Many times, we feel there is something else at Catherine Deneuve´s unpredictable glance, (in "Belle de Jour"1, for instance); an empty and remote glance, if we get close, a glance that steals personality from whom face it: someone of us looking at the screen, minimal individuals. But she`s looking beyond us, through us, to another place, outside of belonging and narcisist conquest.

Now, only for a while, let´s try to put us in that mystery´s place, a little beyond or a little closer, without worry, without constructive course, like at a dream. The sound is a ghost, the walls and ceiling are the real world. No. No? Who plays the first note?
Noise´s invading us, there are´nt walls, nor ceiling, nor future.

Silence is gold. Eyes get deaf, pampean visual culture, old gold in the horizon...

Form dissolves, the words resound in other place, I´m late, but we´re here, at good mood, with Alcides.

I seem to hear voices, like Buñuel´s voice, the deaf one: "You must go to the right way and I will go to the wrong way, neither of us is useful for nothing"(...)2.

There is in “Nazarín”3, a paradigmatic scene; the central character, Francisco, is leading his guests to table´s dinner at musical evening that was set on purpose in the way of seduce or get with vileness the woman who obsesses him. But a misterious noise, coming behind a curtain, surprises very much and upsets him. Changes his way. The sound´s source is behind a minor door, which he opens. There he finds his butler cleaning dust between a mess of junk, chairs and carpets.

Francisco doesn´t understand what´s happening and his servant offers a nonsense explanation: the absurdity fills the scene, a minor detail completes all the plane and the atonishment gets us absolutely. Probably the unconscious has led everything to there, or perhaps things are in that way. Then the burgeois world´s form falls apart before the unexpected facts, the thin glass of deception gets shuttered and the void comes alive.Paraphrasing A. Artaud: "Music is sound/not of a musical sound/but of liquid music´s sound"(...)4.

It´s just we listen stabbed by a mirror, walking to a window that moves out from the wall, always towards here. We need nor the eyes, neither the body, nor tales neither things neither knowledge.

Only a charged silence, at random, in LA MAYOR5.

Marginal note:

Many times there are space´s traces, pampean horizon´s traces which are One with the silence; silence and horizon, the nearest and the remotest. We can talk about a landscape and an improvisation´s instant, of an horizontal dark zone, where the muscles “take out vertically”, because of being and only being there, like the thunderbolt, a noise; and that sounds´ crossing leaves us somewhere, lights a glow in a vast territory full of repetitions, analogies, and reflecting actions´ signals. Parallel discurse, there´s no way, someone does it and accompanies himself with other person because of it´s so. Because it sounds.

Luis Conde
Buenos Aires, julio de 2004.