When I was posting on Lygia Clark I relished the momentary opportunity to upload her son's film O Mundo de Lygia Clark and index most of the performance works shown in the film and their year of creation. As I said, I saw an excerpt from the film outside the installation before the MoMA show opened, after which I found an upload of the film in three parts from, I think, Argentina, which was up until after I got to the museum show. After I sequenced the titles to the times in O Mundo, the video was taken down by the Clark estate, but a few weeks later a full version was posted from somewhere else in South America (not Brazil) so I posted it, which was also taken down some time after I posted. I hope that the film is released online, on dvd, or in some form. I did, however, copy down the text of Clark's voice overs which I don't believe is online anywhere and will paste it here in the absence of objections..
"While walking, I lose authorship. I incorporate this act as a concept of existence. I dissolve into the collective. I lose my own image and my father and everyone becomes the same. I write all the time. I find the link of poetic transference between art and religion. I write texts negating the name as a personal identity of people. I am aware of that walking as the first passing of what is me to the world. I perceive the rhythm, from beach soccer to Mozart. I also perceive the general crisis of expression in literature, in the genres in decline, in theater. Perplexed, I feel the crowds in the subway in the cadence of the accumulation of footsteps, in the passing of bodies that almost touch, but move away, each one bent on the secret path of its private existence. I speak and no one understands. I cannot communicate this change of concept that for me, was so deep and radical as the elastic passage between what it was and what could be. I feel deeply the fall in the value of words which no longer have meaning such as genre, works, individualism. I think and I live death. I feel the crowd creating over my body. In my mouth, the taste of earth. I build my mausoleum and walk out into life to discover sounds with an impressive sharpness. Life was opening up like an affirmation of life but of life still with death. A total void. Fleeting moments of group integration with reality: leaning against the curve of a tree trunk, I feel as if I am the trunk itself. Running my hand over a stone, I become a pin on its cape. The day to day, nihilism, immobility.. I think of death as a solution.
"My face was smooth, unarchitectural, uncontoured, shallow. I perceive one point in the place of an eye. The possibility of recomposition by me, even drawing it. From the plane, the upturned soil. Earth moves continually with the beginning of the earth. I feel a heat that does not emanate from within as if I had swallowed a hot brick. I feel pregnant. A cab heading toward the beach has the perception of a long lost dream. I see myself in the cosmos seated on the back seat of the devil, upon a red parcel, looking down at the earth below. I lose sense of time and see that the earth goes on in the same process, constantly making and unmaking itself. Hours go by that are really seconds. I arrive at the beach. I spend the night in a state of total hallucination. Time goes on, elastic, vast. In one minute, I perceive centuries - a constant vision that seems to me the sum of two sexes, female and male. Within me a child cries in fear. I go to the bathroom. I see myself in the mirror, deformed. My skin is loose. The bones beneath are crooked. I am a 5,000 year old crone. I understand Goya at last. From the verandah, I see the sea, the earth, the air, and it all seems to me like mercury. Sounds penetrate me sharply. They run through my nerves and invade my whole body. The earth goes on recreating itself at every moment. A herd of black goats go by, staring at me with slanted, honey colored, black magic eyes. I am taken over by the unconscious. I crawl down the hill, I pick up the water, the sand, the soil and breathe the air. I feel like corking these elements in a bottle and labeling them to give them an identity. I eat some squids. It is like the landscape being swallowed by me. It is something sensational. Three days and nights without sleep. On the fourth day, I begin to weep, yawn, and collapse with exhaustion. And sleep. I awake and see myself in the mirror. I rediscover my face, the 'me' that was denied me was dissolved. I had seen myself as huge and naked. I was a landscape, a continent, the world. Around my pubis, little men have built a dam. A dam or a great lake into which they can all dive. I feel uncategorized. Where is my place in the world? I am horrified at being the catalyst of my own experiences and purposes. I want people to experience them and insert their own myths, independent of me.
"I feel we are about to make a great return to that epoch in which art was so anonymous and there was no artist as a name or as a myth. I think everyone has a potential for creation. But if the person is conditioned in an unfavorable milieu he/she will not create and the blockage is the consumer society and present-day conditioning that make many people keep their sensitivity to themselves. Via small worthless objects like elastic, stones, and plastic bags, I form sensorial objects, the touch of which causes sensations that identify themselves at once with the body. Hence the name 'Body Nostalgia,' an analytical phrase in which I would decompose the body into parts and mutilate it so as it might be recognized through highly sensual touch."