Ep. 2 Forcing the Door of the Present @muac_unam
Rubén Gutierrez

When men die, they enter into history. When statues die, they enter into art.
This botany of death is what we call culture.[1]

For millennia, humanity has gathered together around the fire to tell stories, illustrating them with whatever is on hand: pieces of charcoal on cavern walls, shadows cast by fire and imagination. The vices of those nights of magical thinking and language still survive in our contemporary society. We have been unable to leave behind those survival mechanisms provided by narrative, music, fiction and imagination, which help us to navigate the uncertainty, fear and loneliness of the reality in which we live: “If we stop believing in divinity, the life of objects or the souls of animals, we would be helpless before inert matter. Rather than accepting our cosmic solitude, the magical thinking of ultramodern man prefers to assume that objects are alive.”[2]

We turn to fiction because scientific thinking is often insufficient for untangling the most ancient mysteries of everyday life, but also to avoid our reflection in the mirror. Fiction is a place we can feel alive and express emotions without running risks.

It’s not a surprise that depressive episodes are common these days, caused by reflections and considerations on life, loneliness and the fear of an empty future. These reflections produce a deep unease that often leads to isolation and impedes communication.

Animistic fiction allows me to reflect with humor on my problems in expressing myself and efficiently relating to other human beings. I’m interested in sublimating a series of personal processes, using each episode to address my own fears, traumas and symptoms. This animistic intention has been seen before in pieces such as The Dangers of Petrification I (1996-2007), in which Jimmie Durham shows us a series of stones that resemble food and other everyday things: bacon, salami, a hot dog, a cloud. Animism sparks a certain type of human madness: the phenomenon through which objects can have an anima that evokes people or other things. In this sense, my piece, rather than being a mere visual record of a situation, becomes a bridge or a vehicle that allows me to be present in reality; it is also a gateway to deeper levels of understanding: “Don’t keep waiting. Don’t keep hope alive. Don’t let yourself get distracted, confused. Crash the party. Keep lies against the ropes. Believe in what we feel. Act consequently. Force the door of the present. Try. Fail. Try again. Fail better. Insist. Attack. Build.”[3]

These two mechanical spheres that converse as they roll through empty exhibition spaces give rise to anecdote and narrative as they react to the space in each episode. Their paths will evolve as the series progresses. There are questions that remain unanswered: Is this podcast a true space for dialogue and trust, or do the spheres have a secret agenda? Have the spheres given themselves over to passive contemplation of the world as it is or will they decide to intervene in their immediate reality? Are they alone or do they form part of a community? Narratively speaking, can we expect anything else? Are we before a piece that functions as an experience of continuity with other beings and the world, as a reflection that brings us back to others?


[1] Les statues meurent aussi, a documentary directed by Alain Resnais with a script by Chris Marker, 1953.
[2] Ignacio Padilla, La vida íntima de los encendedores. Animismo en la sociedad ultramoderna, Madrid, Páginas de Espuma, 2009, p. 5.
[3] Amador Fernández-Savater, “Habitar el presente: una lectura de ‘Ahora’, del Comité Invisible,” elDiario.es, January 5, 2018. Available at: https://www.eldiario.es/interferencias/habitar-plenamente-comite-invisible_132_2967247.html.