Jake, shaking it off.
By Olafur Eliasson, this breathtaking installation at the Louisiana Museum of Modern Art of a river running through the museum is astounding. It is such a realistic, natural landscape the museum could have been dropped on top of the river itself for how pristine it looks. This site-specific installation is a focus on experience, and how the viewer senses their surroundings.
Definitely wish my weekend plans were more tropical but I’m limited to daydreaming for now. Here’s another piece I worked on for St. Ives.
lygia clark sensorial
Raimond Chaves, ‘Marihuano Drawings’, drawings done trying to remember how one drew under the effects of marihuana.
(scroll for spanish version)
A text not yet written about these drawings should tell a series of seemingly unrelated issues. It would be necessary to describe in it, things that happened long time ago and to refer to some incidents of a personal nature. It might be necessary to venture some kind of relationship between these drawings, done like in the air, and the floating perception that today we have of time and space and the sensation that history became fleeting and elusive. It would not hurt either to establish some links with the experiences that some writers like Benjamin, and artists such as and Michaux developed once with hashish and mescaline. And then we would have to tell it all in a way to disable the frivolity and the prejudices that the name might carry with it.
A text not yet written about these drawings would tell that in 1997 with Carolina Caycedo after strolling under the rain and smoking lots of marijuana we drew on large sheets of paper for no other reason than to enjoy and celebrate that we were alive and happy. We drew on the floor, on the bed or over the tables. The pictures came out from anything, and they did by one, two, three and four hands. We cut and glued no matter what. And around us, alone or together, the marihuano drawings grew and accumulated.
“A poster of a singer retouched up insolently, identikits on top of the paper whose tears descended to the bottom of the sheet. Explosions, leaks, swirls, squiggles, airtight strokes so intimate. Everything so intense, everything so arbitrary.”
A text not yet written about these drawings would point out how in 1997 there were a number of issues that thirteen years later would allow them to be read as a significant coincidence.
In 1997, for me, time ceased to exist when I encountered the “undo” function, that possibility of computer writing that made it possible for time to maintain intact its carcass made of measures, terms and ready-made phrases, but that made the relationship between their more conventional orders, that is, between past, present and future, fade away.
In 1997 all this happened in a place where greed for land caused, and still causes, a constant toll of death and silence; in a place where one worked, and still works, without pause in the chemical process capable of compressing the perception of time, and where, to round off, the radio in the buses was determined in turning the future, and hence history, in the chained reiteration of the same old songs.
A text not yet written about these drawings would tell that in 1997 when the “undo” function just started to adjust everything so quietly, I managed to live a great epiphany of softened perception thanks to marijuana.
“And if the grass softens the time, cinema parks it and reading permits the coexistence of parallel times, what the “undo” function achieves is to overturn it, confusing and stunning their orders with only the touch of a finger.”
A text not yet written about these drawings would wonder if today, thirteen years later, one can do some marihuano drawings again. But this time without the help of said substance, while maintaining that sense of freedom and the possibility to break constantly one’s own path. That way of drawing with and against yourself at the same time. With the desire of not being faithful to anything or anyone. Pretending not to say anything and wanting to tell everything.
A text not yet written about these drawings would wonder if the only drawings of which one is able - like the erection of the hanged man or the flailings of a drowned man - are no other thing than prisoner drawings. Drawings condemned not to be other thing but the repetition of the same ways as always, the same tricks, the mere confirmation of what is known. The impossibility of escape.
A text not yet written about these drawings would tell how they have been made between these two poles, coming and going from one extreme to another.
Between Lima and Bogota in November 2010.