Enrique Vila-Matas - The Illogic of Kassel

Boston confirmed that Gander had titled that ethereal breeze — which seemed to lightly push visitors along, giving them a gentle unexpected strength — an extra impetus: The Invisible Pull . I found that current of air very interesting and at first connected it to Duchamp, with his perfume Air de Paris , then to the geometry textbook he gave his sister when she got married, that she had to hang outside the kitchen window, letting the wind flick through to choose the geometry problems to solve: that volume Duchamp titled Unhappy Readymade , guessing its fate, as in the end the wind left not a single trace of the gift.

However Duchampian The Invisible Pull might be, that did not stop them from placing that breeze at the heart of Documenta 13, placing it at its spiritual center. It was a brilliant notion on its own account and even generated a certain happiness. Actually, it also allowed me to experience at moments a hint of an “aesthetic instant,” something I recalled was one of the things I’d come to Kassel to find: a sort of instant of harmony. I didn’t quite know what that might consist of, but I was keen to sample it. Still, what the hell, I thought: that invisible breeze filled me with a strange but interesting sense of well-being. It seemed to me that this on its own already justified my whole journey to Kassel. I was fascinated by it. I didn’t need to know why it exercised such a hold over me, it was enough to know that it put me in a good mood, which was the same thing that happened with the intrinsic pleasure of mornings — I compared this to the art of forgetting, that art of forgetfulness as light as the first morning air and always liberating — while the evenings and above all the nights only drove me into a malaise inasmuch as they turned out grim and bitter, like the very art of remembering. That art of remembering brought only the tenacious memory of the past and, in tandem with resentment and melancholy, was terrible.

The bad thing about this divide between mornings and evenings — between these states of mind that in themselves signaled whether it was daytime or night — was that it was so systematic in nature: in over five years, there had not been a single day during which I managed to escape from this monotonous rule of well-being in the mornings and anguish as night fell.

I turned and went back to where the plaque was, reread it, smiled happily, and then returned to my previous position beside Boston, standing looking at her golden sandals, the same ones I’d found so charming in Barcelona. Now they seduced me less and her voice, too, seemed to have lost something of its devastating force on the day of our first meeting; but all this was to be expected and, in any case, she still seemed to me an extremely agreeable presence (though I never lost sight of our age difference and, above all, the “fond glance toward the old man,” which, as if it were a question of target practice, seemed to be her favorite pastime).

For this and other reasons, I decided to concentrate on the invisible breeze. And then, aware of what it meant to go down a certain path, I wondered about that sentence by some author about the space a work of genius leaves behind, when it burns this space away, which is always a good place to light one’s own small flame. I didn’t remember who the author was, nor do I recall it now. The fact is, for that current of air, there was a before and an after, and that current seemed to me, over and above everything else, to be the creator of its own light.

Perhaps it wasn’t the best work of art in that Documenta — how could I tell, after all, when I’d only seen two pieces up to that point and one of them was a darkened room? — but a light issued from there, settling firmly within me, and it did not leave me again for the duration of my stay in Kassel.

From the work of genius, I thought, something always springs that inspires us, pushes us forward, leading us not only to imitate what has dazzled us, but to go much further, to discover our own world. . There was nothing that could be done now to change my opinion about the genius of that breeze. Boston at no point tried to quell an enthusiasm she perhaps secretly shared with me. Although she did, it’s true, see fit to warn me that “genius” was an overly used term, as it had ended up meaning too many things. Nevertheless, she said, the word “genius” was indeed useful for understanding people.

Still, with Boston at my side, I weighed up the possibility that I’d maybe made a mistake, acted rashly, perhaps I’d been wrong to lay on my enthusiasm for the breeze so thick; but none of that mattered now. If my attraction to the invisible push was somewhat unfounded, all that was happening to me was what happens to us so often in love, the great realm of the unfounded and the uncalled-for. Did I no longer remember, for instance, the enamoring of Stendhal, who traveled around Italy and fell for that country with such force, such gratuitousness that his love at first sight took the face of an actress who sang Cimarosa’s Secret Marriage in Ivrea? That actress had a broken front tooth, but the truth was that this hardly mattered, with that invisible push contained in every amour fou . Or did I no longer remember that Werther, when he fell in love with Carlota, only glimpsed her through a doorway while she was cutting slices of bread for her siblings, and that first sight, although trivial, drove him a very long way, carrying him off to the greatest of passions and to suicide?

That extra, invisible impetus might already be an object of mockery for thousands of idiots all over the world, but that didn’t matter in the slightest now, what difference did it make? I had fallen in love with that breeze, that pull, and, what’s more, I suspected that in its force, its pull, was hidden something that escaped me, perhaps a coded message.

“Where did you buy those sandals?” I asked Boston.

“Why? Do you like them?”

“They go well with the breeze. Yes, I like them. But”—I put on an affected voice, making out I was joking—“there are moments when I think they might drive me to the greatest of passions.”

“To love?” she asked, conspicuously wary.

“Or to suicide. Can you imagine? Killing yourself over a pair of golden sandals?”

Feeling helped along by the invisible pull, I arrived at the rotunda of the Fridericianum, where I saw a work that was christened The Brain by Carolyn Christov-Bakargiev. Installed by Carolyn herself, what was exhibited there — separated from the rest of the museum behind glass — attempted in some way to summarize the lines of thought developed in Documenta 13. It was a microcosm representing the puzzle posed by the whole huge exhibition. It seemed to me perhaps an excessively arbitrary brain , given that it brought together Giorgio Morandi’s bottles painted in Fascist Bologna with sculptures by Giuseppe Penone, linking them with objects damaged during the Lebanese civil war, or books carved out of stone from the Afghan valley (where the Taliban wrought destruction on age-old Buddhas), and the last bottle of perfume that had belonged to Eva Braun.

That brain , I felt, lacked a certain internal coherence. It gave the impression that other, very different artistic elements could have been brought together and the result would have been similar. Everything exhibited in The Brain seemed more piled up than selected. I remarked on this to Boston, and she said I could be wrong, above all if I wasn’t considering the fact that Carolyn Christov-Bakargiev believed that confusion in art was a truly marvelous thing.

Confusion? I remembered having read that many visitors to Documenta 13 took a firm stand on the confusion they felt viewing the eclecticism of the large display, although many mentioned it not as a criticism, but to emphasize the brilliant plurality of its focal points, the sweeping scope that the assemblage managed to achieve, and the fact that it was an interesting metaphor for our historical moment.