Genesis P-Orridge
Photo Image
Plays Electric Violin; Bass Guitar; and Vocals in Throbbing Gristle.
Born in Manchester, England on February 22 1950.
Now lives in London.

Favourite Food: Cosey's Sunday Lunch; Coesy's Chocolate Cake; Maltesers; Muesli; Peeled Apples; Steak; Cosey's Spaghetti.
Favourite Drink: Tea; Milky Coffee; Drinking Chocolate.
Favourite Colour: Blue; Black; Military Drab.
Favourite Music (though not interested in music): Tiny Tim; C. Nieman; Nico. Jean Luc Ponty; Pearls Before Swine; Doors; Early Velvets; Fugs; Leonhard Cohen; John Coltrane; Syd Barrett; Captain Beefheart; Early Zappa; Stockhausen.
Favourite TV Programme: Soap; Lou Grant; After Noon Plus; Executive Suite, March of the Day.
Favourite Actor: Clint Eastwood; Peter Cushing; Sean Connery.
Favourite Actress: Jane Birkin; Bardot; Sissy Spacek.
Likes: Uniforms; Self-Discipline; Jackboots; Leather; Collaging. Letters. Voyeurism; Holidays with Friends; Cosey Fanni Tutti; Watching TV; Gardening; Tremble (our dog); Cats; I would like to have enough time to just relax and learn to be myself.
Dislikes: All dogmatic Politics and Religion; Russian Bureaucracy; Sandra Harris; Cigarette Smoke; Pubs; Fairgrounds; Parites; Weddings; Gangs of Any Kind; Rock Music; Thieves; Washing My Own Hair; Coconut; Passports; Fat Women; Casual Relationships; Ignorant Criticism; Shaving; Crowded Shops; Justifying My Own Actions; Puritanism; Being Alone.

In his own words (from TG CD 1):


All images begin in mirrors and end inside our subconsious. All conscious mirrors crack and cut; Seep blood and stain our dearest outfits. Sitting in one position, head crookedly balanced on our knee, thee muscles tremble and shake involuntarily. We are left physically and mentally corrupted nearer to thee mortality we are trained to fear and ignore. To encase in thee concrete of acceptance by our peers where it can do us no harm. In describing society, its behaviour, its grandoise stupidity we can be motivated by compassion and despair coloured by not a little sarcasm and cynicism. Yet in every picture there is enervation and texture that rely upon a resented CARING for its composition. Framed by our own paranoias, framed by conditioning, framed by false witness and thee theft of all pieces of silver, we kiss thee cheek of thee land that bites us. Receiving in return nothing. Butter nothing is why we came here, nothing is what we so awkwardly strive and fight for.
Nothing is our very precise confrontation with form and reason. Its easy to forget nothing and hard to describe it. What was it thee old slug breeder in thee mud once said in a moment of lucidity:
"The expression that there is nothing to express, nothing with which to express, nothing from which to express, no power to express, together with the obligation to express."*
Creative action, destructive action to express a perception of thee weird phenomenon of being alive tries to illumine, clarify and describe some part(s) of human experience, it tends to achieve long-term relevance to individuals coming into contact with it by trying to graps, or even form, thee values that guide that experience in a given age, or in this case "SECTOR OF TIME" And whilst "Time is that which ends" culture, for better or worse, is that which does not. And thereby lies thee endless trick. Unlearned and unsung denying explanations butter avidly seeking them. Thee mirror receives our staring gaze and we melt quite gently and sink away leaving a smoky, cloudy effect like bleach spreading in water. To cleanse our guilt we must describe our fate, objective war zone correspondents using thee aural language of everyday life to define our subject.
Shuttered or not our message remains neither fixed nor dogmatic, merely frozen moments of a deeply personal interior reflected outwards into every living room that hangs this sheet of magic upon its tatty wall. For a day, or forever, it makes no difference. True value never changes, remains in thee only real sense, constant, becuase only time has a constant value, and time is thee medium of art "Nothing is more real than Nothing."*
Human experience is, unfortunately, butter stimulatingly, thee experience of nothing and thee only reality it knows is thee inability to interpret itself and its mythically inherited structure.
After thee accumulation of too much history we have lost our innocence, we cannot easily believe in any explanations. We describe rather than feel, we touch rather than explore, we lust rather than adore.
So there you are...or were...

Genesis P-Orridge London June 1986

Career Highlights:

Other Places of Interest on the web: