They proposed that I be interviewed in public by an artificial intelligence. I loved the idea. But soon, just as it had come to me, it was gone. They said they had uselessly trained a bot of the latest generation to talk about the relationship between literature and contemporary art. But the bot (short for robot) lacked humor, and was only likeable when he talked nonsense. In addition, he used to get angry and scold the person questioned: “I have told you…”.
And to think that I had rubbed my hands planning the moment when I would ask him if he didn’t think it was difficult for novels to represent reality, but the reflection that they themselves opened on that factory defect (the awareness of their incompleteness) made them in a very attractive activity.
And to think that he had thought of telling him that he fully agreed with Luis Landero when he pointed out that today’s writer, in his heart of hearts, no longer thinks of literature, of writing, of that dream, and now only thinks of immediacy and the success. But it is that, as if that were not enough, he had thought of telling her about the disturbing magnificent desolationa book of four stories in which Javier Moreno (Murcia, 51 years old) wonders, among other questions, if the digital order, artificial intelligence and technology can transform our privacy and, with it, the very essence of life. literature.
The essence? For a moment, this she has infiltrated my thoughts in the taxi that takes me to Arco. Perhaps this unexpected irruption is explained because I know that I will not find in the archi-commercial Arco what is already evidence in other spheres: the increasing coexistence between the most advanced sector of contemporary art with a type of writing open to unprecedented modes of existence. cultural.
It is a phenomenon that sometimes takes the name of “expanded literature.” Its pioneers may curiously have been painters, somewhat figurative. Edward Hopper, for example, with the very visible narrative record of him. But I also think of Hammershøi, Romero de Torres, Louisa Matthiasdottir, Anselm Kiefer, Gerhard Richter. They all create in their paintings a literary, metaphysical, disturbing atmosphere. And I see all of them close to what Javier Moreno exposes in The realms of the unrealthe brightest of tales of magnificent desolation (Candaya). It investigates the improbable relationship between the now famous photographer Vivian Maier (Fontcuberta, by the way, maintains, by way of fake newsthat Vivian Maier is an invention of his) and the writer Henry Darger, two outsiders who never saw their works recognized in life.
It has only been to enter Arco and immediately see the most viewed. Picasso dead. We are making progress. Picasso dead and the bot alive. Of course, there is really nothing new there. It has been forgotten that, in 1965, the young Arroyo, Alliaud and Recalcati painted Duchamp’s funeral. There was a scandal in France, but Duchamp laughed: “Nothing, they are young. They look for publicity. It’s fun, but kind of goofy. The childhood of advertising art”.
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