A sound and visual speculation from the painting “The Triumph of Death” by Pieter Brueghel the Elder, 1562.
“Our time is the time where everything ends. We saw the end of modern history, ideologies and revolutions”. New radical new illustration, Marina Garcés.
Part I: The noise of the satellites. The Landscape.
Part II: The death of the others.
Part III: Love has no noise; love does not smell of anything.
The noise of the satellites. The Landscape.
The noise of the Satellites is comparable to the noise in our head, our thoughts. An invisible landscape, responsible for the modus vivendis of these days. The end of the world takes on relevance again in the popular imagination, just as it did in the years when the Old Man painted The Triumph of Death to make some kind of pact with it. Now the pact is proposed by Netflix. We let ourselves be seduced by obscurantism again. Depression, anxiety, fear, moral and ethical chaos, post-truth, the excessive noise of communication and the thousands of satellites that rotate around us without being seen. Drifting satellites, atmospheric garbage navigating uncontrolled orbits, intelligent devices processing data at 11,070 kilometers per hour, a variable speed depending on the distance they keep above our heads. White Noise is produced by the friction of the antennas with the atmosphere.
The death of the others.
It is about looking for a certain light, a digital light that illuminates us and to which we cling to try to avoid the worst, to try to avoid fear. It is a fragile light, it hardly gives off heat, it can be turned off at any time. There is a certain coldness, the emotions are not real, they are a download-for-free smart App. A light that illuminates us and makes us question whether we are dead or alive. In the painting there is a door through which most of them flee, they run in terror towards hell without realizing it. Perhaps that door is the key to this second part, an escape outward rather than inwards as the fallen angel proposed once. Inside is the ugly death itself, outside is the laughter that keeps us alive. A beautiful hell.
Love has no noise; love does not smell of anything.
Talking about love as a naive self-absorption that can save you for a moment. We do not know if Brueghel wanted to highlight that moment of refugee lovers in his eyes or, quite the opposite, tried to satirize or even ridicule the idea of love in the midst of the catastrophe. How is love in the 21st century? How has it changed? What does it sound like? What is this new economy of digital affections? Thousands of people in love, falling madly in love out of nowhere, in love with themselves, with animals, with their intestines and with organic vegetable juices… we could expand the list infinitely to talk about love and the end of the world, which are nothing more than survival.