¿Y si el arte no fuera una exaltación de la vida sino
su verdugo? ¿Acaso el torrente de imágenes que es la historia del arte ha
arrasado con todas las regiones de la experiencia hasta dejarnos, literalmente,
sin nada que decir? ¿Y si después de tantas premoniciones y desmentidos el arte
verdaderamente hubiera muerto?
Reconozco
que estas y otras desasosegantes preguntas me rondan la cabeza desde que cerré
por última vez el libro que me las ha planteado, un ensayo en forma de
narración titulado Autobiografía sin vida.
Su autor, Félix de Azúa (Barcelona, 1944), se remonta a los albores mismos del
arte para trazar un recorrido cronológico que resulta ser una historia de
aniquilaciones más que de conquistas. Deteniéndose en momentos muy concretos de
la historia del arte, Azúa establece una serie de hitos que precipitan el arte
hacia un final inevitable. Este texto fascinante, a ritmo de novela corta, da
fe de un profundo conocimiento de la materia tratada. Sólo así se explica que
el autor haya sido capaz de mirar la historia del arte a vista de pájaro y
establecer un hilo conductor que lleva al arte desde su nacimiento hasta la
decrepitud.
En el
primer capítulo, a modo de introducción, Azúa sienta las bases para la lectura
posterior. Reflexiona acerca de cómo una sociedad determinada da significado a
su existencia mediante los símbolos (las imágenes) que tiene a su disposición,
y cómo estos símbolos se ven alterados a lo largo del tiempo; no necesariamente
porque las sucesivas generaciones los rechacen, sino simplemente porque van
adquiriendo distintos significados. Este continuo ejercicio de sustitución de
imágenes sufre una vertiginosa aceleración a partir de la era contemporánea, en
la que valores como el progreso y la novedad son frecuentemente fines en sí
mismos. Hay un dato muy significativo al respecto: entre el primer y segundo
hito histórico que marca Azúa hay una distancia de veinticinco siglos, mientras
que entre el quinto y el noveno y último no hay más que 350 años.
Pero si
esta obra es verdaderamente original no es por la aleatoria elección de nueve
momentos de la historia del arte. Azúa elige esos momentos y no otros porque
son los que, a su juicio, marcan los pasos dados por el arte en su insaciable
vocación por adueñarse de todos los aspectos de la vida. El recorrido comienza
con los caballos de la cueva de Chauvet, momento en que estos animales abandonan
la tierra para entrar a formar parte del mundo de las imágenes. Platón avant la lettre: cada caballo individual
deja de ser un caballo para
convertirse en un mero derivado del prototipo pintado de las cavernas. Desde el
tercer milenio antes de Cristo hasta mediados del siglo XX, Azúa va demostrando
cómo el reino de las imágenes va sustituyendo progresivamente al mundo real. El
hombre, en su desesperado intento por retener la naturaleza fugaz de la vida,
trata de conservar bellos paisajes y escenas de la vida cotidiana mediante dibujos,
pinturas y esculturas. Esta noble intención, sin embargo, consigue justamente
lo contrario, pues algo que se fija o se inmortaliza ya no vive.
El viaje
acaba cuando Azúa habla de la obra que el artista James Lee Byars presentó a la
Documenta de Kassel de 1972: la obra era él mismo. La era de la imagen había
terminado. Quizá porque uno teme enfrentarse con aquello que le provoca
ansiedad, esta conclusión final de Azúa me deja insatisfecho. De algún modo,
esto es tan absurdo como desilusionarse con el final de una novela cuando su
autor ya te ha contado en la contraportada cómo va a terminar. El de Azúa es un
cuento que se ha escrito ya muchas veces, pero no por ello me llego a
acostumbrar al desenlace. En primer lugar, porque le lleva a uno a preguntarse
qué demonios hace escribiendo todas las semanas sobre lo que creía que era “arte”.
Quizá, me pregunto, no es el arte lo que ha desaparecido, sino la capacidad del
hombre para crear nuevos símbolos (¿de dónde los vamos a sacar si a todo en
este mundo se le ha dedicado un cuadro que cuelga en algún museo?). A lo mejor sólo
sea cuestión de cambiar el vocabulario al hablar de lo estético. O quizá el
único arte con futuro viable tiene su sede en la red y el mundo virtual (esta
es una posibilidad que me aterra).
Todo esto
no son más que suposiciones desesperadas para no llegar a la conclusión de que
la actividad a la que dedico buena parte de mi tiempo –visitar exposiciones de
arte– es completamente inútil. En momentos como este es cuando me pregunto con
preocupación: si el último arte merecedor de tal nombre murió a mediados del
siglo pasado, ¿por qué me emociono, por ejemplo, ante un cuadro reciente de
Gerhard Richter?
Autobiografía sin vida. Félix de
Azúa. Mondadori. Barcelona, 2010.
The dry river of images
What if art
is not a celebration of life, but rather its executioner? Has the torrent of
images we call Art History finished with every aspect of existence, thus
leaving us with literally nothing to say? What if, after so many premonitions
and denials, art really has ceased to exist?
I must admit I’ve been giving these and other unnerving questions a thought after finishing the book that has aroused them, titled Autobiografía sin vida (Autobiography Without Life). Its author, Félix de Azúa (Barcelona, 1944), makes a trip back to the very dawn of art in order to write a chronological history which turns out to be a story of annihilations rather than achievements. Paying attention to very specific moments of art history, Azúa establishes a series of landmarks that take art ever closer to its inevitable end. This fascinating text, with the pace of a short novel, shows a deep knowledge of the subject matter. Only this can explain how the author has been capable of taking a bird’s-eye view of history and drawing a line that goes from the birth of art to its decrepitude.
In the first chapter, which serves as an introduction, Azúa lays down the keys in order to fully understand the book. He discusses the fact that every society gives a meaning to its existence through symbols (images), and how these symbols change as time goes by; not necessarily because the subsequent generations deny them, quite simply because they give them new meanings. This continuous substitution of images suffered a great acceleration with the dawn of the modern age, where values such as progress and innovation have frequently become ends in themselves. In this respect, there’s a fact that is quite significant: between the first and second landmark Azúa establishes, there’s a distance of approximately 25 centuries, while between the fifth and the last of the nine there are barely 350 years.
But if this book is truly original it’s not because of a personal and random choice of key moments in the history of art. Azúa chooses these moments, and not others, because they are, in his view, the ones that mark the steps taken by art in its insatiable appetite for taking over every aspect of life. The journey begins with the horses painted on the walls of the Chauvet Cave, the moment where these animals abandon the Earth and enter a world of images. Plato avant la lettre: each individual horse has ceased to be a horse and is now simply a derivative of the prototype on the rocky walls. From the third millennium before Christ to the mid-twentieth century, Azúa demonstrates how images have gradually taken over the real world. The conclusion would be that man, in his desperate attempt to retain the life’s fleeting nature, has tried to conserve beautiful landscapes or scenes of everyday life through drawings, paintings and sculptures. This noble aspiration, however, achieves exactly the opposite: when something is fixed or immortalised, it ceases to live.
The journey ends with the description Azúa makes of the work that the artist James Lee Byars presented at the 1972 Kassel Documenta: the artwork was Byars himself. The era of image had finished. Azúa’s final conclusion leaves me unsatisfied. In some ways, this is as absurd as being disappointed with the end of a novel when the author has already told us on the back cover how it will end. Azúa’s story is one that has been told many times before, but I simply cannot get used to the ending. Firstly, because it makes one wonder what on earth he’s doing writing about what he thought was “art” every week. Maybe, I wonder, it’s not art that’s ended so much as man’s capacity to create new symbols (after all, where can we find them if absolutely everything in this world has a painting dedicated to it in some museum?). Or perhaps we just need a change of vocabulary. Or maybe the only art with a realistic future is the one made in the virtual world of the internet (this possibility terrifies me).
These are no more than desperate suppositions in search of a conclusion that will tell me that the activity I dedicate much of my time to, i.e. visiting art exhibitions, is not completely useless. It’s in moments like these that I ask myself with worry: if the last art worthy of such a name died at the middle of last century, why is it that I am deeply moved, for example, by a recent painting by Gerhard Richter?
I must admit I’ve been giving these and other unnerving questions a thought after finishing the book that has aroused them, titled Autobiografía sin vida (Autobiography Without Life). Its author, Félix de Azúa (Barcelona, 1944), makes a trip back to the very dawn of art in order to write a chronological history which turns out to be a story of annihilations rather than achievements. Paying attention to very specific moments of art history, Azúa establishes a series of landmarks that take art ever closer to its inevitable end. This fascinating text, with the pace of a short novel, shows a deep knowledge of the subject matter. Only this can explain how the author has been capable of taking a bird’s-eye view of history and drawing a line that goes from the birth of art to its decrepitude.
In the first chapter, which serves as an introduction, Azúa lays down the keys in order to fully understand the book. He discusses the fact that every society gives a meaning to its existence through symbols (images), and how these symbols change as time goes by; not necessarily because the subsequent generations deny them, quite simply because they give them new meanings. This continuous substitution of images suffered a great acceleration with the dawn of the modern age, where values such as progress and innovation have frequently become ends in themselves. In this respect, there’s a fact that is quite significant: between the first and second landmark Azúa establishes, there’s a distance of approximately 25 centuries, while between the fifth and the last of the nine there are barely 350 years.
But if this book is truly original it’s not because of a personal and random choice of key moments in the history of art. Azúa chooses these moments, and not others, because they are, in his view, the ones that mark the steps taken by art in its insatiable appetite for taking over every aspect of life. The journey begins with the horses painted on the walls of the Chauvet Cave, the moment where these animals abandon the Earth and enter a world of images. Plato avant la lettre: each individual horse has ceased to be a horse and is now simply a derivative of the prototype on the rocky walls. From the third millennium before Christ to the mid-twentieth century, Azúa demonstrates how images have gradually taken over the real world. The conclusion would be that man, in his desperate attempt to retain the life’s fleeting nature, has tried to conserve beautiful landscapes or scenes of everyday life through drawings, paintings and sculptures. This noble aspiration, however, achieves exactly the opposite: when something is fixed or immortalised, it ceases to live.
The journey ends with the description Azúa makes of the work that the artist James Lee Byars presented at the 1972 Kassel Documenta: the artwork was Byars himself. The era of image had finished. Azúa’s final conclusion leaves me unsatisfied. In some ways, this is as absurd as being disappointed with the end of a novel when the author has already told us on the back cover how it will end. Azúa’s story is one that has been told many times before, but I simply cannot get used to the ending. Firstly, because it makes one wonder what on earth he’s doing writing about what he thought was “art” every week. Maybe, I wonder, it’s not art that’s ended so much as man’s capacity to create new symbols (after all, where can we find them if absolutely everything in this world has a painting dedicated to it in some museum?). Or perhaps we just need a change of vocabulary. Or maybe the only art with a realistic future is the one made in the virtual world of the internet (this possibility terrifies me).
These are no more than desperate suppositions in search of a conclusion that will tell me that the activity I dedicate much of my time to, i.e. visiting art exhibitions, is not completely useless. It’s in moments like these that I ask myself with worry: if the last art worthy of such a name died at the middle of last century, why is it that I am deeply moved, for example, by a recent painting by Gerhard Richter?
Autobiografía sin vida. Félix de
Azúa. Mondadori. Barcelona, 2010.
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