It’s a wee thing, the Praxis Magica Faustiana, and is just a collection of eleven lithographs (text and illustrations) that offer techniques for binding Lucifer and Mephistophiles (who appear as respective components of light and darkness) in order to gain access to the generative forces of the universe. The last lithograph is a picture of two lions embracing a plant, which the Caduceus edition’s commentary points out is probably a mandrake root.

The Praxis Magica Faustina crops up in Arthur Edward Waite’s Book of Ceremonial Magic in the chapter on Black Magic (filed away under the section of Miscellaneous Texts Which Are Probably Quackery, But Let’s Be Thorough And List Them), and he cites its history as being contained in a manuscript added to the Municipal Library of Weimar in 1571. Which, if true, suggests that municipal libraries were much different than they are now. Waite bases his notes on an unprinted translation by Major Irwin, which he owned, and which is now held by the Cleveland Public Library in the United States.

Some public libraries are still havens for esoteric texts, I guess.

Anyway, Waite points out that (a) there was no Municipal Library in Goethe’s birthplace, and (b) the collection as it existed in his era does not contain this MS. Either way, this little grimoire has been published in a fine edition by Caduceus so that we may lay our eyes on its particularly odd incantations and make our own assessment.

The interesting historical tidbit this grimoire provides is a reference point for where Goethe might have sourced the name ‘Mephistopheles,’ as the Praxis Magica Faustiana may be the first historical record of the name. Believed to be of Greek origin, it translates (roughly) to “not light lover,” thereby setting him up as the opposing force with Lucifer, who was still enjoying the “light-bearer” sobriquet.

The pictures and incantations themselves are not very complex, and most of them are exhortations to various named demonic and angelic figures to abide by the commands of the magician. The seventh page, in fact, shows a picture of a cock (the creature who summons the morning light and who is a symbolic stand-in for Lucifer) above the text “Lucifer amicus meus dilectus et Servus”–”Lucifer friend, my love and my servant.” These Infernal Conjurations and Oaths as practiced by the good Doctor certainly appear to be of the kindler and gentler variety.

The Irwin text contains an additional page which contains an interesting depiction of a small creature–perhaps a homunculus–that may be related to the mandrake root drawing of the MS. The Caduceus commentary goes into some interesting discussion about the figure, which I’ll save for another post.

* Somewhat foolishly, I was thinking that Faust was an entirely literary creation, making the real-world existence of an actual grimoire penned by the good Doctor not unlike the Necronomicon as written by Abdul Alhazred, but in the process of educating myself about the history of this text (read getting called on my assumption by a sharp-eyed reader), it turns out out that Faust really existed. Praxis Magica Faustiana is noted as being written in 1527, well within the range of Faust’s lifespan, though it was added to the Municipal Library of Weimar in 1571, after his death. It’s still very likely that the grimoire was used by Goethe as part of his inspiration for his play, though Christopher Marlowe’s play (written in 1604) also used Mephistopheles.

The launch party took place at the Rodriguez Guerra Art Studio, a second floor loft studio off Pioneer Square. It was a surprisingly sedate night for Downtown Seattle, and I found parking under the Viaduct–not far from a shapeless lump that made me think of the sack in the girlfriend’s apartment in Miike’s Audition. Naturally, as soon as I had that thought, the homeless man sleeping under the tattered wool blanket moved, and I whistled to keep the dark things away.

Anyway, it’s a shame I can’t get the Internet to cough up a representative sampling of Jose Luis Rodriguez Guerra’s art as it was very engaging. Born in Mexico, he came to the US as a migrant worker and eventually was able to sustain himself as an artist (and I’m cribbing from memory from an article posted on gallery wall). He works in oil on large slabs of wood and masonite, and his pictures are filled with Mexican and Mayan iconography. A number of his pieces were larger than life-sized, split into bands of warm sun-drenched colors and dark earthy tones.

He mentioned in this article that it was a shame that artists couldn’t find more spaces to showcase their art as a collective unit versus being lost in gallery with a dozen other artists, and seeing such a large collection of his work in one location really drove home that point. He has a habit of dividing his paintings into thirds, with the upper third being clearly demarcated by the horizon of his landscape, and he had arranged all the paintings so that line was at the same level throughout the room. With that sort of visual anchor, you started to look at the paintings as units within a larger narrative, and the reoccurring motifs started to emerge. Some of these visual echoes were only visible from specific points in the room–you had to stand in the corner of the alcove near the front door to see a certain repetition of a male figure, for example.

Art, in this instance, becomes not an isolated expression, but an on-going exploration that will probably take his entire life to fully articulate.

The gallery is at 80 South Washington Street, and is well worth the short detour from First Avenue if you’re wandering about Pioneer Square.

Anyway, the release of Jocus Severus. William gave a brief talk about Maier and the time period in which he lived (specifically mentioning the glorious era of Rudolph II, when it was de riguer for all alchemists and like-minded occultists to make a pilgrimage to Prague). While Maier is mainly known for his exceptionally forward-thinking “multi-media” tome, Atalanta Fugiens, Jocus Severus is an allegorical defense of alchemy. It’s an extended dialogue between a number of birds, who are set on defaming the Owl. Fortunately, the Hawk and the Phoenix wander by, and they come to the stately birds defense. This is the first English translation (done by Darius Klein, who also translated Ouroboros’ last release, Giordano Bruno’s Cantus Circaeus), and it features very nice typographical elements by artist Benjamin Vierling, who also contributed cover art and a splendid folding plate depicting all the birds who participate in this alchemical dialogue. (More details about the edition can be found at Ouroboros’ blog–this entry, in fact.)

This is the first time I’ve actually been able to get my grubby little hands on the more limited editions that William does, and while I’m the sort of reader who likes to use his books rather than look at them, I do have to admit that it was difficult to pass on the leather edition. While part of me is very involved in electronic methods of publishing, part of me really loves the feel of a well-produced book.

Presenters this year are: David Beth, Debra Chesnut, Orryelle Defenestrate-Bascule, Robert Fitzgerald, J. Daniel Gunther, Dale Pendell, Denny Sargent, and Caroline Wise. The website has further details about the actual presentations. Artists attending are Anima Nocturna, Orryelle Defenestrate-Bascule, Daniel Schulke, Joseph Uccello, and Bryan Ward. Entertainment will be provided by the Master Musicians of Bukkake and Noko.

Vendors include Ajna Bound, Ars Obscura, Concrescent Press, Fulgur Limited, J. D. Holmes, Immanion Press, Night of Pan Books, Nightshade Magick, Ouroboros Press, Dale Pendell, Thompson Rare Books, and Wonderella.

I went last year, and it was thoroughly enjoyable. I’m looking forward to handing out with all these people again this year, and a couple of those presses have a number of books I’m eager to check out.

Esoteric Book Conference home page

I recently acquired a copy of Blair MacKenzie Blake’s The Wickedest Books in the World (Confesssions of an Aleister Crowley Bibliophile), and while I don’t suffer from the same desire to aquire first editions like Blake does, I found the book to an engaging and entertaining read. Especially the section near the end where he described his vision of turning Boleskine House into “Crowleyland.”

(Blake, as he notes more than once in the book, is still under the influence of his desire, needing on a copy of The Book of Thoth, one of 200 copies produced in 1944, right at the height of British wartime restrictions on making such extravagances. It’s printed on Arnold unbleached handmade paper (from the Chiswick Press), bound in half-russet morocco leather, raised bands and gold-blocking on the spine, Egyptian-themed boards, and illustrated throughout with both colored and black and white images of the tarot deck as designed by Crowley and painted by Lady Frieda Harris. In case you have a copy lying around, and are wondering what to do with it.)

The Wickedest Books in the World is an oversized volume filled with gorgeous pictures of the first editions (photographed by Duncan Blake), and Blake’s fervent enthusiasm for his bibliophilic condition becomes infectious. By the end of his confessions, I was looking dismissively at the two shelves of Crowley books I have. All reprints. Nothing remotely close to a first edition up there. I was such a dilletante.

Blake clearly recognizes the allure that collecting something that is quantifiable rare, and he doesn’t dwell overmuch on the psychology of the collector. Though he does touch on the myth that Crowley firsts—because of the exacting publication specifications on some of them—still bear an imprint of the Great Beast himself on them, making them more like talismans than bunch of pages stuck together with glue and possibly more unsavory things. Blake’s focus is more on the linguistic fever and mania that comes over those who obsess over Crowley’s output. It becomes so easy to slip into a world populated by esoteric symbols.

Although the proprieter didn’t wear a Phrygian cap, Sanka, and a tourmaline ring seemed promising. Let’s have a look at those worm-eaten grimoires and dusty alchemical tracts—their moldering pages copiously illustrated with a mythic zoology, abtruse glyphs, and occult heraldry. Where were the peacock tails, emblematic paintings of the mystic marriage/conjunctio, and resplendent phoenixes? Further exploration of the place revealed no alchemical menagerie. Not even a tiny back room containing the revolving wheel of the zodiac, celestial-astral liquid in copper vessles, flaming athanors, curcurbites, or the prism of sorcerer’s bottles filled with the frozen flow of silver. Our pockets were filled with francs and bezants, and we damn near had the effluvium of Babalon tucked in our wallets. If nothing else, that ought to put us in a priveleged position in the multiverse.
    —(Blake, reminiscing about Parisian bookstores, p. 42)

I wish my local bookstores were more like this.

They’re also a nexus point for a number of personal sites about the Golden Dawn, the O.T.O, Dr. John Dee, Enochian matters, Chaos Magick, Qabalah, the Tarot, Thelema (and the list goes on).

I hadn’t realized they’ve got all of Crowley’s Equinox material up there (wherein I finally found the picture of the Silent Watcher I’ve been looking for for the last six months). If you’re not obsessed about finding first editions, you can’t go wrong with online versions. (The link there goes to Blair MacKenzie Blake’s book on being a Crowley bibliophile, which I’m currently reading and enjoying quite a bit.)

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