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TREINTA Y SEIS AÑOS SIN TRISTEZA - Raúl Hevia
28 February - 4 April
“Why write when you could be shooting someone?”
E.L Doctorow Reality is stupid.
Reality lacks enigmas. It is just a set of matter more or less organized, more or less chaotic, shapeless, quiet, and we find words amid this need to impose a certain order, which we sometimes call – with affection – reality, and other times history or beauty.
Words are stupid.
Clément Rosset wrote, “There is nothing more fragile than the human ability to admit and accept unconditionally the imperious prerogative of reality”. We use words and writing to divert reality, to make it visible, organized, occasionally simple, that is, stupid.
The ancient Greeks used the word idiots, i.e., simple, to name the work of those who wrote prose and tried to organize reality, its objects and life itself, in a bureaucratic way. So, we may ask ourselves what writing is, what writing really is; is it something else than placing words in order? No answer for this, no answers, or rather the act of writing itself is the way to find the answer.
Do we write to know what writing is? Maybe.
Writing – so Socrates thought – is just a way of silencing life, of turning invisible the rich variation of objects, the vitality of ordinary life.
Writing, considered not as a key which lets us get to hings, but as a waiting space where the word escapes all it possible connections and is shown for the first time.
Like a dog lit up for a moment in the middle of a storm. Under the ephemeral flash of lightning something is revealed in another way: beyond the visible and the invisible.
Writing like a way of crossing out, erasing, where language sets its meter at zero and starts all over again.
The language that creates a new world is the language that appears through the voids left behind, through the holes dug within us.
Like a magic trick: now you can see it, now you cannot.
That, maybe, is writing.
Or maybe not.
Or maybe nothing. Alberto Santamaría
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