Illustrations - Rozrazil Magazine

illustrations for Rozrazil Magazine, the number dedicated to Tom Stoppard

Illustrations are based on the fotos of Bohdan Holomicek from the Plastic People of the Universe concert in Vaclav Havel's house.

MOTTO of DC to the illustrations: 

-  Could you briefly comment on the genesis of these collages?

DC: It's a subconscious, uncontrolled reaction to what I was asked to create. I did nothing more than to record an idea. I do respect the people in the photographs.

(Analysis: one could analyze these collages by saying I made these people even more human. Some of them went further than the others, so they have more legs. I discovered the polished secrets of their fly fronts and by doing so I made them, after so many years, less palatable again to the prudes in the bird protection racket.  A couple of days after having completed the collages I became aware of the fact that, subconsciously, I had returned with them to the time 27 years ago. Around 1980 I used similar methods to complete schoolbooks on anatomy and to send the drawings on as my own love letters.

Letter of Tom Stoppard to David Cajthaml     

 

- What's your relation to Rock'n'Roll?

 DC: I have a good relationship to the music in general. The music is produced by the soul vomiting to rhythm. The blood pulse rhythm runs against the breathing rhythm, and the rhythm resulting from the sum of these two rhythms makes our bodies move. To move one's body rhythmically is pleasant. Rock'n'Roll is kind of music that  moves the ladies and makes them dream with their entire bodies. The lads and ladettes who are in power have the feeling that somebody is drumming their own barbed wire into their ears, the same barbed wire they had been using to fence off the concentration camps they keep "their" people in.


 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
Photogallery options

Girls Text

So here I am living in my beautiful girlie body. They only serve beer until half seven, then it's the end of the road. I don't know who I will be sleeping with tonight, who will be in love with me. Possibly the one who was bullshitting the most at the pub. Music is good; I like meat, roasted! Even the lads' meat, but I don't like spinach and the commies only sell bananas around Santy season. Mom died not so long ago, I live alone with my daddy; he's a moron, a policeman with a truncheon. Mummy was very kind but she ate some bad fish and died; all daddy's buddies came to the funeral, all the old bill gathered there in their uniforms; it was all so solemn. The shoes on those pricks are worn thin, not the beautiful shoes the singers in the West wear, the ones I saw on the photographs at Vašek's. After the funeral they kept singing some boring Russian songs, I do know Russian although I didn't have to learn it at high school. Pop is a policeman and being his daughter has advantages. Mother came from a good family, her pop was a commie, he just about finished  elementary school and then went on to work at the District Communist Party Committee. My granny stayed at home, did not work, she  lived what she imagined was a luxurious life: plenty of gold teeth, vodka, pills for headaches, and caviar lapped from a toilet seat. I wouldn't mind seeing what the Devil would say, if there was one. I don’t believe in anything. I am madly in love with Vašek, with his long hair and his collection of foreign songs that he'd recorded on his tape-to-tape; only he has to listen to them with the sound turned down - becaise some kind of director lives on the floor above him in the villa, who could inform on him; they might throw him out of his school, he might even run away across the border to the West. Then he wouldn't be able to come back and I would never see him again. That could even land my daddy in the shit, if the police found out I slept with him. Anyway, I love soft music, especially during love-making, normally I am moaning like a cow and I like to listen to myself and the music would be getting in the way. Vašek reads books; at home, daddy only has a Party membership book, a saving book, and an old anatomy book, with a picture of a woman's body and a man's body. He keeps staring at the woman's body, burping and scratching his crotch. He's a moron. Do I look at that man's body… but that's men for you, pop would be able to wank even over a skeleton should somebody tell him it used to belong to a young girl. But I love lovemaking, it's my only joy. What else is there to do since nothing is happening here? The boys want to go somewhere for a concert that is banned. I am not going, I'll go to see Arnošt instead: he's on disability benefit, sometimes we do Phenmetrazine and then paint crazy pictures. Or model pricks in clay. Arnošt has a complete ceramic workshop at home, almost, just like a real sculptor, he might be even famous some day, the way that moron who cut his ear off was. But more likely he will be thrown in jail because of those pricks he modelled. I'd love to have twenty kilograms of heroine at home and eat it all the time, I heard the song Heroine by Velvet Underground, the music is stupid but they beat the drums so good. The guy singing is very good-looking, apparently he's taking drugs all the time and never knows what day it is, but in America that's fine:  whereas here my periods always start on Thursday. You can't get tampons anywhere in this country. It really pisses me off. But you can forget everything with music. Yesterday I was listening to a cool  English piece of music. My friend's father is a composer; he says every real composer starts by writing crazy music, something Dada that shocks other people. When the other people understand the music through their shock, they get used to it as much as I do lovemaking; then the cream-filled roll sweetly penetrates my mouth and I suck up the moist viscous matter inside. What kind of heart do I have? Probably torn to pieces, I have to glue it together with beer, and then I piss too much. Ther's music playing. The music is playing, and the alcoholic chemical rock'n'roll becomes water inside me. Sometimes when listening to the music I feel as if the sweat of the guys playing on the vinyl were penetrating through my skin, it's a tickling sensation all over my body. At school I doodle little hearts on my shoes and think of the foreign singers. It's all fucked. Vašek left for two years to do his conscription military service and I may stop loving him. I don't know what to do; I might kill myself. I don't want to see anybody, I'd like to browse through pictures of foreign cities and listen to the Velvets. Before Vašek left, he gave me his music tapes. Daddy isn't angry that I listen to foreign groups, he has more work nowadays. There's no sugar cubes to be had in the shops, and the police are scared people might rebel. It’s difficult for my pop. It seems they were given heavier caps, he's bending forwards as he walks. I have dreams of stuffed books; they look like normal books at first sight but you can't open them, just rip them open and there is nothing but straw insight. In my dreams, the writers don't fuss too much about it, they fill up the cover with straw and sell their books. I also dreamt of a stuffed watch, I probably won't get old and will always be pretty. I also dreamt that everybody had disappeared from Prague, all the people; everything was empty, there was nobody but my daddy and me, I was walking with a policeman through Prague, couldn't see anybody anywhere, we slept in other people's flats, went to the National Theatre, we could see lights in there. We watched the empty stage, the grass was growing on it; we drank beer in empty pubs; I don't know where all the others disappeared to. Maybe someone finally stuffed all of them into tin cans and put labels on the cans. I don't know why, they would not can daddy or me in the dream; I let us live, in the dream, and never woke up from it. I sailed to join my mother. The beautiful girlish body that stayed on, mine, I let them bury here.

( published in Rozrazil Magazine with collages of DC)

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