Conscientes de que las Noches Salvajes son experiencias inéditas que pueden estar abiertas hasta el último momento, hemos solicitado a cada uno de los participantes que nos apunten de manera personal, directa o indirectamente, hacía la acción que van a realizar. Algo así como abrir el apetito a través de una relación cómoda con su momento actual.
Apetito 1: Abraham Hurtado (Murcia / Berlín)
Creador murciano actualmente residente en Berlín. Ha colaborado con numerosos artistas y compañías a nivel nacional e internacional. En su propio trabajo explora las nociones de presencia y espacio, la multiplicidad de contextos y disposiciones posibles del público y como afectan a la percepción-recepción de las propuestas.
Para estas Noches Salvajes, Abraham Hurtado contará con la colaboración de Vitor Roriz y Andrés Agudelo. En la web de la porta acompañamos estos apetitos con una serie de enlaces que contienen información de su trayectoria.
Inconsciencia Colectiva
All living things
By Peter Albee
I will speak in a gross, unspecific manner and I will not mention any names. It is not my place to open a polemic about a world where the political has long ago been replaced by politics, the artists by socialites, art by intrigue and I will not talk about the opportunistic, double-faced cynical sons of sons, of dogs and whores. We are brothers. Our misfortune is cynical, our blood. But no. There are laundry mats for this and we are all children with muddy drawers. I will only speak about the work. The works. What I see, what I hear of. Performance.
And I can only speak in a gross, unspecific manner because the works that I see, for a few years now, and in which I cannot but macerate, stained pitch black by the oily water of the institutions like any other performance artist of which some of you – or rather, I reckon – most of you, are –
I can only speak in this manner because the works themselves have become gross and unspecific, indelicate and thick, swollen, hissing, flatulent. It’s colourful, it sings, and it doesn’t think.
When the spectacle is not spectacular, it is because the artist has decided to close the doors and, bathing in the smell of his own sweat, to unbutton in front of us. We are given the choice between a distasteful intimacy and the flashy colors of a flamboyant vacuum. Product of our time, presumably : it feels like going to vote – there‘s a left, there’s a right, and that’s all there is to space.
The institutions that pay us will tell you that man is free – that freedom is a human right – and the artists, endlessly, will ask the question : what is freedom? – and jump around to illustrate. But the premises are false, the game is rigged, they’re asking the wrong question. Confronting the institutions with their definition of a man would be a good start. We can ask about freedom later, or any of the rights for that matter, when we’re sure that the subject of these rights is not a two-dimensional ectoplasm wearing lipstick. Asking the right questions might mean the disappearance of the institutions as we know them. But so what?
I could almost say : blessed was the unfortunate time when an artist was criticised for his obscurity, for the incomprehensible density of his work, for choosing the hermetic, the inaccessible. Because at least he was saying one thing : I cannot breath in this air you gave me. I cannot. It is not for an elite, it is for nobody that he raised his middle finger in the midst of a crowd of priests and housewives. Today that finger is still raised, we see it everywhere, but there’s a little smiling face drawn on its nail. «Just kidding» has become every performer’s motto. “It’s only symbolic, now let’s go have dinner” is another one. The problem is that the symbolic has been invaded by an army of cultural, radio-controlled automatons. And that the black boxes where we jump restlessly, easing Europe’s consciousness, are painted with the same oil that tanks feed on.
