Flowing Thoughts on My Things Under Observation
Chelo Matesanz
CFive senses; an incurably abstract intellect; a haphazardly selective memory; a set of preconceptions
and assumptions so numerous that I can never examine more than a minority of them—never become
even conscious of them all. How much of total reality can such an apparatus let through?
C. S. Lewis, A Grief Observed,
HarperCollins Publishers, New York, 1989
When I’m not sure how to portray a character’s facial expression, I draw him from behind.
Jimmy Liao, Beautiful Loneliness
Shortly before this exhibition project materialised I was reading A Grief Observed, written by British
author C. S. Lewis after the death of his wife. The book was not a reflection on pain but on death
and the grief caused by his loss (loneliness, sadness, emptiness, love, impotence), an experience
through which he examines his everyday life, his emotions and his faith. I think it’s a wonderful
book, not only because of the simplicity of the idea and the sincerity of its expression, but also
because of its complex introspection—the fact that he places emotion under a microscope and
analyses it objectively, looking outside of himself from his own experience. In this sense, I was also
interested in observing my own emotional experience with art.
The four spaces forming the exhibition—Laughing Face Down, The Heart in the Throat, ...and Then
Looking at the Handkerchief, Half-Closed Gaze—express in gestures the emotions that overcome
us when we read or write the works on display: laughter, fear, disgust or contemplative distance.
Observing Actual Experience.
REPRESENTATIONS OF THE NAVEL FROM WITHIN
When I look at something, whether it be a work of art, an image or something I’m working on, my
first impression is extremely important—the minute I’ve judged and chosen it, almost without
realising, and taken that first intuition (?) to gradually form an opinion while formulating the criteria
to justify it. Joseph LeDoux tells us that there is a physiological reason (which we don’t need to
qualify here) that explains the results of an experiment in which a group of people acquire a
preference for strange geometric figures, which they had previously seen in pictures shown at such
a speed that they had not even realised they had seen them. Other research along similar lines has
striven to prove that such events occur quite often, and that during the first milliseconds of any
perception we aren’t only unconsciously aware of what we’re dealing with but we even decide
whether it is to our liking or not. We can show our preference or distaste for images, shapes, etc.,
that have been ‘seen and not seen,’ that we haven’t had time to intentionally register or store. Our
cognitive unconscious seems to present our conscious with what we see, and this presentation
necessarily entails a value judgement regardless of the criteria that have triggered it, almost as if it
were produced independently of ourselves. Sensation precedes thought. Emotion is quicker than
reason. Closer to the idea of impulse, of small amounts of disorganised sensory information that
has yet to take definite recognisable shape, LeDoux speaks of precognitive emotions.
Likewise, everything seems to suggest that feelings take priority over reason. We seem to choose
before realising what or why. In Western thought, emotions are analysed as if they were
involuntary, distinct from more or less rational thought, in fact, emotion can even be seen as an
obstacle to intelligence and reason, whereas Eastern cultures consider they all form a part of an
integrated whole.
It is probably not a question of asking ourselves whether or not this is the case, but of being
prepared to study it in ourselves; to be introspective and learn what goes on in our interior; to
understand our emotions and stand outside of ourselves to observe our actions and their
consequences—as Daniel Goleman would say, to become aware of ourselves. I believe that this
inspires all creative processes—becoming aware, realising what is going on and working with our
emotions, observing and researching experience. However, before being able to work with
emotions and express them we should begin by identifying them and decoding their messages,
what they intend to communicate. Many psychologists operationally define emotion as a mental
state that is powerfully charged with feeling; therefore feeling would be the subjective experience of
emotion. Contexts are continually emitting information; emotional warnings that are registered in an
open system. Artists receive this varied flow of narratives and tune in to their messages, linking our
emotional and rational minds to construct their artistic contents. Artists have to learn to read and
write these symbolic languages, and use them to transmit a number of subtle, evocative and
multiple meanings instead of one that is unique and easily translatable. To render reality in its pure
state, just as we encounter it, without setting it within an artistic language is questionable.
Louise Bourgeois described the creative state, actual artistic concentration, as a moment of
enchantment, a harmonious, physical and active process. I’m not sure whether she would still use
the same term to describe the state in which I create my best work, but I do conceive it as
something very active and to a certain degree physical as well, for it is consumed and produces a
great amount of physical energy. Some moments are full of activity, motivated by the desire to see
results that are not quite foreseeable, while other moments are characterised by repetitive
alienating work, like a punishment you can’t wait to be rid of. At other times I find myself staring at
what I’ve created, engrossed. Reflections and reasons usually emerge outside the studio, far from
the objects themselves.
Mihaly Csikszentmihalyi produced very interesting works in which he gathered information on the
creative process in artists, musicians, scientists, etc., a process he defined as a ‘state of flow.’ In
his opinion, a ‘flow’ is an almost automatic moment of awareness in which an optimum achievement
derives from great concentration yet not too much effort. In such a state there is perfect control over
the task in hand and its execution; you don’t think of the difficulties involved and thought and action
come together in such a way that you no longer worry about what you’re doing or how you’re doing
it. It’s an act of motivation that stems from the pleasure of the act itself.
This is how I conceive ‘doing,’ as an intrinsic motivation, the curiosity that leads to the creation of
something new, essentially pleasureful yet preceded by a certain degree of training, of learning to
embrace a basic and solid artistic knowledge and the tools, the rules and codes of ‘doing.’ While all
this is going on a lot is thrown away; ideas that are
of no use are discarded, suspended or postponed. Sometimes it is naïveness that prompts us to
carry on ‘doing,’ persevering. The belief that time doesn’t matter, that good and truth are always
beautiful, that in the end the good guys always win and that even if you make a mistake it will be for
the best… So, all we have to do is carry on.
Aristotle thought that art had medicinal powers that could purge dangerous emotions. Others
believe that art prevents rather than cures illness.
UNDER THE JAPILDRÓ
(a casual form dress, large in size, varied and indescribable in shape, that basically
covers almost the whole body but with much more flair and decorum than a soutane)
Cognition and affection are connected.
A previous experience can condition our emotions over a long period of time, altering our ability to
analyse and manage new emotions. It is common for us to see reality through a colour filter, a bit
like being in a place where there is a continuous background noise you don’t really take in until it
disappears, and you hear absolute silence and think ‘How wonderful!’ While you’re actually
immersed in that permanent noise your entire perception is altered: you speak louder, you don’t
listen, you become stressed, anxious and aggressive, and you only breathe with relief and pleasure
once it ceases. Some emotions can be very persistent and long-lasting, and can even distort your
vision of the world and of yourself. Indeed, images loaded with emotional content are detected
more quickly, for our attention is chiefly directed at stimuli that have an affective valence, which are
processed much quicker than those that do not. Among these stimuli, those related to fear or
situations of danger would make us be more alert. Some experiments have proven that it is easier
to recognise a face that expresses fear than one that expresses joy or a neutral emotion. Many of
us have witnessed the power of attraction of images portraying terrifying visions, deformed, injured
or monstrous bodies, grimaces of terror, etc. that art has used for different purposes over the
course of its history. And when we actually find ourselves before one such image we are
hypnotised, paralysed—I’m thinking of Goya’s The Disasters of War, Saturn Devouring His Son, of
Picasso’s Guernica, etc. To erase the expressions in such scenes from our memory is a difficult
task.
I agree with José Antonio Marina when he says that we live halfway between our memories and our
imagination, between the ghosts of the past and the phantoms of the future, as a result of which we
end up fearing fear itself. Anything that opposes our wishes or future intentions, any hindrance to
carrying out our plans or achieving our ambitions can be perceived as a danger or a threat that
intimidates us, causing uncertainty and a sense of losing control. All this leads to unease,
discomfort, worry and suspicion. Insecurity and uncertainty require rules. It’s easier to know you’re
following the wrong path and will have to turn around any minute than not seeing any path to follow.
The work of art can become a missile against people, against principles, values and rules. I find
more pleasure in expressing disagreement through humour and irony, using metaphors as tools,
than in condemning. I love to laugh, which is probably why I prefer to laughingly show almost the
whole truth of my thoughts.
Every individual has his or her own perception of reality; we all form a part of the real world and yet
each one of us has a unique experience of it. ‘There are no facts, only interpretations’ (Nietzsche),
yet the interpreter also alters the text he is reading. Danger can be understood objectively or
subjectively; certain events or situations are dangerous for everyone, whereas others are only
threatening for those who perceive them as such, and the number of possible fears is countless—of
beliefs, of superstitions, of failure, of lack of resources, of cultural loss and loss of values, of feeling
ashamed or guilty, of swimming with the current, of being subversive and capable of standing apart.
Humour is a wonderful weapon for overcoming the fear produced by analysing and understanding
all sorts of things; keeping a distance and relativising through laughter is almost always better than
understanding and anticipating events without being able to change the future in any way. Many
people believe that they have the ability to change things, and go on to assume positions and
responsibilities for which they are not repared, thus creating problems for all involved. The number
of such people is on the increase and that is frightening.
Positions and awards are usually undeserved.
A feeling is a perception of a certain state of the body along with the perception of a certain mode of
thinking, ‘a lifting of the veil’ (Antonio Damasio). Feelings express our struggle to preserve the
balance we need to live life placidly and to the full, even though hardly anything leaves us
indifferent. Their main ingredients are pain and pleasure, which drive us in one direction or another.
‘Living organisms are designed with an ability to react emotionally to different objects and events’
(Spinoza). We move in order to seek pleasure and avoid pain, although on many occasions the
borders between the two are not clear. Hedonism seems to be inherent in us as human beings:
pleasures that last but a minute, those of the body, of possessions, all sorts of objects, experiences;
the pleasure brought by fame and power. In art, the pleasure of working, seeking, transcends the
reward obtained; indeed it is more a pleasure of ‘being,’ as Michael Onfray would say, than of
‘having,’ although in all likelihood the sensation of pleasure is equal.
Paul Ekman describes new paths of arriving at emotions, and from the point of view of art I find
some of these particularly interesting: our imagination, speaking of an emotional episode from the
past, empathy, the lessons other people have taught us regarding what we should consider moving,
the violation of social norms and wilful acceptance of the appearance of an emotion. I believe all
these paths can become creative resources used by artists: inventing, imagining, speaking of
events from the past, remembering, reminiscing, connecting and interacting with beholders,
expressing ourselves in their language, telling them what they want to hear as well, speaking of
what happens to other people, other cultures, condemning and even doing all this without actually
feeling it—very often faking or pretending have also been considered art forms. Visiting exhibitions,
I have frequently come across art works and artists that did not represent their own reality. I think it
is important to live in the present and to reflect this in our work, although we all live in our own
particular present, so I really can’t envisage someone here representing a context ‘there.’
Experience is personal and non-transferable, although it may be empathetic. Nowadays we often
see entire exhibitions devoted to contemporary artists who are our ‘fellow countrymen’ and yet we
are unable to recognise any of the contexts they present as being of ‘here and now.’ I am also
aware, however, that the languages of art are the rules and laws of the empire. An empire that is
also cultural, and yet foreign to external talent, intelligence and sensitivity. Those who have a voice
use it; their discourse is heard and resounds at the limits of our world, which explains the distorted
echo I perceive among many of my fellow countrymen.
In some way, all artists have a latent desire to please. We also require those who see our work to
be well learned in the discipline—what Csikszentmihalyi calls the ‘sphere’ and consists of the
guards of the doors that grant access, those who decide if your work is interesting for the ‘field’ or
not, those who legitimate and acknowledge.
Quite often, these guards are quite confused.
Art has always disposed of the necessary tools to construct narratives; images are able to relate
subjective experiences of emotions, and not only through the dramatisation of figurative scenes.
The emotional mind associates the elements that symbolise reality with reality itself; suffice it to
think of rhetoric figures such as metaphor, where associations of meaning and substitutions of one
thing for another become a symbolic representation that relates different worlds that could not
perhaps come together following ordinary rational logic. Psychoanalysis consists of something
similar. Alberto Manguel believes that when we read an image, any kind of image—paintings,
sculptures, moving or still photographs—we necessarily introduce an idea of temporality, the
continuity that characterises narrative. Even if all we see is a moment in the sequence of this
image, we are able to extend it to a before and an after, to unfold the complete tale and give it an
endless and infinite life. In order to understand the language in which an image is expressed we
must learn other tales and their codes through our own experience, possess a wide ‘sentimental’
experience, be aware of and understand a host of social, public and private circumstances and
events, and consequently develop the story of what we see through our own emotional experience.
Connections are thus created between what artists imagine, what they tell us and how they tell it,
the contextual moment in which they create the work, in which it is interpreted and understood, and
how what is understood is expressed, between what can be said and what we keep to ourselves.
The devastatingly intelligent gaze of Louise Bourgeois revealed that shapes could only be
understood if one were completely innocent, just as a symbol is only a symbol insofar as it
represents or refers to something already known. As she said, representation is an equivalence,
while signs can be literary and literal, as in surrealism, or suggestive, as in abstraction. The thing is
that time, circumstances, experiences and countless general or particular reasons can make people
see things in art works that weren’t originally there and yet remain adhered to them in the form of
content. None of this means that content should come first, but rather that we cannot have absolute
control over it, for objects are also forged through gazes. All observable phenomena are classified
as ‘manifest content’ (Sigmund Freud), yet when the art work is reduced to its content, we tame it:
‘Interpretation makes art manageable, conformable’ (Susan Sontag). It is nice to think that the work
of art is never quite completed, that when the artist leaves the door ajar, the beholder, and time,
can step inside and continue it.