Full text: The little review (12 (1926), 1)

16 
ANDRE MASSON 
W HEN A new being, whether intelligent or not, 
appears between the crevices of the universe, the 
image of the law which rules his birth is present in 
his physical structure, a graphic prophet of his 
destiny; and as a phenomenon is scientifically repre 
sented by a curve brought back to the axes, the history of this 
being is represented by his internal structure and his visible 
form, in this material world whose axes of our senses determine 
the framework. If on the other hand, a hand sets down on a 
surface lines and curves directly coming from the depth of the 
being, these lines will be at first the abstract diagrams of the 
cerebral movements of their creator, but quickly they will take 
flesh, rendered concrete by the force of desire, which demands 
that they borrow an earthly appearance like that of an object 
known for a long time, to become thus doubly desirable in the 
tenderness of the flesh which is now their sign. 
The reciprocity of the reactions is so perfect and the oneness 
of the man with the curve so complete that one does not know if 
this curve has engendered and predestined him or if he is the 
one who, on the contrary, in the distracted tension of his love, 
projects this shadow of himself purer than his solar shadow, and 
this solidity, complete equivalence of exchanges (is it the light 
itself which has constructed this edifice or the luminous reflec 
tions emanating from the walls which have converged and mate 
rialized into a single globe of fire?) equal density of elements 
all endowed with a sort of stony life, which must be the infinite 
existence of another world—these are the principle characteris 
tics of the language of Andre Masson, world of lights and 
shadows where gravitates the eternal orb of a human being, 
brought back to the axis of the absolute. 
When fish move vertically among the cracks of the capitals 
of the columns and the winged imprints of birds, the hair, kept 
almost horizontal by the wind, becomes the curve showing, 
according to the strength of the desire, the variation of the 
dominion of man over water, earth, air and fire; along the fila 
ment spurting out from a bursting grenade can be read the story 
of genesis and if one follows the contour of a feminine hip, the 
story of sensuality. Then the profile of an adorable face traces 
the history of the lassitudes of the blood, near a spiral whose 
ascension recalls the perpetual screw, which has death for 
thread, intelligence for cylinder. But if the flight of birds is a 
bad sign, it is because the angle made by their direction and the 
eyes of the observer is measured by a malign number. But this
	        

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