The world (the body) is made of convex and concave shapes, and of the rearrangement of the one into the others. Concaveness is perishable and open, an unclear and fleeting sensation. Convexity is abstract fixation, assertion, a strong and rigid continuity. The paradoxical point of coexistence between the two—eternity matched with mortality—is what one is alert to: “a thing you could ruffle with your breath; and a thing you could not dislodge with a team of horses.”
The insistence on transitoriness can elicit durability. Duration cannot but be expressed in transient terms, as the least possible lapse between a before and an after—an empty space between parentheses. How can it be provoked, how can the walls be thinned of meaning, of language, to the point that what is not-contained in there, not-containable in there, can be made visible, audible?
A ragged line is drawn, along which some shapes appear. It is a ghostlike walk, the pathway traced by a moving figure that has already vanished; or a thread of smoke, or snail slime. In this evanescent trajectory, something seems to impart permanence and clarity: the memory of an image—its failed memory? Oblivion: remembering is a shame! How can something that is forgotten be represented? Does representation not imply remembrance? A code, a grid, where longitudes are appointed beforehand in order for us to remember things forever as they are? Memory is but prefigured knowledge: the safe pathways of resemblance, traced in advance and which dictate to be followed.
There is another kind of trajectory, always on the verge of bifurcation, and that is the path marked in the darkness of amnesia. What next? One has no plan, no choice, no expectation, only a fall—a failure. Every step opens the possibility of a new turn: things grow into something else, and at the same time their something-elseness grows into what they are. Here resemblance is an effect, sensible resemblance, indeterminacy made clear, clarity blurred.
A concave furrow and the blade of the plough that will cut it, both are frozen in the autonomous unawareness of each other: this darkness in which aberrant paths are marked, this unfathomable space where inconsistent thoughts move faster than those of the mind, is the knowledge of art.