domingo, 21 de octubre de 2012

La mirada del pintor

Hace tiempo apareció por aquí una gente bastante impresentable que además de insultarme con muy poca gracia me acusó de despreciar la pintura. Mi último documental va precisamente sobre un pintor, sobre su práctica artística y su manera de contemplar el mundo. En la imagen, un momento de la película en el que nuestro protagonista, el pintor Amando, explica cómo ve en un cuadro de Cézanne a Tintoretto, a Pollock y a Monet.

Aquí el trailer:

La mirada del pintor (Trailer) from ARTELLANDO on Vimeo.

Aquí el blog en el que iremos vertiendo toda la información sobre el proyecto:

sábado, 29 de septiembre de 2012

Vanguardias y retaguardias

Para mucha gente —posiblemente la mayoría— el fútbol es literalidad y emoción: once tipos contra otros once persiguiendo una pelota, dispuestos a proporcionarte el momento más intenso de tu aburrida semana. Una concepción que recuerda bastante a la que los fans de Antonio López tienen del arte: unos sencillos membrillos pintados con destreza de maestro antiguo son todo lo que se necesita para conmover el corazón del público, y quien dice unos membrillos dice una Gran Vía. Yo creo que lo literal y meramente emotivo puede darte algunas cosas, pero otras no. La emotividad está muy bien y a mí me encantan los goles en el último minuto, pero además quiero disfrutar —no padecer— los 89 anteriores. Y a ser posible, aprender algo.

Igual que la pintura o la música, el fútbol es —para quien quiera verlo así— una metáfora, otro prisma a través del cual obtener lecturas del mundo. El arte que me gusta está lleno de esto: lecturas del mundo, ideas sobre él. No literalidad. Algo más que pigmentos armoniosamente combinados sobre un lienzo, algo más que unas cuantas notas ordenadas de manera pegadiza. También el fútbol puede ofrecer algo más que once contra once persiguiendo una pelota. Hay maneras y maneras de perseguirla (y sobre todo de poseerla), las cuales representan polos entre un abismo como el que hay entre Antonio López y Antoni Muntadas, así como caminos, para llegar a esas maneras...

Lee el artículo completo en Jot Down

viernes, 24 de agosto de 2012

Flowers, ruins and simulacrum

The only flower from César Pérez Herranz on Vimeo.

Flowers, ruins and simulacrum
Rubén Pardiñas

There was a time when even the most beautiful flowers withered until they rotted, a time in which, despite their legendary glory, cities became ruins. It was the story of the world, and ours too.With its dying roses and violets, its dimly lit skulls and other emblems of human futility, the Baroque Vanitas strove to verify these truths, which for millenniums we accepted with resignation. And though the venerable crumbling walls painted by Hubert Robert or Piranesi showed us the sublimity in the disappearance of the bodies (the transcendence of souls), the great Enlightenment ended in the most prosaicway: by the shadow of the guillotines, drowned in its own blood.

The destruction of the past, just one hundred years later, also symbolized the somewhatdelirious promise of a better future: those were the days whena race car seemed more beautiful than the Victory of Samothrace andwhen Avant-garde was causing a cataclysm in line with its own dreams.Staying in what was sanctioned by history was no longer an option, and a fresh start was imperative. Setting out, in fact,on a flight without end. Through different paths, the ancients and the moderns had always gone in search -more or less desperatelyof the same thing: eternity.

Rebellions against human finitude and the burden of the past –against Time– always have something heroic about them. They often end up the same way many heroes did: crashing like Icarus or cruelly punished like Prometheus. Reaching the frustrating conviction –we are mortal and always will be, neither more nor less than a flower or city walls– sometimes leads to a third path, the one a thimble rigger would choose, a type of escape far less honourable than dying while pretending to be God. Some called all this postmodernism. Others just capitalism. A big patch, which, far from satisfying our thirst for immortality, degraded us –it still does– to unsuspected limits, though it is not often heard of it - such is the efficiency of simulacrum.

The truth is that nowadays nobody denies that Tradition is a made-up tale, not to a lesser extent than the Avant-garde. Nobody claims the validity of the latter, which the myth of progress, today recycled as productivity, can no longer encourage. Our future in the world has stopped responding so much to the never-ending comeback of births and expirations as to that incessant escape towards who knows where. The feeling that defines us today –and which also captivates us– is that of stopped time. Apparently harmless experiences certify it, as when one cannot tell the difference between the latest indie pop hit and the music produced in the sixties. Or when we find out that Umberto Eco is having his best-seller The Name of the Rose published again, now skimmed of a few passages that the author himself feels are too cumbersome for new readers. These and other examples of recent cultural history would be an anecdote if it were not for the fact that they are the paradigm of a whole system designed to replace reality with its image, more or less retouched, more or less updated.

It had to be in China –that place deprived of freedom, where capitalism romps as it wishes–where the revivalist perversion reached its maximum peak, with Beijing by the Olympics as a standard. If originally the Olympics suspended wars between civilizations, today they reactivate, every four years, the war which speculators have spent decades fighting against the memory and the identity of entire cities. In 2008 it was the turn of the Chinese capital (in truth everything began seven years earlier when the city was awarded the organization of the Games).

Until then, Quianmen had been one of the neighbourhoods of the old part of Beijing which had forged its idiosyncrasies between the fourteenth and nineteenth centuries, so full of monumental constructions as it was deteriorated due to government neglect. The most remarkable bit was not even that many of the houses and shops of this historic area constituted an urban heritage of incalculable value. Old houses and streets formed a social fabric that had succeeded in bridging the gap between the Internet age and the Ming Dynasty. The fascinating thing was that Quianmen was alive. With important ailments, but it was still alive. And this is also what was especially inconvenient, what is really annoying nowadays, since life is not just limited but it is above all else, imperfect. Yes, a city also falls ill, as does a person, or a dog or a garden… unless of course, its flowers are plastic.

Life –true life, the one which has memory and falls ill- was removed from Quianmen, by the unquestionable procedure of the simulacrum. The neighbourhood was demolished and replaced with modern buildings that reproduced intheir façades traditional Chinese styles of architecture. That was how Quianmenbecame the giant set of a past that had never existed; a complete Jean Baudrillard Hutong. Zombie folklorism at the service of mass consumption multinationals, which once the construction work was completed, occupied what was nothing more than a theme park for the enjoyment of the millions of tourists who love the neo-chinois.

The fact that we are unable to distinguish relevant differences between a rose and its plastic copy, between a home of the Ming dynastyand its concrete replica, shows the power of the simulacrum. Ours isalready a culture of revival, a continuous remake that needs an audience to whom the historical context does not matter in the least, viewers for whom a simulated experience is as worthy as the original. And this is howwe believe we have outwitted time. It is, of course, an apparent immortality. Quianmen -and increasingly more neighbourhoods and cities around the world– is nothing butan immense souvenir. An image, one of many in the empire of images understoodas commodities. But as Jules Renard wrote, What is the good of souvenirs, and even photographs? It is sweet that things die too, as men do.” For twilight can also be sweet, as is the sunset when the day reaches its end. Even murder can reveal greatness, as it does so often in art. Supplanting is what is particularly ignominious; this farce that has mesmerized us, perhaps forever.

(Translation from Spanish by Cristina Bulmer)

sábado, 11 de agosto de 2012

Lobishomes de Londres (y otras ficciones olímpicas)

El hecho de que la música compuesta para una ficción olímpica haya terminado ambientando, treinta años después, las ceremonias de entrega de medallas en una Olimpiada real, me parece una de las cosas más encantadoras de Londres 2012. Es, con diferencia, el momento que más disfruto: ver a los atletas en su performance hacia al pódium mientras pienso —admito que de manera no muy articulada, y sólo hasta que el himno del vencedor interrumpe implacable a Vangelis— en los vericuetos que conectan arte y realidad.

También, por ejemplo, en la cuenta atrás antes del despegue de un cohete. Este símbolo máximo de la precisión técnica tiene su origen en un recurso cinematográfico: fue Fritz Lang quien primero la utilizó al lanzar en 1929 la nave tripulada de su película La mujer en la luna. Justificó el que la cuenta fuese hacia atrás con el aplastante argumento de que hacia adelante los espectadores...

Sigue leyéndolo en Jot Down

domingo, 5 de agosto de 2012


Cambio de cabecera, por fin. Dejamos aquí el nacionalismo doméstico de Mateo Maté para fijarnos un poco en la ruina contemporánea que tan bien ha retratado Camilo Vergara.

                                         La anterior cabecera de ARTELLANDO

martes, 26 de junio de 2012

Like a rolling stone

É certo, sempre houbo moita pedra en Galicia. Fixéronse aquí, e seguirán a facerse, moitas cousas nese material. Sabémolo todos. Era necesario montar unha megaexposición para deixar constancia desta obviedade? Gallaecia Petrea podería ter sido unha boa entrada nun blog, ou un libriño curioso para turistas. Como estrea no Gaiás do Museo de Galicia resulta un proxecto tan excesivo nos seus custos coma exiguo conceptualmente.

Insisto: son cousas –nomeadamente obras de arte- feitas en pedra. E máis nada. Unha chilindrada monumental que lle debemos a todo un exército de seis comisarios e até 76 expertos dirixidos por Miguel Fernández-Cid, non se sabe se o home da ocorrencia ou un mandado do Cluster do Granito. Mellor non sacarlle punta á memorable frase pronunciada por Núñez Feijóo durante a inauguración: “Somos un pobo cunha faciana pétrea”.

Unha mostra sobre os usos da pedra en Galicia a min paréceme tan pertinente coma outra sobre a madeira en Escandinavia, ou sobre o mármore en Roma, ou sobre o petróleo en calquera cidade. Non digo que non teña o seu interese; no colexio todos fixemos murais ben paveros sobre canta materia prima hai na Terra. O asunto é se de veras precisamos...

Podes ler o artigo enteiro en Praza Pública

domingo, 3 de junio de 2012

Planeta Bankia

     "Melancholia xa era grande, mais comparado cos seus compañeiros de desfeita o planeta Bankia é monstruoso, e veremos se deixa de medrar. Máis que colisionar contra nós, parece que rematará devorándonos, igual que algún día fará o Sol cando se infle até xigante vermella. Todo se o Rescate non o remedia. Ese Leviatán que tarde ou cedo sempre chega da correa de Alemaña preséntasenos como culminación dun camiño ao abismo e á vez inicio de algo aínda máis catastrófico. Pero falemos claro: queremos que aconteza. Queremos ese espectáculo como nos prestaría ver xente arruinada na bolsa botándose dende as azoteas igual ca no 29.

     Hai tempo que escoitamos as noticias entregados a... "

Podes ler o artigo completo aquí