I am waiting for a friend, an artist, in the museum lobby. A cute dude is sitting nearby, we exchange a few side glances, he also has bitch resting face syndrome. My friend arrives, pays his ticket, we go to the bathroom and climb the stairs. I’m trying to think about Cy. I have publicly expressed my dislike for this museum as the vanity project of an amateur daddy’s boy collector checking off big names from a Phaidon coffee table book on contemporary art with minor and mini works (‘the cheapest On Kawara you can get me’). #STILLALIVE
However, this being a Cy Twombly exhibition, in Mexico City, and me being there, I had to see it. One friend told me it was crappily curated, but still. I’m walking up the stairs, heaving, thinking about ‘Cy’. I enter the first room, and I don’t know why but I read the exhibition text. It is written in simple, lay language, and while it does tend to romanticize and interpret Cy Twombly’s ‘work’, I can see how it would be an appropriate frame for the exhibition for the intended audience. It is a little bit manipulative, however: ‘mysteries’, ‘revelations’, ‘love, art, beauty and death’, ‘apollonian and dionisyan’ OMFGLOLROFLMAO– update your art lingo, yo.
WHATEVR. I am now trying to see the paintings, and I’m having a bit of trouble just seeing them. No, I do not wish to interpret them, nor do I wish to ‘understand’ (wth it’s not algebra you guys), I only wanna see them. OMG THIS A CY TWOMBLY. STOP. Those are words, that’s a name, these are objects. It’s got nothing to do with these. A CY FUCKING TWOMBLY IN MEXICO. Like, A VERSACE TSHIRT. I think about the aura of the art work, how marketing is obscuring my sight, and I try to forget about it. I don’t want to kneel at Tiffany’s, I do not wish to cry at having touched Madonna, I want to see things with my own eyes, and it’s difficult. I’ve been brainwashed. I’m putting ideas before reality, and for once I feel a need to push against it. HOW can I see this exhibition? How can I experience more than CY TWOMBLY in this room? Do I like this CY TWOMBLY PAINTING ®?
I forced myself to forget about that jerk. In order to forgo any and all interpretation I forgot about the context. Nothing is objective, subjective is all I have, I wanna own it. All that matters is whether I like it or not. I have no other possible response in front of anything I consume. I cannot put myself in anyone else’s shoes, nor see things ‘in their context’. I belong to my present day only. Some paintings do feel ‘of their time’ but I can’t go back. ‘Would I have liked it?’– I dunno. SO, I think: a friend of mine made this and is showing it to me. DO I LIKE IT?—
(Daniel G. Lozano, from NUEVAS TETAS)