the folk foundation of the faith. The evangelical circus moved to the space of the most prosaic life. What has done Bethlehem to this infuriated residual? Will not Bethlehem be another constipated one or it, even worse, narrow one? The image of mark of the constipated fashion. Of the feminine fashion. The vindictive artist sculpts his excrement as desecration of the anorexic purity of the model.
# 7 Unsupportive. From what lysergic nightmare does this undesirable band come from? Each one to his business, in spite of turning out to be assembled in the torn space of the picture. With the bogey, the skull and the bones as testimony of the forms, which are more afraid when they are alone. Signs of a non-existence pushes them to look for a company and plunges them in the most bitter isolation. That of the multitude, the crowd, the throng, the mob. The anonym corporation of the leaving ones. Bogeys and living dead persons. The bravery of everyone finishes in the same charnel house.
 # 8 Cabinet of crisis. Dead persons brimming with health and ambition. When they do not play at ruining their lives, they meet to give themselves importance. They cannot be alone, but either together, and less when it is a question of taking decisions, of exercising the power, of humiliating one to each others. Then the confusion, the triviality, the badness reigns.And the ass laughs all night long, as if it was drunk. And the skull celebrates its triumph always on a life that does not deserve another name. The true life exists nowhere.
# 9 Idiot the sheep that confesses to the wolf. Idiot the wolf whom the sheep seduces with the bleat of its banal promises of happiness. Idiot the wolf to which the sheep leads to a boring coexistence of what not even the possibility of devouring is able to give back the excitation to him of long time ago. The wolf and the sheep are social masks like those of the twig and the victim, necessary for the staging of the comedy, useless as soon as the intentions of both undresses to show their formal kinship. The truth is that the wolves feed themselves with the lies that only the sheep are able to invent.
# 10 We the Spanish artists. We the artists do not have homeland. The ground which we are stepping is seeded of illustrious ancestors and others not so illustrious, of frustrated attempts that adhere to our feet and prevent us to walk. The Earth ground where we were born, populated with Nazarenes and constipated, puts limits and borders to our desires. We preferred other means of transport to start the flight of the kingdom of the appearances. We sailed under international flag through frozen waters of the egoistic calculation of the gallery owners, the commissioners, the critics, the clients, the spectators, the other artists, they are so many, too many those that still believe in the existence of the homelands, the passports, the borders, the visas, the customs. We the Spanish artists immigrate without moving us from one site to another. This is our most appraised secret. The sign of our failure…
# 11 Off-colour. This language says everything in a untranslatable language. The sickness of the artist is the health of the artist. That language says everything to me. Does everything to me. Rapt  towards me at night as a noxious animal and slides under sheets of my bed to insinuate in its dark dialect everything what the others (parents, mothers, fiancés, fiancées, lovers, relatives, friends, friends, professors, etc.) shut up to survive. To inject bad in an anaesthetised world by the empire of good is one of the highest functions to what an artist can give himself, although their stomach or internal is suffered for that reason. To be bad is a form to know itself bad. To feel alive. The health, doctor, is a death…
# 12 Plain brains. The day when all the brain damage ones of the world are united to make the revolution we will be able to return to feel us intelligent. What great day in the history of the world, painted in orange and green and rose in annals so that nobody will be forgotten …
# 13 The great jury. But until then it will be necessary to continue stand for the cabinets of crisis of governments who we do not deserve, the stupid sentences of the great jury of the world. An old quick-tempered person whose lame resentment towards the life indicates me with the wrinkled finger whenever I cross her in the vestibule or in street dressed with my jeans miniskirt and my t-shirt of strips and my tennis shoes. The death dominates the scene and yaws with one eye to her satisfied, congratulating her, the bastard, for the well done work. There is no mercy …
# 14 The procession goes from inside. Here they are all united, like in a festival where the masculinity is put on approval. The dog with the language out, the wimp one, the hungry one, the liar, the ghost, the skeleton, the sly one, the mask. In procession, or, rather, in nuptial shutdown. All of them, in one way or another, have known me in intimacy of the toilet. They have fucked with the fiancée of all. Inside or outside, what does it matter through where it passes the procession of puppets. Arrived the moment, the law of the curl imposes its paradoxes. Everything what is inside is also outside. Everything what is mine is yours also. So that you can say that the love turns me to egoist. My genus is my generosity…
# 15 The invasion. You see that it wasn’t a procession. The war begins at the pedestrian level. In the feet.  Isn’t it there where the brain stoops to plan the strategies and the tactics of the battle? Wearied feet or barefoot, armed with sport slippers, flip-flops, shoes with heel, boots, moccasins and a coarse prosthesis.  Are not the kicks the most primitive form to fight? The petroleum spurt allows guessing the contemporary intention of this timeless image, with Castilian queen, well used executive, warrior or veteran soldier incorporated like a historical kit, on the human stupidity in conflict with itself always. The tiny tube reminds to me so many occasions that made me laugh. It shouldn’t. The topic is serious, dramatic. The frivolity I put, as always…
# 16 The visit.  Didn’t I speak to you about the language that comes to visit to me whenever you leave me alone? That swollen language, the very red spot than ever, it does not have face. It is pure ridicule, pure desire, pure derision. Do not take it out, I order to him. Do not stick it in, I ask him… 
# 17 Like cannon balls. It is the war again. From the beginning of the times, the war, like masturbation, becomes single. In company or alone. Only it changes the technology upon which we untie from others. This humorous demon accumulates around it the projectiles as a result of which he thinks to bomb us as soon as he has occasion. As if it wanted to defer the outbreak from the conflict until being totally supplied. He is an artilleryman without cause. A collector of pumps. Or a joker with bad taste. Like so many.
# 18 In the summit. These counterfeited monsters, also members of the great jury of the resentment, have climbed to upper of the bare mountain with the intention to extend their disdain and their detestation for the entire world, without distinction of races or classes. At this point they say to look like some artists, or, still worse, to some philosophers. Nobody dares to contradict them. They, with their attitude, personify the contradiction of human sterility.
# 19 Desert. Recognize it. To be alone in this universal waste basket is not the worse thing than can happen to a kind like you. The residues and remainders of all type grow up around you like a cancer while you pose like interesting one and put that face of visionary hallucinated in order to  look alike the landscape that you contemplate with a mixture of disgust and fascination. As if was your creation. That one, do not deny it, is the ambiguous effect produced by the art that pleases to you so much. The artist of the hunger does not feed himself with rests.
# 20 Trained.  Knows the woman her husband, or only treats him as he deserve? Sharp sort he is.  Sharp sort she is, how she hides herself from people's glance. This witch is also a member of honour of the great jury. The wood does not conceal the sinister relation that dominates the picture. Beyond the empty words, globes, silence pregnant with meaningless. They do not have anything to say, or have so much that they don’t know from where to start. Better not to hear the insults. As well-known. To cover the ears with two hands and to begin to shout without desire. To train comes from teacher. There is nothing no to teach, says the wolf to him to the afflicted ewe. All the teachers lie by professional deformation. They only want to force your meekness and passive acceptance. The sheep agrees, convinced.
# 21 Strategy. Your love becomes an enormous red globule, a tumour jut out behind your head, your humour sparkles in each thing that you illuminate, you unfold in order to know yourself better and absolve yourself. Your other ego does not know anything of aesthetic. Nor couldn’t care it less.
 # 22 The suspicious. Poor prattling man. You look the big-nosed mask as if it hides more truth than your aquiline face. You are wrong. Your face hides as much truth as a mask. Saying better, none. Everything is fiction. The I, the mask, the face, this strange drawing and the artist who did it in a rapture of sincerity. I myself watching this drawing I undo in a fiction of hollow words. I am what I am not. The emptiness fills me. I die from laugh.
# 23 In all the families there are problems. All the happy families look like each other. Only the dysfunctional families distinguish between them. All the happy families are dysfunctional, then none of them, as it seems, distinguish themselves. The syndrome of multiple personality, do not disguise with that detachable nose and that gesture of scenic affectation, it allows you to be your father and your mother, your brothers and your children, and to populate therefore a solitude with artist that if you would not find unbearable. Madness is the art to lose the head. Not once but many times. The art of multiplying yourself.
# 24 Nowhere Like at home. You cannot feel more comfortable in this description of regional homemade customs. You have reached that your feet move to the sluggish rate of your desire of submission. You have domesticated your desires and you have worn them without conscience problems. In fact, you have undone from her, like from your critical sense. In order to walk by house, or to walk in the world as it is your house, to do, really, of the world your house and of your house the world, you only need that pair of canine slippers, trophies from your dangerous visit to the supermarket of the district. Don’t look for me anymore. I do not want to know anything else from you. You betray yourself and you me. You are nice stupid idiot. No longer it worry you, like me, to be in a ridiculous situation. 
# 25 The pleasure of smoking. Or to pretend it. Or to apply the prohibitive logic of the tobacco to other impure acts. The turban of Almohade more disturbing installed in the crest of the column of cushions or pillows of colours unties my cloudier memories. In cubicle, locked up with the ugliest man of the world, he watches me with confusion when sees me enter in the toilet. I do not wait. Without complain let to lead him towards my paradise or Wonderland. Such trouble. Drop without haste the trousers, the underpants with stripe, tries to cover with the hairy hands. What a package. I blow it whole, I take a long time in finishing, rush until the last blast. In the mouth nothing when we say goodbye…