Beauty
As it has become commonplace not to put on one’s face, not to say, that is to say, what it is one is aesthetically attempting, the Press would otherwise insist. Beauty lies in the act of rendering fact to artifact; it is as instinctive as murder, and as inevitable. The best known trench art dates from World War I, when silversmiths in the trenches scavenged mortar shells and rifle bullets and warmed and wrought them into grand vases and radiant cruciform, as regular Smiths tapped out matchbook covers in scrap tin. Beauty is unfathomable, and artists must dive straightaway in, leading with the chin, and, as a matter of salvation, be able to pat the belly and rub the head while pointing at a patch of blue and red and pronouncing it delicious. To this end, submissions to the Press must be accompanied by a page setting forth the principles of your aesthetic in lieu of the usual list of other publications — we are less concerned with where you’ve been printed than what imprints you.