Some examples are at the bottom of this page with video... classic horror film soundtracks, the more orchestral of Laibach, Wagner, Schnittke, Bartok, The Monkees, some Simon and Garfunkel, The Beatles, Blondie, Art of Noise, Kraftwerk, early Nina Hagen, The Doors, Johnny Cash, Herb Alpert and the Tijuanna Brass, Nancy Sinatra, Nico, Blood Axis, Changes, Test Dept, Natasha Atlas, The B52's, of course the divine Bach, Popol Vuh soundtracks for Herzog films, most early classic film scores, Miklos Rosza, and my favorite composer Bernard Herrmann.
Movies
I have some playable music video samples at the bottom of this page that some may find interesting... Classic 1930's, 40's, and 50's horror films, especially Bride of Frankenstein, Frankenstein, Old Dark House, Mad Love, Dracula (though the Spanish version is more artistic and less repressed), Mask of Fu Manchu, Mystery of the Wax Museum, The Black Cat, The Raven, Creature from the Black Lagoon, ect. also Metropolis, Pandora's Box, Haxan, The Third Man, Citizen Kane, The Elephant Man, original King Kong, The Call of Cthulhu, most of Ray Harryhausen's work especially Jason and the Argonauts, The Aviator, A Beautiful Mind, The Hours, Donnie Darko, Lady in the Water, Nightmare before Christmas, Corpse Bride, Big Fish, Strangers On a Train, American Psycho, Roger Dodger, The Number 23, They Live, Rendition, Judgement at Nuremburg, The Man in the Glass Booth, Under the Volcano by Huston and Volcano-an inquiry into the life and death of Malcom Lowery, The Ship of Fools, Cemetary Man, Portrait of Jennie, Ninotchka, Theater of Blood, both Dr Phibes films, Pretty Persuasion, The Bad Seed, 2001 a Space Oddessy, 2010; has a good heart, Greystoke: Legend of Tarzan of the Apes, The Whole Wide World; on Robert E Howard, The Fountainhead, The Day the Earth Stood Still, The Man Who Would Be King, Braveheart, Excalibur, Our Hitler, Jesus of Nazereth, The Passion, The Power, Failsafe, Seven Days in May, both Manchurian Candidate films, JFK, Nixon, Bobby, both versions of The Omen, Rosemary's Baby, both versions of The Wicker Man, 30 Days of Night as a metaphor for zionism, The Mist, The BBC Louis Jourdan version of Count Dracula as the best rendition for those who have actually read the book, The BBC film Byron, and most films where the art is not compromised by money driven forces of decline, sad what so many of talent go through to contribute to culture in commercial "democracy", and how much talent is thwarted... (think Orson Welles among others, when art is made to serve the lowest common denominator for money, creators become slaves).
Television
Seldom watch broadcast TV without a psychic gag reflex at what I call the Springer-Seinfeld Syndrome, the vile wink and nod promoting human decline by the ethically disabled, sandwiched between equally evil commercials, but DVD use bypassing such enables one to appreciate good works such as The original Outer Limits and Twilight Zone, Night Gallery, The Night Stalker, HBO's Stalin, Wallace, and Rome, Twin Peaks, American Gothic, Taken, and the most excellent A&E production of Napoleon. Dexter is a recent jewel with serial killer as gene pool shark or euthansia travel agent.
Books
Selections from favorite authors with my modest poetry attempts at the bottom, with most recent last;
THE WITCH WITH EYES OF AMBER
I met a witch with amber eyes
Who slowly sang a scarlet rune,
Shifting to an icy laughter
Like the laughter of the moon.
Red as a wanton's was her mouth,
And fair the breast she bade me take
With a word that clove and clung
Burning like a furnace-flake.
But from her bright and lifted bosom,
When I touched it with my hand,
Came the many-needled coldness
Of a glacier-taken land.
And, lo! the witch with eyes of amber
Vanished like a blown-out flame,
Leaving but the lichen-eaten
Stone that bore a blotted name.
-Clark Ashton Smith-
-JUNGLE TWILIGHT-
From teak and tamarind and palm
The heavy sun goes down unseen;
The jungle drowns in duskier green;
And quickening perfumes vespertine
Alone assail the sluggish calm.
Narcotic silence, opiate gloom:
The painted parakeets are gone,
The blazoned butterflies withdrawn.
Nocturnal blossoms, weird and wan,
Like phantom wings and faces bloom.
In the high trees the darkness grows,
And, rising, overbrims the sky.
Like a black serpent gliding by
'Neath woven creepers covertly,
Unknown and near, the river flows;
Where deeplier in oblivion's tide
The dateless, fair pagodas fall,
And, winding on the toppled wall
Where carven gods hold carnival,
The cobra couples with his bride.
-Clark Ashton Smith-
-TRANSCENDENCE-
To look on love with disenamored eyes;
To see with gaze relentless, rendered clear
Of hope or hatred, of desire and fear,
The insuperable nullity that lies
Behind the veils of various disguise
Which life or death may haply weave; to hear
Forevermore in flute and harp the mere
And all-resolving silence; recognize
The gules of autumn in the greening leaf,
Any in the poppy-pod the poppy-flower: --
This is to be the lord of love and grief,
O'er time's illusion and thyself supreme,
As, half-aroused in some nocturnal hour,
The dreamer knows and dominates his dream.
-Clark Ashton Smith-
-SEMBLANCE-
Love was the flight of a crimson bird
Across the forest of your soul,
Where cypress-leaf and cypress-bole,
By mordant airs of autumn stirred,
Sigh with a long and sea-like word.
Joy was the burning heart-red bloom
A fair and wandering witch let fall
At twilight from her coronal,
Where mottling ivies mesh the tomb
Lost in a laurel-given gloom.
Time is the drip of fountain-spray
Upon the unbroken sword you flung
Amid the pouting poppies young
In a lost garden far away,
Where the white girls of Circe lay.
Life is a house of painted stone
Reflected in a sunless lake,
Where drowning domes and turrets shake
In the black winds for ever blown
From shoreless tides no sail has known.
Grief is the mirror-builded hall
Wherein you roam eternally,
Seeking the ghost you shall not see
In sorrow half-sardonical --
And meet yourself at every wall.
-Clark Ashton Smith-
-MORS-
Sweeter the thought of death to me
Than love's own sleep or any dream;
Than starlight on some ebon stream
Or moonlight on the marble sea.
Like black and mummia-laden wine
My soul foredrains oblivion:
The bitter splendors of the sun
Resolved in Lethe's anodyne.
Love and desire and dead delight
And dead despair are shades that pass
As in a necromancer's glass
To mingle with the shades of night.
They pass....The secret peace I crave
Like a black shroud enwraps me round--
Lost, and voluptously drowned
In the dark languor of the grave.
-Clark Ashton Smith-
Poetry of Jame Whitcomb Riley in 1917
-A DREAM-
I dreamed I was a spider;
a big, fat, hungry spider;
A lusty, rusty spider
With a dozen palsied limbs;
With a dozen limbs that dangled
Where three wretched flies were tangled
And their buzzing wings were strangled
In the middle of their hymns.
And I mocked them like a demon-
A demoniacal demon
Who delights to be a demon
For the sake of sin alone;
And with fondly false embraces
Did I weave my mystic laces
Round their horror-stricken faces
Till I muffled every groan.
And I smiled to see them weeping,
For to see an insect weeping,
Sadly, sorrowfully weeping,
Fattens every spider's mirth;
And to note a fly's heart quaking,
And with anguish ever aching
Till you see it slowly breaking
Is the sweetest thing on earth.
I experienced a pleasure,
Such a highly-flavored pleasure,
Such intoxicating pleasure,
That I drank of it like wine;
And my mortal soul engages
That no spider on the pages
Of the history of the ages
Felt a rapture more divine.
I careened around and capered-
Madly, mystically capered-
For three day and nights I capered
Round my web in wild delight;
Till with fierce ambition burning,
And an inward thirst and yearning
I hastened my returning
With a fiendish appetite.
And I found my victims dying,
"Ha!" they whispered, "We are dying!"
Faintly whispered, "We are dying,
And our earthly course has run."
And the scene was so impressing
That I breathed a special blessing,
As I killed them with caressing
And devoured them one by one.
-James Whitcomb Riley-
Arranged selection of Heinrich Heine-
On the runic stone I sit and dream
As my eyes on the ocean are roaming
The winds are whistling, the sea gulls scream
The waves are rolling and foaming.
With many a fair maid I was in love
With many a friend I went strolling
Where are they now? Winds whistle above
The waves are foaming and rolling.
The pale autumnal halfmoon
Peers from a cloudy ledge,
In the solitude of the churchyard
Lies the old parsonage.
The mother reads the bible
At the lamplight stares the son
the older daughter lolls about
Then says the younger one:
'How slowly the days here pass
How boring-O my God!
The only things we get to see
Are burials on this lot.'
Still reading says the mother:
'Wrong, there were only eight
Since they put to rest your father
Next to the churchyard gate.'
The older daughter says yawning:
'I have starved with you enough
Tomorrow I will go to the baron
Who has money and is in love.'
The son bursts out in laughter:
'Three hunters are drunk in the "Sun".
They can make gold and gladly
Will teach me how it's done."
The mother throws the bible
Into his face so wan
'God's curse upon you, scoundrel
Go, be a highwayman!'
They hear a knock at the window
And see a hand point down
Their own dead father stands outside
In his black preacher's gown.
What ghoulish magic gives this marble tones?
The gods of Greece talk to the holy phantoms?
Pan's call of horror through the woodlands drones
In furious answer to the saintly anthems.
This baleful strife will never, never end
Beauty and truth will always be at variance.
The rift in mankind never will it mend,
Two parties will remain: the Hellenes-
the barbarians.
( It is of interest to note he further
defines the barbarians as nazarene,
anticipating Nietzsche's Rome VS Judea.)
-my arrangement of Heinrich Heine poetry-
Heinrich Heine prose selections;
I get angry every time I enter the stock exchange, the beautiful marble house, built in the noblest Greek style and dedicated to the most abominable activity,- horse trading with national stocks... Here in the tremendous space of the high vaulted main hall this business with all its grotesque figures and its cacophony moves and roars like a sea of egotism, where from the chaotic human waves the big bankers like sharks jump up and snap their jaws, where one monster devours the other and where high up in the gallery like waiting predatory birds on a cliff, even speculating ladies are noticeable. And here is the home of the interests which in this time decide between war and peace.
Even if they (the radicals) succeeded in relieving suffering mankind for a short while of its wildest pains, this could only be done at the expense of the last traces of beauty, which the patient has kept until now. Ugly like a cured philistine he will rise from his sick bed and in the ugly hospital gown, in the ash-grey costume of equality, he will have to drag himself about all his life. All traditional joyfulness, all sweetness, all fragrance of flowers, all poetry will be pumped out of life and nothing will remain but the Rumford soup of utility. For beauty and genius there will be no place in the community of our new Puritans and both will be suppressed much more wretchedly than under the old regime. For beauty and genius are a kind of royalty and they do not fit into a society where everyone suffering from the malaise of his own mediocrity will try to abase them to to the banal level... The barren work-a-day philosophy of the modern puritans is spreading already over all of Europe like a grey twilight which precedes a rigid wintertime... The last nymphs which Christianity has spared flee into the wildest thicket.
One last poem by Heine;
This is the old enchanted wood
With lime tree flowers scented;
The moon shines out most wonderful,
And I am neigh demented.
And I went on and as I went
The nightingale was singing,
She sings of love and love's lament
Small comfort to me bringing.
She sings of love and love's lament
Of tears and merry-making,
Her laughter is mournful, her sobs are so gay,
Forgotten old dreams awakening.
And I went on and as I went
I saw in front of me clearly
A castle great in an open place,
Its towers rising sheerly.
The windows were closed and everywhere
Was silence, still complaining;
It seemed as though the calm of death
Within those walls were reigning.
A sphinx lay by the gate, begot
Of fear and lust in teeming;
A lion's body and paws, her head
And breasts a woman seeming.
A lovely woman! her hot eyes
They told of wild desires;
Her speechless lips were arched to kiss,
And smiled of yielding fires.
The nightingale, she sweetly sang,
I could withstand no longer;
And when I kissed her worshipful face,
I knew which was the stronger.
The marble face took life once more,
The stone then fell to sighing,
She drank of my kisses the fire and heat
With my warm passion vying.
She almost drank in all my breath
In ecstasy unending,
She held me close with lion's claws
My wretched body rending.
What torture sweet, what woeful bliss!
The pain like joy beyond measure,
Her claws did wound me horribly,
Her mouth's kiss gave keen pleasure.
The nightingale sang. O lovely sphinx!
O love, why dost thou blend me
Thy blessed joys with pangs of death,
And rob me where thou dost lend me.
O lovely sphinx! O read me now
This riddle strange and vexing;
For with it these ten thousand years
My mind I've been perplexing.
-Heinrich Heine-
Here is a few choice quotes from Ladislav Klima that you may enjoy;
Beauty is love kissing horror. Everything practical is dishonorable.Among the visible beings, the things I love most are mountains, dark clouds, and cats -- maybe women too. My main service: a caretaker, slave to the cats. I'm fond of people in a special way- like lice. He who lives in eternity is not impatient. No madhouse is mad enough for one in love. Anyone who falls in love should be hung immediately. The universe is the mere, incorporeal shadow of the Soul. (The preceeding from his autobiography, the following from the sufferings of Prince Sternhoch.) Everyday life is nothing but murder, the same as giving birth. Killing a person is no worse, and less so, than killing an idea. If I want to kill an idea, I can only do so by placing another, stronger, i.e.,greater one in its place; what is learning? Similarily, if I kill a living being, then ipso I have made possible the life of another: I have freed a space where evolution shall rush in by the same neccessity as air into a vacuum. 'Murder': nothing more than an idiotic, utterly craven social prejudice. I do not reproach myself for having killed many people, but for having killed too few; and then again- that I killed them from motives which were not always quite divine. One must be God; everything else having to do with humanity is dung. Pain is nothing other than a surrogate for an inadequate Will. (These words are uttered by Helga-Daemoness whilst tormenting the Prince in charming ways.) Klima also wrote a philosophic work , The World as Consciousness and Nothing. "The finale of everything isn't 'nothing' but something more horrible, more incomprehensibe, shapeless, monstrous, black- an a celestial refulgence.- I invoke the heart of the world as 'Black Radiance', 'Black Illusion.' Klima's only work translated into english (from Czech 1928) thus far has been The Sufferings of Prince Sternhoch including his autobiography. I was given this work appropriately while living in Prague.
A poem by Robert E.Howard
-THE TEMPTER-
Something tapped me on the shoulder
Something whispered, "Come with me.
"Leave the world of men behind you,
"Come where care may never find you,
"Come and follow, let me bind you
"Where, in that dark, silent sea,
"Tempest of the world n'er rages;
"There to dream away the ages,
"Heedless of time's turning pages,
"Only, come with me."
"Who are you?" I asked the phantom,
"I am Rest from Hate and Pride.
"I am friend to king and beggar,
"I am Alpha and Omega,
"I was councillor to Hagar
"But men call me Suicide."
I was weary of tide breasting,
Weary of the world's behesting,
And I lusted for the resting
As a lover for his bride.
And my soul tugged at it's moorings
And it whispered, "Set me free.
"I am weary of this battle,
"Of this world of human cattle,
"All this dreary noise and prattle.
"This you owe to me."
Long I sat and long I pondered,
On the life I had squandered,
O'er the paths that I had wandered
Never free.
In a shadow panorama
Passed life's struggles and it's fray.
And my soul tugged with new vigor,
Huger grew the phantom's figure,
As I slowly pressed the trigger,
Saw the world fade swift away.
Through the fogs old Time came striding,
Radiant clouds were 'bout me riding,
As my soul went gliding, gliding,
From the shadow into day.
-Robert E. Howard-
-George Sylvester Viereck-
Selection from NINEVEH
Through the long alleys of the park
On noiseless wheels and delicate springs,
Glide painted women fair and dark,
Bedecked with silks and jeweled things.
In peacock splendor goes the rout
With the shrill, loud laughter of the mad-
Red lips to suck thy life-blood out,
And eyes to weary to be sad!
Their feet go down to shameful death,
They flaunt the livery of their wrong,
Their beauty is of Ashtoreth,
Her beauty it is that makes them strong.
Behold thy virgin daughters, how
They know the smile a wanton wears;
And Oh! on many a boyish brow
The blood-red brand of murder flares.
See, through the crouded streets they fly,
Like doves before the gathering storm.
They cannot rest, for ceaselessly
In every heart there dwells a worm.
They sing in mimic joy, and crown
Their temples to the flutes of sin;
But no sweet noise shall ever drown
The whisper of the worm within.
-George Sylvester Viereck-
-SUCCUBUS-
She was a demon, now I know,
But in the purple afterglow,
When restless wind
Warned that I had sinned,
I did not think her so.
Into the dusk I called her name;
I breathed an oath; I saw a flame
Winking afar
Like a coy star,
And silently she came.
She whispered truths unknown to man,
Lost long before His world began;
She slaked the drouth
Of my dry mouth
With kisses Hell would ban.
But when I pressed her to my breast,
She shrank away as though distressed;
I sensed a strange
Approaching change:
Her slant eyes blazed;
I flinched, amazed....
It was a snake which I carressed!
-Hannes Bok-
-MESSAGE NUMBER TWO-
A poisoned flower
grew in a garden
in the black recesses
of a cave
where bats clung in huddled slumber
to dripping stalactites,
and the sound of water
mourned, drop by drop.
It was lonley
for something that it could not name,
and it's thought, like a perfume,
drifted upward and outward
through the gloom
until at last it saw
the sun.
People caught that sent in bottles
and wafted it in the face of their enemies,
who died dreadfully.
But down in the caverns
the flower smiled with pallid color,
deeming only
that it dreamed.
-FANTAZIUS MALLARE by Ben Hecht 1922/selections-
It is unfortunate that I am a sculptor, a mere artist. Art has become for me a tedious decoration of my impotence. It is clear I should have been a God. Then I could have had my way with people. To shriek at them obliquely, to curse at them through the medium of clay figures, is a preposterous waste of time. A wounded man groans. I, impaled by life, emit statues.
As a God, however, I would have found a diversion worthy my contempt. I would have made the bodies of people like their thoughts- crooked, twisted, bulbous. I would have given them faces resembling their emotions and converted the diseases of their souls into outline.
What fatuous, little cylindrical creatures we humans are! With our exact and placid surfaces we call beauty. And these grave and noble houses we erect!
Yes, I ought to have been a God. I should have had my way with people then. I could have created a world whose horrors would have remained a consoling flattery to my cynicism.
My room is red. It is hung with red curtains. I have bought only red things to put in it. The sun coming through my red curtains reddens the air of the room.
I prefer to live in this painted gloom because it is possible I hate sunlight. I even hate my rivals the trees. Today I walked and found trees that resembled too closely people passing under them. One is impotent before such betrayal.
But here in my rooms I find an almost complete annihilation of life. I am bored with inventing causes for my hatred. There is a diversion on earth called humanity-creatures full of enamelled lusts and arrogant decays who go about smiling and slyly obeying laws which protect them from each other. But they no longer divert me.
They tell me of health and sanity. And I say sanity is the determined blindness which keeps us from seeing one another. More than that, of course: which keeps us from seing ourselves. And health is the lame artifice of our bodies which keeps us from loathing one another. I see and I loath. Yet I must beware of falling asleep in explanations. I am too clever to go mad. To go mad is to succumb to the sanity of others.- Selection from FANTAZIUS MALLARE by Ben Hecht 1922-
-Three poems by Nietzsche follow-
-LOSING THE HEAD-
It happened that she sense at last did find;
Because a man through her did lose his mind.
Prior to this his head had much acumen-
The devil got his head-No! no! the woman!
-THE TREE SPEAKS-
I've stood too lonesome, grown too high-
I wait-but ah! for what wait I?
Too near me hangs the cloud's dark pall;
I wait for the first lightning's fall.
-LAST WILL-
To die, as once I saw him die-
The friend, who lightnings and glimpses
Into my gloomy youth divinely flashed;
Mischievous and deep, in the fight a dancer,-
Among the warriors the cheerfulest,
Among the victors the gravest,
As destiny triumphing over his destiny,
Stern, back-seeing, foreseeing:
A-trembling because he had conquered,
Rapturous because that in death, he conquered:
Commanding, even when he died;
And his command- it was destruction...
To die, as once I saw him die:
Conquering, destroying...
-F.W. Nietzsche-
-RE-BORN-
The true poet's soul
Emerges from the flame,
At the end of the summer,
Like phoenix in the darkness unknown.
From the remotest corner of his soul
The silky delightfulness of the rose blooms,
Honors the summer,
And turns it into the mystery of autumn,
Where spiders weave the glossy webs,
And the leaves start falling
Onto the golden stream.
--In aloneness the old life dies,
And the man is re-born.
"Written to honor Harold Arthur McNeill's unique soul." (a kind and touching gesture on her part...)
By Xenia Sunic, friend and author of The Old Life Is Dead..., good poetry with a Baudelaire flair, and wife of Tomislav Sunic who wrote Homo Americanus: Child of the Postmodern Age, both of whom I care for greatly.
My worldview is most practically conveyed by my recent interview by ARKHAM STUDIOS, in connection with their release of limited bronze castings of my Cthulhu, along with an article I wrote for a local magazine featuring my work. My website, thirdcamelot.com does not exhibit either recent work nor convey as much of my thinking, purposes I hope to better serve with this myspace profile. May it be of value to kindred souls (who are welcome to respond).
ARKHAM STUDIOS: Can you tell us what initially sparked your interest in art?
Harold McNeill: At earliest memory I was compelled to create. True art is borne of inner neccessity. It's misuse by predatory commercialism is a spiritual prostitution promoted by the souless who have but one virtue, mortality. In some respects the inner motive of art may be akin to the birth of a pearl, a response to the tension of mere matter for those who have souls. Not all is art, not all have souls. The modern heresy that all have souls is was even rejected in the the gnostic gospels of the Nag Hammadhi Library, where it was said; " there are many animals in human form, do not esteem them as men, for as animals devour each other, so do they." This is conveyed in that more reliable reference to the intent of Jesus than the conterfiet christ of the church who hijacked his name as he forsaw; " they will cleave to the name of a dead man, calling themselve bishops and deacons, but do not listen to them for they are dry canals." In these works it is also said that man can be divided into three groups; those who know by revelation and creation like the sun, those who think by mere calculation and reflection like the moon, and lastly, the hateful and relativistic soulless ones who it was then said will be burnt up so nothing will be left of them. It is these pernicious weeds that smother the roses of the soul, found in all races in varying percentages, and are the root of much that is corrupting to the world. In the garden of life one must have the courage to pull the weeds, this tough love is actually best for their karma. Compassion for the weed is cruelty to the rose. Thus a human of soul can never be a crosstitute, and wiping out that diseased creed will be a partial tribute to Jesus, giving him the benifit of the doubt given his treatment. For the true solar human, god is within, for the born lunar slave, god is above. Those who need to be born again should die first. In this we can be helpful. Throughout the ages I see the absolute relativist who measures by quantity in an ancient battle with the relative absolutist whose measure is quality. My words will be understood by the latter, to quote Blake; " as a man is, so he sees." Art is the truest theology of authenticity and thus more spiritual than religion. There is more ego than god in religion. Dogma is to life what arthritis is to dance. Death must be present for life to be vital, so telephone poles may have unintended applications in the future for those who missed Vlad Dracula's point, a man with a stake in in the future of many.
AS: You seem to be a Renaissance Man in the sense that you have many disciplines such as drawing, painting, sculpture, photography and philosophical poetry. Can you elaborate on how you are able to explore so many artistic avenues?
HM: All is ripe for improvement, much has yet to be born. There are no boundries to the creator, art transcends morality. I have been fortunate to have things be obvious to me thus needing no training to realize my objectives. Though I enjoy photography I do not draw from such, but rather occassionally recreate my work with models. I have a horror of copying, even my own photos, but know Von Stuck produced great work in that manner thus am not dogamtic as to the validity of that approach in some cases. My limited foray into music over 20 years ago can be heard by clicking on the word Republic on the bio page of my thirdcamelot.com site providing a sense of how I have approached music/oratory in the past, and shown at http://www.bloodaxis.com/storm/republic-freedom-through-ability-7/ and also http://www.discogs.com/viewimages?release=244622 . The world is polluted by art school monkeys whose inner poverty matches the inauthenticity of commercialism, though some true artists pass through their halls. It is a disaster to place the culture of a nation into the hands of commerce, as pedophiles should not run daycare centers. I can also be very critical of my own work and appreciate your kind words, given your own artistic achievments and character.
AS: Your work seems to have an influence of Art Deco and Third Reich aesthetics. Is this a fair statement or does the influence come from elsewhere?
HM: I consider influence to be separate from inspiration. I resonate with some timeless aspects that have manifested in the past because the were within me from birth. Influence is corrupt, inspiration divine. True man is not a product of history, history at it's best is the product of true men. Authenticity above conformity. What is real is above time, newness is the fetish of mediocrity. To address any curiosity as to my view of the Third Reich that may arise; National Socialism had many strengths such as realizing that man does not exist to serve capital, capital exists to serve man, but it became in my view too like what it fought. Master Race is too like Chosen People for my taste, though many are beginning to discover that the kosher version of history may not be the last word on the matter, nor entirely truthful on all points. I contend it more relevant to invest energy on the wall where it is least fortified, rather than let defensive debates on the past negate one's impact on the future. To deny merit outside of one's own race is a talmudic arrogance that has no place in my heart. The absurd contradiction of racial hatred is in blaming someone for their nature as if it was a choice, racial awareness enables one to understand and thus preserve justifiable diversity. You do not get apples from orange trees, yet it is stupid to hate either, nor does one have to like either, all is a matter of taste and its freedom. Projected equality is as much a prejudice as projected inequality. Fresh water fish do poorly in salt water aquariums, that is why diverse environments consecrated to diverse natures maximizes true diversity and health of all. One would not wish to go to a paint store for green paint, and be told that it was thought it might be unfair to the other colors if they could not be in the same can, so instead of diverse choices you were left with only a pinkish puke grey in every can. Equality murders diversity. This sentiment was also expressed by another of my favorite authors, Heinrich Heine, a jewish author I have often quoted to those who seem to fall into what I call aryan zionism. To overcome the global cancer of multinational capitalism it may take a new multinational socialism, where upright nobles of all races unite to secure a world that honors differences without losing them. All that was good from the past is holy in such a cause, beyond fear and greed. Supression of symbols or aesthetics because of past misuse would put the christian cross on the top of the list if one went by body count over time. An amusing quote by that pioneer of family values, Charles Manson comes to mind; " the cross of iron is above and beyond the cross of wood." One does not overcome the past by allowing it to determine the future. Compromise corrupts.
AS: Your poetry echoes a cynical bent. Is this based on your observations and experiences, or is it wrought from similar thoughts other like-minded philosophers such as Nietzche, Ayn rand and others that you happen to agree with?
HM: I do not consider myself cynical, for the cynic is the smug accessory to his own murder. Humility forbids pessimism, success demands realism. One must not make a fetish out of a heartbeat if one is to serve quality and thus life in it's highest potential. Nietzsche was exposed to me in high school by an instructor who thought much I expressed by my nature to be similar. My favorite Nietzsche quote; "one must have chaos in ones self in order to give birth to a dancing star." Rand is good in only some respects, the value if the individual's authenticity especially, but is a bit too materialistic in other ways. My favorite Rand quote; " the first person who invented fire was probably burnt at the stake he taught his brothers to light." I appreciate even those who I do not agree with if they are true to themselves. To quote Blake; "opposition is true friendship." Or Nietzsche; "the surest way to corrupt and destroy a youth, is to teach them to hold in esteem those who think alike rather than those who think differently."
AS: Does the work of H.P. Lovecraft play a role in your sculptures beyond your excellent examples of C'thulhu as you see him?
HM: In sixth grade I discovered Lovecraft and often was inspired to do my best to render his visions in visual mediums. Later I found we were of similar perspective on other matters. My favorite Lovecraft quote; "art is not something we set out to do, but something that sets out to come through us."
AS:Your women are usually depicted of the era of a Weimar Republic cabaret and many others share the sentiment that this type of woman is the ultimate in an erotic archtype. Care to elaborate?
HM: I feel that many of my images are not of that timeline, especially the more mythological ones. I see the dance of the feminine through time, and value the most what I define as the solar woman who do not need to revolve around another for an identity. The light of the soul is one, but the moon steals hers from the sun. I try to be compassionate for those whose character is limited by evolutionary biology, but they can end up hating me for expecting more than a role playing game. The exception is what I try to define woman by, as bad painting should not define art. When disappointed by CannaBelles I have wondered if; man has soul, woman has spirit, women eat souls, so men drink spirits. Or if carnivorous plants wre named after venus for a reason. I am eternally grateful to the exceptional women I know who deliver me from misogny. Nor am I less critical of lunar men, and harshest of all towards my own faults, this harshness likely being another of my many faults. If I did not have a sense of humor I would have a body count, though one can have both. Regarding any erotic archetype or ideal, the following thoughts come to mind. Form should serve content, not be its substitute. There is no beauty without depth. In art one may arrive at certain preferences as to form, but in life I would rather deal with someone thick in the waist than thick in the head. Night clubs can be be populated with retarded Barbies that seem like the nature channel meets special olympics, bringing to mind Oscar Wilde's definition of fox hunting; "the unspeakable in pursuit of the uneatable." Though some Barbies have neglected depth, and there are gothic wax apples with none. Union should not be a freudian farce but give birth to new ideals specific to the essence of both individuals, all else is a sad meat puppet role playing game for the weak of mind and shallow of heart. Love should be a windstorm that overpowers prior notions like so many leaves, where only what is false is sacrificed, and the ego is left at the temple door.
AS: In other interviews, you seem compelled toward the subject of your own demise. Does this translate into why you create as a juxtapose to your own destruction?
HM: I find that when one is fighting for life and closest to death, you can reach past life to the starry dance of the archetypes. A passion for self destruction was mine from birth, and from this tension I create my best work. Have come to see that much was born by extreme early child abuse, and that one crystallizes a negative self image to cope that has followed my life like a shadow, it also gives me an insight of how trauma drives much creation as apology. Thus self sabotage, and such, with sadness that I did not understand this sooner for the sake of some whom I loved. I often feel like a pearl diver who never knows if I will make it back to the surface every time I begin a work. One must know hell to create heaven. Lao Tzu once said; "yearn for death with your whole heart, and live forever." Or the often misrepresented Crowley; "die daily." Or to qoute Lautremont; " the charm of death exists only for the brave." Or Baudelaire; " stoicism is a religion with but one sacrament, suicide." Let the one without neurosis cast the first diagnosis. It is easy to dispair in a time of such deceitful shallowness if one has any sense of the past, but I try to endure yet can wonder why.
AS: What does the future hold for you as an artist and is there a place for Harold Arthur McNeill as a person in this world of the present and the future?
HM: Undetermined, as yet. I sometimes have enough mood swings for a god's playground, and am not suited to exist for only my own sake. I will likely endure as long as I am of value to those I can respect, and have as many defined concepts for future governments as any other medium, and as with any medium all is determined by the quality of available materials. An authentocracy may elevate America above the corperate two step of the degenocrats and ripofflicans. When nations capitols are no longer red light districts where whores run for office, leaders may come to power. Serving the interests of all that is best in true mankind is a sacred cause. To quote Theodore Roosevelt; "the greatest good for the greatest number also applies to the unborn in the womb of time, of which the present generation is an insignificant fraction." I have mentioned many quotes to share value and enfranchise others to that value given public education, no author represents myself totally or I would not be an individual. I will finish with two by Napoleon; "war is the cowards solution to the problems of peace." And lastly by Napoleon; "imagination rules the world."
Exerpt of my writing from local magazine article:
I often ponder whether humanity is a function of mere biology or character, and whether it is meaningful or something to be transcended. It is clear that fools outnumber the wise, though I am not always certain as to which category I belong. Those who can admit their folly are more likely to attain wisdom. I do love people, one can make so many neat things out of them. Seldom are the stable creative. To break through often involves some breaking down. The stars shine brightest from the abyss as one arises from it. In a world that can seem to be overpopulated with walking landfill, it is best for the authentic soul to resist reactive misanthropy. There is never victory in reaction any more than one can lift a chair while sitting in it. Impatience is a barren tree that seldom bears edible fruit. I mention these things as many who connect with my art also share some of my dilemmas. Regardless of the direction history may take we, can either become the kings of a new heaven or the demons of the new hell; there is much to be done. In some ways, I am my own worst enemy as it concerns the promotion of my art, yet still it has ended up in the homes of Geiger and Chris Stein of Blondie. It has appeared in a variety of contexts ranging from the Magic the Gathering and Vampire/Jyhad card games, for which I also designed the snakes logo, to the cover of of a Death in June seven inch titled WE SAID DESTROY. I also created the cover for Charles Manson's Commemoration CD, inspiring his prison self portrait on my Man Sun (ala Da Vinci), being one of my stranger collaborations excluding past lovers. This image is also now on the cover of an excellent recent New Right book; Homo Americanus: Child of the Postmodern Age by Tomislav Sunic (available through www.booksurge.com). It is an articulate and well reasoned analysis of how America mutated into an Orwellian plutocratic regime that in practice is more psychologically totalitarian than realized by many thus ultimately harming true authentic diversity on a global scale, yet also being clear on America's sleeping potential as well it is a rather balanced work. His wife Xenia Bakran-Sunic also recently released a wonderful collections of her poems; The old Life Is Dead, in both english and french. They are soulfully symbolist in nature and will be appreciated by any who enjoy poets such a Baudelaire and Poe with a nice Delville image of Parsifal for the cover. This is available through authorhouse.com and I recommend it. As to Baudelaire, the best english translation to my taste is by William H. Crosby called Flowers of Evil and Paris Spleen, he is appropriately a hematologist who took much time so they feel born rather than constructed, and come with the original french. Other notable applications of my my art includes its use by Laibach/NSK for an embassy opening, its appearance in Apocalypse Culture II, and its application by Michael Moynihan of Blood Axis and the Men Among the Ruins CD by the group Changes. And the recent Italian book "Day of Blood" focusing on Blood Axis and Michael Moynihan, yet also covering others such as Fire and Ice, Changes, ect as well is a handsome presentation by Max of Occidental Congress.com. I am self-taught and my most substantial interaction with an art school was briefly as a janitor for Cornish School of the Arts, an oddly appropriate arrangement as so much there seemed like pretentious garbage devoid of inspiration, truly democratic art in the worst sense are the rationalized head trips of the souless. Art is not a function of history, history is a function of art, absolute relativist are the damned. My work was also applied in the recent award-winning black and white silent film THE CALL OF CTHULHU, which I was priviledged to contribute to. It was tastefully produced in the manner of early expressionist film, a'la THE CABINET OF DOCTOR CALAGARI, with a touch of the original KING KONG. Only a portion of my work can be viewed on this page, more older work is on thirdcamelot.com alternately known as haroldarthurmcneill.com. For those who like my leather bound book designs they can ordered through arsobscurabookbinding.com as either blank or to rebind such as Crowley, Lovecraft, ect. I can be contacted by email third_camelot@hotmail.com though the email links on that site are temporarily disabled, thus do not use them but email directly, I always appreciate communication and comments, and remember, humility forbids pessimism, nothing is impossible as the darkest night gives way to the dawn, though I can forget that at times.
Who I'd like to meet: All those of soul I may sere to preserve. But death is far more likely as a likely bride (that sounds terribly pretentious, now). Always thought a hearse with tin cans on string, with "Just Buried" written with shaving cream on back rather appropriate, penguins also make rather cute pallbearers.
In candor, I am compelled to convey my life long mutual antipathy with what has become life in the modern world. I have tried to inspire, while knowing my words true, still dying as if breathing in water. No blame, no shame. From birth abused, burnt, and far more by a mother, then taken by the state, as my father remarried a Russian woman. She, convinced I was the Antichrist, spit upon my face to awaken me...locked me in a closet to only be released when I lost my voice from screaming. Often I was forced to sleep outside with no protection even in snow...after months of her shrieking I was evil, she attacked again. While screaming, she chased me to the truck I sought for refuge, caved in the windshield with a wooden beam, then used a brick smashing the side windows. I only recount to convey that I am not unique in such early events, and that trauma is rampant. It may fuel much creation as compensation, but it is rather a horrible base for existence. One would do well to reflect on that when approaching social planning, self destructive impulses are often born from early abuse. I can not claim to have arisen from this struggle, but at least my mind grasps it, if not my heart. A note for those who justifiably reject the pharmacuitical cartels, Rhodiola Root tea has remarkable properties to lift one from depressive paralysis, while not falsifying life, has existed for centuries and is far more economical than antidepressants. When I use it with vigilance, am suprised to awaken with some sense of meaning in this sunken age. Almost a shocking feeling for me...
Recent thought; trauma as engine of history, the word for dream in german being traum may in some ways be related, and why often the dreamers were traumatized in youth. One copes with abuse as child by forming a negative self image to have it make sense, this often crystalizes and follows like a shadow through life compelling one to create as apology for birth, and also gives an early start to problem solving skills. When traumas are collective from war or other catastrophe, many then connect and create upswings in history. When this stabilizes, the new masses becomes shallow and usually stumble into another catastrophe. During stable periods the individual born from abuse is out of step with these shallow masses and usually becomes the creative outsider who often self destructs from frustration with their time and also because of the early crystalized negative self image. Much self destructiveness has these roots that drive away what is not compatable with them, as early abuse fosters later self abuse. My realizing this has enabled me to understand human stupidity in a less reactive way and thus be less stupid myself. When we allow the fools in the world to enrage us, we join their ranks.
Yours, Harold.
why you comment me the hannukah pigs?? lol.. you know here in Berlin at branenburger tor, next to the christmas tree they have put the jewish candles saying happy hannukah!! oh god!! warum??? another weird thing is that the muslims that sell kebab they decorate also their shops with christmas trees.. i guess so that they sell more!!
Happy Yule Harold thanks you for you funny pict miss your art in my profile. Wish the best for the next year. One hug from land of Emplumed Serpent. Fer
Happy Solstice!! Rebirth to Appolo and in a few days the birth of the christian God. These mythologies are metaphors, not actual truth. It is for the individual to interpret the meaning of the metaphor.
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Winter Solstice
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