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sexta-feira, setembro 05, 2003 An Oak Tree - Michael Craig-Martin
In a room at Tate Modern there is a three-quarter full glass of water on a high shelf. It is a work by Michael Craig-Martin called An oak tree, 1973. Beside it there is the following text:
Q. To begin with, could you describe this work?
A. Yes, of course. What I've done is change a glass of water into a full-grown oak tree without altering the accidents of the glass of water.
Q. The accidents?
A. Yes. The colour, feel, weight, size ...
Q. Do you mean that the glass of water is a symbol of an oak tree?
A. No. It's not a symbol. I've changed the physical substance of the glass of water into that of an oak tree.
Q. It looks like a glass of water.
A. Of course it does. I didn't change its appearance. But it's not a glass of water, it's an oak tree.
Q. Can you prove what you've claimed to have done?
A. Well, yes and no. I claim to have maintained the physical form of the glass of water and, as you can see, I have. However, as one normally looks for evidence of physical change in terms of altered form, no such proof exists.
Q. Haven't you simply called this glass of water an oak tree?
A. Absolutely not. It is not a glass of water anymore. I have changed its actual substance. It would no longer be accurate to call it a glass of water. One could call it anything one wished but that would not alter the fact that it is an oak tree.
Q. Isn't this just a case of the emperor's new clothes?
A. No. With the emperor's new clothes people claimed to see something that wasn't there because they felt they should. I would be very surprised if anyone told me they saw an oak tree.
Q. Was it difficult to effect the change?
A. No effort at all. But it took me years of work before I realised I could do it.
Q. When precisely did the glass of water become an oak tree?
A. When I put the water in the glass.
Q. Does this happen every time you fill a glass with water?
A. No, of course not. Only when I intend to change it into an oak tree.
Q. Then intention causes the change?
A. I would say it precipitates the change.
Q. You don't know how you do it?
A. It contradicts what I feel I know about cause and effect.
Q. It seems to me that you are claiming to have worked a miracle. Isn't that the case?
A. I'm flattered that you think so.
Q. But aren't you the only person who can do something like this?
A. How could I know?
Q. Could you teach others to do it?
A. No, it's not something one can teach.
Q. Do you consider that changing the glass of water into an oak tree constitutes an art work?
A. Yes.
Q. What precisely is the art work? The glass of water?
A. There is no glass of water anymore.
Q. The process of change?
A. There is no process involved in the change.
Q. The oak tree?
A. Yes. The oak tree.
Q. But the oak tree only exists in the mind.
A. No. The actual oak tree is physically present but in the form of the glass of water. As the glass of water was a particular glass of water, the oak tree is also a particular oak tree. To conceive the category 'oak tree' or to picture a particular oak tree is not to understand and experience what appears to be a glass of water as an oak tree. Just as it is imperceivable it also inconceivable.
Q. Did the particular oak tree exist somewhere else before it took the form of a glass of water?
A. No. This particular oak tree did not exist previously. I should also point out that it does not and will not ever have any other form than that of a glass of water.
Me han vuelto cangrejo desde que corrí huyendo del vientre del gato negro como la noche. No me acordaba de nada. Veía sólo el oscuro de la noche sin estrellas y el llanto del mar.
Soy un cangrejo perdido en la arena de la playa. Corro por todas partes en búsqueda del olvido imposible. Hay que escoger entre derecha e izquierda y eso ya me duele.
Me duele como oír los gritos del tigre blanco. ¡Qué lástima ser un cangrejo y no un tigre! Sigo por la playa aun así como si tuviera la fuerza de un tigre y el grito de los pájaros. Soy el cangrejo más libre del mar, que no tiene miedo ni siquiera de los gallinazos matadores de los muertos.
¡Y cómo sufren las bestias imbeciles! No son listas como yo, rápidas como yo. Soy el héroe de toda la población marina.
Y vino el llanto una otra vez, y vienen los gritos y entonces vuelvo a mi hueco subterráneo. Sé que cuando vienen los gritos, viene el sufrimiento y entonces tengo miedo. El viento rojo como la sangre casi muerta de los muertos me da miedo y me pone triste, como si no hubiera otros cangrejos para jugar y pelear.
Soy el cangrejo de la noche y de la cobardía cuando se escuchan los gritos y el llanto de los náufragos. Y no me acuerdo de nada más que los gritos que imitaban una vez más el murmullo de aquellos tragados por el mar.
Y así sigo mi vida de cangrejo espantado, que huye de la desgracia como quien llora por los muertos.
Y tengo que ponerme triste. Siempre hay que ponerse triste después de las tormentas del mar furioso. Y no me duelen los ojos de cangrejo.
¡Qué no se me olvide de ponerme triste después de la tormenta!
