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spune cæ e bine plasat ca s-o øtie, el care a lansat movida de Mexico: o
jerbæ de særbætoriri în jurul galeriilor, cu tineret øi pseudotineret la unison,
arie rezervatæ în mijlocul fantasmagoricei megalopole, înspre zona rezidenflialæ
din Las Llomas. Guggenheim New York inaugureazæ retrospectiva
unui artist contemporan cu dansatoare despuiate pe fundal de raga
la intrare, la baza pîlniei, øi muzicæ tehno reværsatæ în întreg spafliul în formæ
de melc (mæ gîndeam la Wright venind de la Talyasin pentru a-i vizita pe
comanditarii muzeului în anii ’50, debarcînd în oraø din caleaøcæ, dupæ ce
refuzase un taxi, øi întrebînd „What’s that?“ dinaintea colecfliei lor de Klee,
Mondrian, Malevici, Kandinski etc.).
„We are all beautiful“ exclamæ doamna de culoarea Caraibelor, iarna ca
øi vara (nu e de culoare), acoperitæ de coliere, pierrot lunaire „færæ vîrstæ“
(speræ ea): permanent în stare de ebrietate, sprijinindu-se de însoflitorul
ei în floale scumpe – „A purest poet and a close friend…“. Artistul amfitrion
aøteaptæ sus, la ultima volutæ a muzeului, întreaga albeaflæ a spafliului
fiind stræpunsæ de stræfulgeræri de lumini colorate – un omagiu la adresa
Stones-ilor øi-a lui Velvet, în preajma unei „capele“ deschise spiritualitæflii
færæ granifle, „a noastræ“, reaminteøte el, conceputæ, presupun, pentru a
desævîrøi in gloria, înælflætor, evenimentul. El va decora mai apoi o altæ capelæ,
la Napoli, în vreme ce gunoaiele se îngræmædesc deja în oraø – o tradiflie
localæ de care vorbeau deja Goethe øi Malaparte.
La Beijing, în cartierul artelor la scaræ chinezæ – un întreg arondisment parizian
–, unde se îngræmædesc mao-pop øi pop de recoltæ memorabilæ [pop
millésime], neo-pop made in China øi artiøti contemporani de renume,
creativitatea chinezæ e promovatæ precum alte mærfuri de lux. Preflurile
sînt aceleaøi ca la Basel sau la New York. La fel ca-n cazul ceasurilor, gadgeturilor
din materii preflioase, veømintelor semnate, afacerile merg strunæ.
Brizbizuri scumpe. Ubicuitate a luxului. Hilaritate generalæ, care te face
sæ regrefli frenezia pætatæ cu spleen, jumate real, jumate jucat, a lost generation
– acum aproape un secol deja. Spirit care se bælæceøte într-un „Spleen
færæ ideal“.
Cum zicea, perplexæ, o prietenæ, mare colecflionar de-o jumætate de veac,
la ieøirea de la un vernisaj: „Acum existæ mai mulfli artiøti decît instalatori“.
Versiune de masæ, realizatæ, a fægæduinflelor lui Beuys la Kassel în epoca
Rote Fraktion, care le reluau pe-un ton lipsit de ironie pe-ale suprarealismului
de dupæ ræzboi: „oricine poate fi artist“, corijate în „oricine e artist“.
Cum zice dictonul italian: „Troppa grazia, Sant’ Antonio!“.
În arta contemporanæ nici vorbæ de s-booms (neologism italian pentru:
descreøtere, crizæ: pæresimi). Corabia înainteazæ, cu cîrma bine flinutæ, prin
furtunile financiare, bræzdînd apele agitate. Culmi mereu depæøite într-o
supralicitare færæ limite. Nu conteazæ ce teritoriu, regiune, judefl, naflie, land,
ghost-town îøi înalflæ propriile prelate sub care se înghesuie „publicul“, negustorii,
aspiranflii, veline-le (animatoare TV italiene în aøteptarea succesului).
Artistul care vrea acolo are aerul unui vucumprà (imigranfli semiclandestini
care rætæcesc vara pe plajele italiene). Face turul galeriilor øi, ca orice
încurcæ-treabæ, e expediat dintr-o clipire. Artiøtii øi peøtii care au vad, ei
parcurg un interminabil Tur planetar. Ale cærui etape sînt Art fairs. Te întrebi
cum rezistæ ei, numai cæ o fac mai degrabæ prost. Banii îi grizeazæ øi
apoi îi degrizeazæ, iar afacerile continuæ sæ se-nvîrtæ.
Asta a început pe vremea Factory, uzina de confecflionat succes a lui Andy.
Bob Zelig din New Jersey, alias Dylan, devine pentru scurtæ vreme preacher
cu ghitara, în acelaøi timp în care cocaina bate stînjeneala postresidential
area in Las Llomas. Guggenheim, New York hosts the opening of a
contemporary artist, with naked dancers on the sound of ragas at the entrance,
at the base of the dome, and techno-music invading the whole snail-shaped
space (I was thinking of Wright coming from Talyasin to visit the pay-masters
of the future museum in the ’50s, reaching in the city in a carriage after refusing
a cab and asking “What’s that?” before their collection of Klee, Mondrian,
Malevich, Kandinsky etc.).
“We are all beautiful” says the lady of a Caribbean color, both in the winter and
in the summer (she is not “coloured”), covered by necklaces. An “ageless”
(she hopes) pierrot lunaire, constantly inebriated, bearing against her companion
wearing expensive clothes – “A purest poet and a close friend...” The host
artist waits upstairs, at the last turn of the museum and the entire whitish space
is penetrated by flashes of colored light – a homage paid to the Stones and the
Velvet, next to a chapel open to the “borderless” spirituality, which is “ours”,
as he reminds, created, I suppose, in order to complete the event in gloria, in
an inspiring manner. Next, he will decorate another chapel in Naples, while the
garbage is already pilling up the city – a local tradition of which Goethe and
Malaparte have already talked about.
In Beijing, in the art neighborhood of a Chinese scale – an entire Parisian district
– where one can find crowded mao-pop and good pop [pop millésime], neo-pop
made in China and renowned European artists, Chinese creativity is being promoted
like any other luxury products. The prices match those in Basel or New
York. The same as with watches, the precious metals gadgets and the designers’
clothes, the business is going strong. Expensive ornaments. A ubiquitous luxury.
A general hilarity, which makes one regret the frenzy tainted with the half real,
half staged spleen of the lost generation – already almost a century ago.
A self-indulgent spirit of “Spleen without ideal”.
In the perplexed words of a friend, a serious and famed collector for half a century,
after an opening: “Now there are more artists than plumbers.” An accomplished
mass version of Beuys’ promises made in Kassel during the Rote Fraktion’
years, which reproduced, in a version lacking irony, those of the postwar surrealists:
“everybody can be an artist” redressed as “everybody is an artist”. Just like
the Italian saying: “Troppa grazia, Sant’ Antonio!”.
No sign of s-booms (this is an Italian neologism for decrease, crisis: “fast”) in
contemporary art. The ship goes on, well driven, amidst the financial storms,
cutting through the stirred waters. Heights ever surpassed, in a limitless overbid.
It doesn’t matter what territory, region, county, nation, land, ghost-town raises
its own tents under which “the crowd” crams, the sellers, the aspirants, the
veline girls (Italian entertainers looking for success). The artist who wants to be
there looks like a vucumprà (quasi-clandestine immigrants wandering on the
Italian beaches during the summer). He tours the galleries and, just like any
goof, is sent away on the spot. The artist and the pimps who can sell: they travel
in an endless planetary tour. Its stops are the art-fairs. One could wonder how
they manage and the truth is they do pretty badly. Money inebriates them and
then de-inebriates them while the business keeps rolling.
This has started in Andy’s Factory. Bob Zelig from New Jersey, alias Dylan,
becomes a guitar preacher, while cocaine discards the post-Vietnam embarrassment.
“Paradise Now” and Apocalypse Now tucked under the same blanket.
A hecatomb of junkies. The savior is awaited. What does come is the long reagonomics
– which lasts even today. Art, glamorous like the “Morocco” night-club
in New York. Evening parties. They keep returning to the “lost generation”, the
interwar period – modern prehistory. “Damned and beautiful”, in the city just
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