O F I A C R U Z
Text for "Dicho de una cosa",
Solo show, Galería ENPEG La Esmeralda, Mexico City 2012
Julliette, the vicious young woman, cannot but redouble her savagery through vice to compensate Justine’s purity fervor. Before Sade, she´s a Justine possessed in her secret, but in fact impossible; a crime is not enough, nor ten nor a hundred to reveal the secret, she has to be pushed towards crimes each time more enormous, to the measure of her sister Justine’s infinite purity. By narrating his adventures, that never have to end, Sade wants to forget the sorrow the loss of the impossible Justine causes.
Pierre Klossowski, Sade my fellow man
If we were to listen to the divine marquis, we could easily say that truth does not matter and assert that the lower matters that precede (and follow) it speak a more refined language: the ashes, the greenish lungs and the rotten smell of the cigarette smoked before confessing the crime. The ideological coherence or the moral correspondence demanded from contemporary art (the escape towards ethnographic representation or the intervention in a specific space, among others…) are what least matters when the pulled of hairs remain, the bruises, the record of frowned foreheads in a distant and painful orgasm.
Secret and crime hang around the openings and protuberances of “Said of a Thing” (Dicho de una cosa), secrets that at first sight may be related with the idea of a broken and cracked intimacy, constituting the neurotic structure of subjectivity of our times. But maybe here’s a particular note: it is naïve to idyllically long for a lost innocence or to take refuge, like old sheep before slaughter, in an empty and ignorant hopelessness; both outlets are vain if something fundamental is never considered: these are fictions that need to be perverted into the infinite.
Sofia Cruz’s rambling project, bursts the idea of an immediate and naïve relation between the artist and her work, it generates an hiatus where poetic fiction barges in like a wicked motive and in which, paradoxically, the crime can only be revealed if we deny to listen to it. Contradictions move forward, crawling: an ominous familiarity and an obscene intimacy travel our bodies like castrated eyes (cf. Bataille).
“Said of a Thing”(Dicho de una cosa) anticipates an already forgotten memory in the contemporary art´s corporatism, its themes and systems: art production is linked to crime, to transgression, to sodomy, to any notion of natural manner, legal or vulgar consensus. And if there is consensus in crime, it must be destroyed by infinite transgressions. Maybe, just as the marquis’ “La Philosophie dans le boudoir” indicates, this is an exhibition mothers should proscribe their daughters to (or vice versa).
Julio García Murillo
Mexico City, 2012