Skip to main content

Richard Serra: La Materia del Tiempo

Una de las funciones fundamentales del arte es la de hacer sensibles nuestras ideas. La inmaterialidad lingüística toma forma en la materia, ya sea en la etérica consistencia de una onda sonora o en la persistente realidad de una piedra. La escultura contemporánea ha transformado la tradición de experimentación de la forma en una experimentación directa del espacio. A su vez, la experiencia del espacio como luz ha dado paso a su vivencia como intuición básica para la conciencia de nuestra propia vida. Bien es cierto que los museos no son precisamente escenarios adecuados para la experiencia mística o estética, ya que las consideraciones sociales que implican cierran cualquier apertura de nuestra sensibilidad, y limitan la experiencia estética a una experiencia social generalizada en la que intervienen otros factores, pero Richard Serra ha conseguido minimizar tal ruido en el Guggenheim de Bilbao al presentar una obra que se en su colosal inmediatez y geométrica simplicidad envuelve al espectador en una interioridad no muy distinta a la que producen los jardines japoneses. Igual que en estos, el caminante se pierde en senderos curvilíneos que entretejen una geometría de luz que curva el espacio y a nuestra conciencia tras él, que entra en un tiempo de experiencia estética. Un espacio particularmente interesante es el que ha construido mediante torsiones elípticas que generan torsiones espirales, un esquema de los mismos movimientos gravitacionales que llevan a las galaxias elípticas a transformarse galaxias espirales bajo la mano alfarera de la fuerza de la gravedad. Estos principios generales de nuestra comprensión de la física-geometría son hechos sensibles, experimentables en nuestro desplazamiento corporal por un espacio museístico inerte. La obra de Serra  lleva la escultura hacia la música al devolver a la experiencia del espacio su forma más básica de proyección de la temporalidad.

Comments

Popular posts from this blog

Limen et Continuum

  Existence is Encounter. Meeting at the limen. In the limen, the masks disappear, that is, the basic intuitions of identities, such as the identity that I feel and think in relation to the tree that I see in front of me. The identity of the tree is a projection of mine: the unity of my process of perceiving the tree generates a mask in me, the ghost of a limited unity separated from everything else. The simplest form of intuitive understanding of masks and limen is given to us by numbers. Numbers intuitively express the liminal tension that is Existence. A little etymological note. Rythmos in Greek means flow. Arythmos (number) is what does not flow, what remains solidified. Numbers express the liminoid, and flow, rhythm, expresses the liminal. A rhythm becomes liminoid when we can trace patterns in it, that is, when we can construct masks of identities. Mathematics has spoken of flow using the Latin word “continuum”, the continuous. All modern science, since Leibni...

Metalanguages are formal metaphors

  In a logic class, the professor tells his students: "Yesterday, while talking with my Sufi gardener about happiness, we ended up talking about metalanguages, because he said that orchids are 'chambers where light plays between amorous encounters.' I told him: 'You have to be a poet to talk about poetry.' He replied: 'You just have to be human.'" In what way can we say that my gardener is proposing that every metalanguage is a formalized metaphor for its object language and what would be the metaphor for arithmetical addition? Furthermore” -he asks-how does this little narrative show that Kurt Gödel was a Platonist? One student answers: “The gardener uses orchids as a metaphor for biological reproduction, and from this he makes a second-order metaphor at the human level, calling reproduction a loving encounter. The gardener is a Sufi; in Sufi ontology, the word 'encounter' is used as equivalent to 'existence,' a double meaning (Wujud)....

Rhapsodies of Anima Mundi: Fear of Death

In the nascent dawn of consciousness, when the human spirit still danced in rhythmic harmony with the grand, elemental pulse of nature, the enigma of cessation—that profound silence we name death—arose as the most formidable of shadows. Yet, it was not then perceived as an absolute, terminal end in the stark, isolated sense we often conceive today. For those early societies, intimately imbricated in the vast and primordial canvas of the Anima Mundi, death was seamlessly woven into the very ur-tapestry of existence as a continuity, a fluid dissolution into the great soul of the world, or a joyous return to a collective paradise, utterly devoid of the strict, solitary individuation that modernity has, unwittingly, imposed upon us. This is not merely the clinical apprehension of biological cessation, but rather a primordial panic before the void, a visceral anguish in the face of the "I's" dissolution and the potential loss of all that imbues life with meaning. Confronted...