Dec 23, 2012
If there was ever a physically impotent and spiritually deficient man who could perfectly exemplify the absolute subversion of what was once the masterful and awe-inspiring art, staunch and steadfast moral principles, and the overall supremacy and love of beauty that once healthily reigned over the flourishing Occident, it would have to be blueblood-born-turned leftist Swedish artist Carl Johan de Geer who, like fellow hack artists and co-conspirators such as Andres Serrano (of "Piss Christ" infamy) and Dadaist Marcel Duchamps (whose aesthetic love of filthy toilets is unrivaled, except perhaps by frequent visitors to the tearoom), successfully made a name for himself in the degenerate, contemporary art world, most notably with his rather childish renderings of brightly colored flags—one of the Swedish flag with the word “cock” shabbily scrawled across the middle, along with an accompanying message imploring the reader to “dishonor the flag” and yet another of an American flag with its stars replaced with swastikas and the words “USA-killers” brightly written across the bottom (indeed, these are perhaps his most famous works, among countless others in which he utilizes traditional kindergarten level techniques such as finger painting and amateur sketches via magic marker to ineffectively deliver the same tired and effete anti-nationalistic and superlatively self-loathing anti-European messages that have been drilled into our brains for the last 40+ years).
In spite of being born into a well-to-do Swedish family of Walloon noble extraction, de Geer quite proudly and rebelliously rejected his aristocratic underpinnings during his more formative years to become a full-fledged degenerate leftist, quite the trendy persuasion at the time (as it remains to this today, only to a much more redundant and intrinsically recycled degree), and prime propagator of some of the most puerile and unsophisticated modern art this festering cesspool of a world has ever seen. Indeed, if we are now in the midst of the end times—the Kali Yuga, as many assumedly autistic, bed-wetting 'white nationalist' facebook users and stormfront messageboard lurkers with ridiculous sounding, hybridized pseudo-Nordic-Gaelic monikers like to think of it—a turbulent period marked by the unabashed worship and reverence for regression and ugliness, then Mr. de Geer himself must be one of the four horsemen, the premiere dough-faced poster-boy of "the death of the west," whose crudely colorful and supremely soulless trash, surely one of the many proverbial death knells of the Faustian man’s untimely demise (along with Lil’ Wayne rap videos and off-the-chart BMI’s) would send even the seediest of aspiring modern artists of the Semitic persuasion to suffer pangs of intense jealousy that such rotten fruit so besmirched with Frankfurt school foulness could germinate and spring forth from the mind of a good goy such as de Geer (the grandson of Nazi sympathizers, no less).
For as much of a loud fuss as he makes about desecrating his national flag by way of juvenile art renderings, smashing the old aristocracy, and promoting international Jewish supremacy and scatological aesthetic savagery as the only means by which we can arrive at a worldwide Utopian existence, de Geer is a rather homely and small, yet rotund fellow whose cloying and annoying effeminate, Winnie-the-Pooh-like voice and seemingly gentle manner belie his immense inner antipathy for the world. In his self-directed documentary short, Mormor, Hitler och jag (2001) aka Grandmother, Hitler and I—which lasts a mere 17 minutes but feels as if it drones on for 17 hours, not least of all because its main theme (especially in the last half of the film) is to harp on about the evils of fascism, one of the many components of the New Left academic agenda that has been brutally beaten into the brain of any Europid born after the late 1960s—de Geer first presents himself to the audience adoringly preparing his beloved grandmother’s Swedish pork filet recipe (which bears an uncanny likeness to country stew recipe dog food), describing how he uses the smells and flavors of the recipe to evoke memories of his childhood years spent in her home, a woman who was born into great wealth and prestige but who, as he described her, was the matriarchal glue which held his family together. After speaking at some length with flowery adulation of his grandmother’s virtuous nature, to his own remembered horror (clearly calculated for the documentary)—and with the anticipation that it will also horrify the viewers—de Geer casually confesses, with just a brief pause for suspense, that his grandmother was also, in his view, quite irreconcilably an avid fan of Adolf Hitler, that she had at one time dined with il Duce himself, Benito Mussolini, on the roof of the Fiat factory, a “memory she embraced only with warmth,” and that she was a keen collector of Nazi art mags, including Vecko-Journalen and Die Kunst im Deutschen Reich, the latter of which “had Albert Speer as its permanent artistic adviser and was adorned with a giant golden swastika on each cover.” To make matters worse, de Geer goes on to describe how his grandmother was basically a Hitler fan girl whose bedroom walls were lovingly plastered with Nazi stock posters of the virile fuhrer, and that even though she rarely ever discussed politics with family, she did believe that Jews were responsible for starting World War II, and that they also caused her husband, de Geer’s grandfather, to take his own life (by way of throwing himself overboard on a boat) regarding what seemed to be dubious monetary matters. All of this information is delivered in the most manufactured melodramatic way possible, not in the sense that de Geer himself is being overly dramatic (he instead speaks with a rather flat cadence) but because he gives the appearance of a serious and tearless yet clearly grieving father delivering a very stern 1980s-style pussy PSA admonishing about the dangers of drugs following his good-boy-turned-bad teenage son’s heroin overdose, with the overall message here instead being thus: it doesn’t matter if it’s your beloved grandmother or not, a Nazi is a Nazi, and Nazis must be crushed.
From this point on, de Geer segues into a carefully, yet casually delivered denunciation of his mellow and mild-mannered mormor and her rather demure yet steadfast love for all things fascist (being careful to imply here that his perception of his grandmother as good and wholesome was a thoroughly immature one, a perception that was irretrievably altered upon entering adulthood, like his adolescent fascination with Nazi soldier magazines). In perhaps the most surreal segment of the documentary, a rather unwholesome scene that looks like a NAMBLA advertisement if there ever was one, de Geer lays on a bed in little boy’s pajamas outdoors and reminisces about the fanciful paracosm of his childhood, wherein he was an adventurer who found himself in remote jungles and who could easily escape danger if need be (the clear intent being to juxtapose his privileged and safe childhood against the always harsh reality faced by the poor and impoverished children who grew up with burnt offerings as their only sustenance). De Geer describes how he rejected the aristocratic background bestowed upon him by his grandparents, how his grandmother’s love for fascism and all things Hitler planted the “seeds of disgust for all things brown” (with the exception of melanin-derived brown, of course—and rather funny considering that Hitler actually hated the color brown, despite his reliance on certain men wearing "brownshirts" in his early rise to power, at least according to the personal press adjutant of Goebbels, Wilfred von Oven), and how the 1960s were a rebirth of sorts for him, a time in which he could “breach bourgeois conventions, and forever break bonds with all ancestors” in the form of producing juvenile, thoroughly gauche and uncultivated art characterized by crudely contrived colors that only the most ghetto and peacockish of hoodrats would love, and crass, unsophisticated messages of hatred and rebellion against the system. De Geer, like his left-leaning brethren, who ironically "hate hate" and are "intolerant of intolerance," proudly declares at the conclusion of this 17-minute long, painful reproach of his sweet Nordic granny, that where she warned him against involvement with Jews, that he gleefully disobeyed her, in fact choosing to marry a sweet, Semitic soul sister of the 60s (a decision that is quite pompously proclaimed, though with decidedly less ebonic intonation, in a fashion not unlike the white girl down the street who watched one too many episodes of Maury, watched a little too much MTV, and whose alcoholic father told her never to mess with black dudes, but who decided to get knocked up with a cute little half-caste bastard by one of those would-be-rap-superstars-and/or-professional-football-players anyway). Finally, de Geer pays the ultimate tribute in the form of a giant “fuck you” to his grandmother by cutting out a black-and-white photo of her smiling, sweet visage, and pasting it into a newspaper cut-out alongside dozens of other contemporary Swedish neo-nazi’s, most of whom are 20-something year old men imprisoned for posting “anti-semitic” messages on Internet forums in today's supposedly democratic Sweden where anonymously broadcasting one's opinions is a criminal offense.
As evidenced even by de Geer's own depicition of her, it is quite doubtful that his grandmother, a Nazi sympathizer of unique Uradel descent, would have leveled even an ounce of the same hatred at her grandson that he has so disturbingly wrought against her, in fact, going so far as to forever tarnish her memory in cheap celluloid form for the sake of his own self-aggrandizement; indeed, Mormor, Hitler och jag is truly one of the trashiest, lowest pieces of pompous puffery ever committed to film, but spectacular evidence of the great lengths to which low-brow lefties will go, even defaming their own faithful family members, to petulantly prove a point about their own twisted sense of moral superiority.
-Magda von Richthofen zu Reventlow auf Thule
Posted by Soiled Sinema at 5:32 PM
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