« Becoming a work of art in your sleep (extracts) »

lundi, 22 octobre 2007

Becoming a work of art in your sleep (extracts)

For a long time, I held it difficult to become a work of art.

I first thought it was impossible – I believed a work of art ought to have idiosyncratic, rather mysterious qualities.

It had a enviable lot – it was admired, people paying to get (to see) it, making it immortal, sometimes queueing up for it.

Now God and the gods have gotten unnoticed, now the proletariat has gotten meaningless, now women are no longer men’s future, now words are running their own Marathon, the only way out for me was to become a work of art. Many people are actually sharing such a desire today. (…)

Why wouldn’t I ?

If my frame were a fairy, what magic wand would work for me ?

I needed Mexico, the city of Oaxaca and its museum of contemporary art to indisputably equal the achievement of the Toulouse sausage. My metamorphosis into a work of art – more concrete than a pumpkin turning into a coach – is now carried out. I obviously feel much better.

If I unfortunately get sick, I will get restored.

Oaxaca’s museum of contemporary art – though of a small size- is like many other museums of contemporary art. You walk through different rooms, glancing at things that could equally be found on a street – or anywhere else, especially in garbage dumps. (…)

(In one room), in front of (a) screen, some cushions, rugs and mats were scattered on the floor, conjuring up a sort of large bed, as an invitation to lie down and watch the work of art being projected. I unhesitatingly stretched out, and immediately felt well in the sticky Mexican afternoon – exquisitely lulled by Oaxaca’s walls pictures flashing by and the rhythmical numbers uno, dos, tres… . (…)

I was awoken by a flash.

My sleep had only been a few minutes long – the flash had ruined it, yet I experienced a Sleeping Beauty-like moment.

My prince was a man – he was with his wife and children and had just taken a picture of us. In wakening us, he suddenly made us realize we were works of art. I felt a huge impulse of almost lover-like affection for him. In spite of his ordinary visitor outfit, he appeared to me like a God.

He had flashed us.

Unlike madly angry Cupid – troubled in his sleep by Psyche’s lantern – we found the situation hilarious. Instead of viewing us as mere – though appetizing – pieces of meat, the man had turned us into works of art. (…)

Strangers’ inventions call for new forms.

Translation by Candice Lemaire

Yves Le Pestipon | 9:49 dans Méthodes

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