Alexander Calder: Theater of encounters

Small Sphere and Heavy Sphere, 1932 2018 Calder Foundation, New York / Artists Rights Society (ARS), New York / SAVA Buenos Aires.

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Teatro de Encuentros
por Sandra Antelo-Suárez

*      Traducido del inglés por
 Catalina Ocampo

Notas al pie

Del trabajo de Alexander Calder surge una riqueza de colaboraciones abiertas y múltiples niveles de participación. A fines de 1931, durante una de las visitas que hizo Marcel Duchamp al estudio de Calder, comienza una colaboración abierta entre los dos. Este fue un encuentro entre mentes afines que durante muchos años se nutrió de juegos —que incluían juegos de palabras— y humor. Cuando Calder le preguntó a Duchamp qué nombre darle a uno de sus objetos motorizados, Duchamp sugirió el término mobile (móvil), que, como el readymade de Duchamp, “le daba nombre a esta manifestación particular” y designaba una nueva categoría artística.1 El nuevo término —un juego de palabras en francés que significa, a la vez, movimiento y motivo, o “la fuerza detrás de una acción”2— sugería desde muy temprano que el trabajo de Calder buscaría situarse en un espacio dialéctico entre causa y efecto, o trataría, tal vez, de abarcar los dos. 

     Como figuras en su propio juego de mesa, Calder y Duchamp instalaron una plataforma de paradigmas de posibilidades. Resistiendo la insistencia que hacía el arte moderno en la especificidad de los medios tradicionales, el móvil no se apoyaba en los materiales sino en la proposición de una acción —tanto en el juego como en el escenario, actos lúdicos en ambos casos—.3 

    En esos actos lúdicos, la obra de Alexander Calder sitúa el acto estético en el encuentro, en un juego mental sin límites ni guiones, pleno de colaboraciones en desarrollo, especulaciones y expectativas. La obra no es un producto sino un evento, un momento de la vida misma haciéndose, un becoming —un continuo devenir sin comienzo ni fin—. Es la existencia perpetua de las relaciones entre los elementos de la obra de arte y la imaginación del espectador, moderada solo por el azar y el tiempo. El mundo de Calder es un teatro de encuentros en el cual sus múltiples desplegamientos constituyen un compromiso con el presente. 

    Small Sphere and Heavy Sphere (Pequeña esfera y pesada esfera), 1932/1933, el primer móvil colgante de Calder, es una proposición con un programa abierto y colaborativo. El espectador participa en el acto creativo, como lo expresó Duchamp: “Después de todo, el artista no es el único que lleva a cabo el acto creativo; el espectador pone la obra en contacto con el mundo exterior al descifrar e interpretar sus cualidades internas, contribuyendo así al acto creativo. Esto se vuelve todavía más obvio cuando la posteridad da su veredicto final y a veces rehabilita artistas olvidados”—o, en este caso, obras olvidadas—.4  

    Small Sphere and Heavy Sphere marca un momento decisivo en la obra de Calder, no en relación con cuestiones formales sino porque aclara su búsqueda del potencial que existe en la acción, la reacción y la interacción. Adicionalmente, marca el comienzo de su ruptura con el marco y las manifestaciones tradicionales de la escultura. 

Como lo expresa George Baker en su ensayo “Calder’s Mobility”: 

  Calder absorbe la base en sus construcciones autónomas, sin distinguir entre la escultura y su entorno. Más tarde, termina eliminando la base o la superficie sobre la cual normalmente se ha colocado la escultura al suspender sus objetos en el espacio, lanzándolos al aire. Desde Iris, Messenger of the Gods (Iris, mensajera de los dioses) de Auguste Rodin (c. 1895) hasta Bird in Space (Pájaro en vuelo) de Brancusi (1923), la escultura moderna había considerado esta negación, la necesidad desesperada de desconectarse del suelo para anular la obstinada conexión entre la escultura y su analogía: el cuerpo humano enraizado. Sin este paso, la escultura siempre sería un eco de la figura humana, una estética residualmente figurativa hasta el fin. Para Rodin, la fantasía era un salto, la breve conquista del aire por parte de una bailarina, la diosa volando. Para Brancusi, solo la naturaleza podía hacer este sueño posible, la imaginación del pájaro en vuelo. Pero, Calder hizo de esta fantasía realidad. Y si la escultura ya no era un cuerpo, conectado a la tierra y pesado; si la escultura ahora podía volar o flotar sin amarres, esto conlleva dos negaciones adicionales. A diferencia de la pesada masa de la escultura tradicional, el objeto de Calder mostraba una estética de la ingravidez, una escultura marcada por la liviandad y la fragilidad. En contraste con la terca inmovilidad de la escultura, eternamente estática e inmutable, la obra de Calder acogió el movimiento, una serie de objetos abiertos a la contingencia y el azar. Calder absorbe la base dentro de sus construcciones independientes, sin distinción.5  

Una proposición (encontrada)

En una carta del 20 de agosto de 1943, Calder le sugirió al curador James Johnson Sweeney que Small Sphere and Heavy Sphere se incluyera en su retrospectiva de 1943 en el Museum of Modern Art (MoMA) de Nueva York. La obra no fue incluida en la exposición en el MoMA. Era, tal vez, una obra compleja para su tiempo y complicaba la estrategia que desarrollaron el director del MoMA, Alfred H. Barr, Jr., los curadores y las curadoras y el MoMA como institución para expandir el canon del arte moderno y mover su centro a Nueva York.6

    Small Sphere and Heavy Sphere se expuso en 1933 en París, pero pasaron siete décadas antes de que se volviera a mostrar públicamente.  Aunque todas las partes del móvil estaban intactas, el vínculo que faltaba era la carta ilustrada de Calder, que conecta las partes de la obra y su proposición, pero que se descubrió recientemente en los archivos de Sweeney. Nosotros, en esta exposición y en este ensayo, nos acercamos a la obra de Calder desde esta perspectiva.7

    La visita de Calder en octubre de 1930 al estudio de Mondrian, que lo impactó como instalación ambiental, se convirtió en un punto crítico en los estudios de destacados historiadores de arte sobre la evolución de Calder y sus contribuciones críticas. Como Small Sphere and Heavy Sphere se redescubrió recientemente, la mayoría de estas discusiones no incluyen esa obra.     

    Small Sphere and Heavy Sphere es una pieza clave que cambia nuestra relación con la obra de Calder hoy en día y sugiere las rutas posibles que su trabajo pudo haber tomado si la obra se hubiera incluido en la exposición del MoMA. La pregunta que queda pendiente es ¿cómo podemos reescribir la historia para reintegrar la proposición sobre la obra y la carta de 1943, escrita durante el periodo de la Segunda Guerra Mundial, y así renegociar su existencia?8

En una parte de la carta de 1943, el artista le escribe a Sweeney: 

Se me olvidó mostrarte este objeto.

Uno hace que la esfera roja (de hierro) se mueva en un pequeño círculo este movimiento + la inercia de la barra y la extensión del hilo crean un patrón de movimiento sumamente complicado—. La impedimenta cajas, platillo, botellas, latas, etc. — contribuyen a la complicación, y además añaden sonidos de golpes secos, choques, etc. Esta es una reconstrucción de la que tenía en París en 1933. 

Voy a bajarla e instalarla para que la puedas ver. 

La llamo “Small sphere + Heavy sphere”.9

   El plan de acción es simple: se cuelga una barra del techo y se colocan objetos en el piso. El conjunto incluye un vector —la barra de hierro— y objetos cotidianos que Calder llama “impedimenta”: cinco botellas de vidrio, un platillo (gong), una lata y lo que describe como “cajas”, aunque ahora solo hay un cajón de madera.  

    Los objetos no son importantes. Lo que importa es la proposición y su complicación: la impedimenta, la inercia, las distintas extensiones, los sonidos de golpes secos y choques que se generan cuando se activa la pieza.10

    De los extremos de la barra cuelgan un hilo y un alambre. El hilo sostiene una esfera liviana de madera blanca. Al otro lado de la barra, el alambre sostiene una esfera roja más grande y pesada de hierro fundido, que le hace contrapeso y equilibra la barra, poniéndola en posición horizontal —perpendicular al techo y el suelo—. El hilo y el alambre cuelgan libremente hacia el suelo. El hilo es más largo que el  alambre. Uno podría discernir un rectángulo en el espacio: al colgar, también crea un escenario. No hay un lugar fijo para los objetos; el performer de la obra decide dónde colocarlos. 

    La vulnerabilidad reina en el escenario a medida que Calder transfiere el control del artista al público. La expectativa del espectador es todo lo que importa.11 La comunidad está integrada y, como tal, desestabiliza la autoría del artista.  

    En cuanto el espectador extiende su mano para tocar la (fría) esfera roja de hierro, experimenta la sensación de estar cometiendo una infracción, algo usualmente prohibido en un museo. Por un momento, el rectángulo y su marco se desestabilizan y se borran. 

    La energía resuena a medida que la esfera más pequeña y liviana se despierta. La esfera acaricia los objetos o los golpea fuertemente, creando un sonido seco —aunque la mayoría del tiempo no los toca, generando suspenso y expectativa—. La esfera se balancea del vidrio, a la madera, al gong. Entre estos objetos, puede detenerse en ciertos momentos. No existe guion. A veces, el móvil se enreda en la impedimenta, pero luego se recupera continuando su camino. Hay momentos sensuales en este encuentro entre las partes, un acto casi sexual que ocurre en público. Hay una fusión entre el objeto y el público, y los límites se borran, como al hacer el amor. 

    El baile de la bola marca el tiempo y dibuja líneas efímeras en el espacio, aún cuando no acaricia la impedimenta y solo activa el aire, sólo la energía. Estos silencios intermitentes, estas vacilaciones entre la acción y la no-acción, el arte y el no-arte, dentro de la coreografía natural, son momentos bellísimos. Son, tal vez, los mejores momentos de la obra: encarnan su precario becoming, su devenir, que transcurre sin documentación alguna, dando fé del momento, del presente, visto sólo por quien está ahí.12

    En el cruce entre escultura, proposición, instrucción, performance y participación, Small Sphere and Heavy Sphere ocupa un espacio desconocido. Desde este momento en adelante, vemos que Calder desarrolla obras de arte semiautosuficientes y autónomas. El público ya no participa físicamente; la participación es sobre todo mental, pues la facilita la intervención del medio ambiente —el viento, por ejemplo—, como ocurre sobre todo en los móviles colgantes de los años cuarenta y cincuenta. Así comienza la esplendorosa era del objeto-ballet semiautosuficiente.13-14  

La disparidad como método 

La plataforma operativa de Calder se encuentra en ese espacio intermedio entre el móvil y el stabile, o entre el movimiento y el movimiento implícito. Durante otra de sus colaboraciones abiertas, que ocurre en febrero de 1932, Calder adopta el término sarcástico que usa Jean Arp para nombrar los otros stabiles en su obra: “Pues, ¿qué son esas cosas que hiciste el año pasado [para la exposición en la galería Percier], stabiles?”15 

    Los stabiles en la obra de Calder son planos de chapa, tridimensionales y multidiagramáticos diseñados para lugares específicos, puestos sobre una mesa o en el cruce entre dos calles. Las intersecciones de los ángulos entre los planos de acero balancean las distintas partes, creando una sensación de presencia en sus puntos de encuentro y enmarcando situaciones en el medio social, con sus frecuencias de incertidumbres sobre el escenario, en un juego de permutaciones.  

    Algunos stabiles son formas biomórficas de planos ensamblados que esculpen el aire a su alrededor. Otros permiten que el espectador entre literalmente, pasando por aberturas o bajo arcos o ángulos. Estas obras son escenarios in situ y llevan a una revolución en el arte público que se dará de 1936 en adelante a medida que se expanden las estrategias de la Guerra Fría, incluida la integración arquitectónica del utopismo moderno.  

    En su obra, Calder creó, para el siglo XX, un pensamiento visual experimental y una participación marcados por una nueva disparidad. Construyó esculturas sociales —en cuanto el objeto artístico y el público funcionan como actores o intérpretes y como arquitectura, confundiendo los papeles en un juego inmaterial— lo cual altera los valores estáticos de un purista o formalista, sometiéndolos a una reevaluación crítica. Como escribió Calder mismo: “Para mí, lo más importante en la composición es la disparidad”.16 

    La disparidad es el método de Calder en contra del determinismo. Es su regla de composición. Como una especie de “experiencia estética, se enfoca en la complejidad sensual de la realidad. Por realidad, quiero decir la realidad física y la fantasía, ‘es un caso de transición’, explicó Gilles Deleuze, ‘de un cambio’, un becoming, un devenir, pero que perdura, un cambio que es la sustancia misma”.17 La lógica es insuficiente en este juego. En vez, tenemos una liberación intelectual. 

    En la disparidad, el deslizamiento del equilibrio es una experiencia en vivo que ocurre en un espacio y tiempo particular y que solo se aproxima al “ideal” de la obra, pues esta es siempre una variante de sí misma.18 

    Formalmente, las obras de Calder están compuestas por mecanismos conectados y articulados, totalmente expuestos. Una parte altera las demás. La ingeniería de la obra facilita la interacción y, a su vez, la ingeniería social. Son modelos de relaciones que problematizan los valores modernistas de la experimentación. El aspecto más radical del trabajo de Calder es su renuncia al estilo. Como observa Susan Sontag, los recursos estilísticos son técnicas de evasión.19 Sin embargo, los modelos (móviles y stabiles) de Calder encarnan más que el estilo: tienen múltiples capas y, a la vez, están fijos, son, al mismo tiempo, eróticos y evasivos, a veces fugitivos, silencios sinfónicos. 

    La obra de Calder resiste las convenciones de la clasificación. En el
intento mismo de demarcar su espacio, escapa a sus propias reglas en búsqueda de una constante: la incertidumbre. 

La erótica de la duda 

En 1964, Sontag hizo un llamado para que se reestructuraran obsoletas jerarquías críticas y evaluativas y escribió que “en lugar de una hermeneútica necesitamos un ‘erótica del arte’”.20  En 1996, aclaró que esto significaba la presencia del intelecto, que ofrece una experimentación especulativa, un placer intelectual, y la presencia del arte como pensamiento apasionado en medio de lo que sería, de lo contrario, un vacío de circunstancias estáticas y respuestas concretas. Yo propongo una “erótica de la duda” como la columna vertebral de la fuerza creativa en la obra de Calder.  

    Calder revela y se goza el potencial y las posibilidades de su medio. La disparidad está entremezclada con una “erótica de la duda” en la cual la duda se mueve de la especulación a la participación. La duda es el motor del pensamiento y la observación. 

    Esa incontenible “erótica de la duda” se convierte en el modus operandi de la obra de Calder. Cualquier móvil o stabile fragmenta el espacio. Fragmentadas y articuladas, evasivas y opacas, sus obras comunican el poder expresivo de fuerzas poéticas y diagramáticas. Están listas para participar en circunstancias de infinita variación, en un devenir continuo, fertilizado por los encuentros. 

    En palabras de Calder: “Siempre me ha encantado la manera en que las cosas enganchan las unas con las otras… Es igualito a un diagrama de fuerzas”.21 El móvil, un diagrama/modelo de relaciones, está listo para “enganchar”22  con un encuentro violento o con su contraparte, un itinerario de viaje que resulta en encuentros sensuales y armoniosos, ensayados sobre el escenario de la vida —increíblemente, también es casi siempre explícitamente personal—. Calder dice lo siguiente acerca de este enganche: “Al manipularlos —es decir, al tocarlos con la mano para ponerlos en movimiento— se debe considerar la dirección en la que el objeto está diseñado para moverse, y la inercia de su masa… En todo caso, ‘suave’ es la palabra clave”.23

Fuerzas fugitivas 

En 1926, en su constante búsqueda de un encuentro en el medio social (por medio de colaboraciones abiertas, de acciones y reacciones), Calder publicó un intrigante dibujo-manual titulado Animal Sketching (Bocetos de animales). Es otro ejemplo de la complicidad que estableció con otros artistas: en ese libro articulará los principios básicos del dibujo. A pesar de que es una especie de manual, también es una proposición que presenta una estrategia para sintetizar gestos.  

    La clave de estos esbozos didácticos es la reducción del dibujo a líneas gestuales en el espacio cuyo fin es definir la acción. Como eco de la caligrafía japonesa, las líneas son gestos rápidos y pequeños en los cuales la pincelada de tinta no se detiene en el camino. Si estos dibujos no estuvieran sobre el papel habría un parecido directo con las esculturas de alambre, en las cuales la línea define el volumen. 

    Como esculturas de alambre, las líneas van desempacando sus actos sobre el escenario; sus siluetas y sombras se hacen eco unas a otras, volviendo líquida la arquitectura en la que existen. 

    Las obras de Calder, desde su Cirque Calder (El circo de Calder) y las esculturas de alambre hasta los móviles y los stabiles, son puentes que borran la separación entre el escenario y el auditorio y, más generalmente, entre el arte y el mundo. Como tal, el componente social-conceptual de la presentación en vivo de su obra se reactiva constantemente en un esfuerzo por generar encuentros fortuitos con la materialidad fundamental del mundo: los objetos y sus propiedades, el espacio y el tiempo, la causa y el efecto, la posibilidad y la certeza. 

En su forma de acercarse tanto al arte como al mundo, Calder es un relativista, un realista protoespeculativo que marca la ubicación espacio-temporal de todas las posibles circunstancias de actuación para un objeto. 

    Calder se cercioró de que cada incertidumbre y toda la kinética explosiva en las relaciones espaciales y conceptuales que se debaten y se exploran en sus objetos se desarrollara, se desplegara y se amplificara al participar en la ceremonia de cada recreación activa. 

    A la vez, su obra reúne una comunidad —personas y objetos— hecha de sujetos entrelazados en la que no existen dos variantes iguales o reproducibles y la energía y la resonancia de cada objeto cargado se condensa en una económica poesía de la acción, en esa esencia de frecuencias vacilantes que es la sintaxis de Calder. 

    Además de la dimensión física de sus obras, Calder capta nuestros sueños, magnifica nuestros miedos y muestra fracasos y límites, pero sus presentaciones también nos ofrecen la posibilidad de evitar la estática suficiencia institucional de una galería de arte o un museo. Al evitarla, nos activamos en la reunión de ese teatro de encuentros. 

    En otra carta a Sweeney, esta del 19 de julio de 1934, Calder propone: 

Estoy muy interesado en desarrollar una especie de ballet propio y buscar la forma de grabarlo para que pueda reproducirse. 

Uno se sienta en el frente + ve lo que está pasando 
(mi marco es blanco) 
Los fondos pueden cambiar y las luces se pueden variar.
Los discos pueden moverse a cualquier lugar dentro de los límites del marco, a cualquier velocidad. 
Cada disco y las poleas que lo sostienen están en un plano vertical separado, paralelo
al marco.
El número de discos puede incrementarse indefinidamente —dependiendo del espacio que se necesite para que pasen. 
Además de los discos hay banderines de colores (de tela), con pesas en cada uno, que vuelan a altas velocidades— y varios objetos sólidos, pedazos de manguera, resortes, etc. 

Por cierto, Jim, te importaría guardar esta carta en algún lugar donde la puedas encontrar si en algún momento fuera conveniente conseguir una patente (¿suena esto como Archipunko?).  Para conseguir la patente lo mejor es tener una descripción escrita, como esta con fecha y testigo. (Así que sería bueno que tú y Laura firmaran y fecharan cada hoja). 

Esto lo tenía en París en la primavera de 1933 y se lo mostré a  Massine —junto con muchas otras cosas, y es lo que quería hacer para los Ballets Russes. 

Claro, el verdadero problema es cómo magnificar el movimiento a un proscenio de tamaño natural— pero se me ocurren varias formas de hacerlo.24 


 

    Como tal, Calder es un gran reformador del teatro, quien desdibuja límites y carga los objetos presentes con duda en los semiobjetos y con un erotismo casi real.  

Entretanto, tú y yo trazamos nuestra experiencia colectiva sobre un teatro de encuentros en expansión, extasiados sobre el escenario de la exposición, el espacio social donde todo (objetos, público y espacio) actúa, como en el concepto de Bruno Laour, en el que el actor transforma, modifica, perturba o crea otro actor momentáneo. La exposición se convierte, por lo tanto, en el registro de la coreografía y la sinfonía de todos nosotros. “La sinfonía se completa cuando se suman el color y el sonido, haciendo un llamado a que nuestros sentidos sigan una partitura invisible”, escribe Duchamp sobre la obra de Calder.25     

Al idealismo y a su compañera de viaje, la duda, los mueve una creencia falsa en la perfección. Si la perfección y el idealismo son satisfactorios, el fracaso y la duda nos enganchan, son una fuerza creativa concreta, y uno de los dos —o ambos— nos llevan hacia lo desconocido. Es el vacío. La nada. La apertura. 

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What Abstract Art Means to Me


Alexander Calder

My entrance into the field of abstract art came about as the result of a visit to the studio of Piet Mondrian in Paris in 1930.

I was particularly impressed by some rectangles of color he had tacked on his wall in a pattern after his nature.

I told him I would like to make them oscillate—he objected. I went home and tried to paint abstractly—but in two weeks

I was back again among plastic materials.

I think that at that time and practically ever since, the underlying sense of form in my work has been the system of the Universe, or part thereof. For that is a rather large model to work from.

What I mean is that the idea of detached bodies floating in space, of different sizes and densities, perhaps of different colors and temperatures, and surrounded and interlarded with wisps of gaseous condition, and some at rest, while others move in peculiar manners, seems to me the ideal source of form.

I would have them deployed, some nearer together and some at immense distances.

And great disparity among all the qualities of these bodies, and their motions as well.

A very exciting moment for me was at the planetarium—when the machine was run fast for the purpose of explaining its operation: a planet moved along a straight line, then suddenly made a complete loop of 360° off to one side, and then went off in a straight line in its original direction.

I have chiefly limited myself to the use of black and white as being the most disparate colors. Red is the color most opposed to both of these—and then, finally, the other primaries. The secondary colors and intermediate shades serve only to confuse and muddle the distinctness and clarity.

When I have used spheres and discs, I have intended that they should represent more than what they just are. More or less as the earth is a sphere, but also has some miles of gas about it, volcanoes upon it, and the moon making circles around it, and as the sun is a sphere—but also is a source of intense heat, the effect of which is felt at great distances. A ball of wood or a disc of metal is rather a dull object without this sense of something emanating from it.

When I use two circles of wire intersecting at right angles, this to me is a sphere—and when I use two or more sheets of metal cut into shapes and mounted at angles to each other, I feel that there is a solid form, perhaps concave, perhaps convex, filling in the dihedral angles between them. I do not have a definite idea of what this would be like, I merely sense it and occupy myself with the shapes one actually sees.

Then there is the idea of an object floating—not supported—the use of a very long thread, or a long arm in cantilever as a means of support seems to best approximate this freedom from the earth.

Thus what I produce is not precisely what I have in mind—but a sort of sketch, a man-made approximation.

That others grasp what I have in mind seems unessential, at least as long as they have something else in theirs.

Alexander Calder The Clangor (Dogwood), 1941 [El estruendo (Cornejo)] Lmina de metal, cable y pintura. 2018 Calder Foundation, New York / Artists Rights Society (ARS), New York.

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Calder con Untitled, c. 1936 (Sin ttulo), Calder: Mobiles and Stabiles (Calder: mviles y stabiles), Mayor Gallery, Londres, 1937. 2018 Calder Foundation, New York / Artists Rights Society (ARS), New York.

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Calders Mobility


por George Baker

support this dream, the imagination of a bird ascendant. But Calder made the fantasy real. And if sculpture was no longer a body, grounded and ponderous; if sculpture now could fly, or float, unmoored: two further negations unfolded. As opposed to the cumbersome mass of traditional sculpture, Calder's objects presented an aesthetic of weightlessness, a sculpture of lightness and fragility. As opposed to the stubborn immobility of sculpture, eternally static and unchanging, Calder's work embraced motion, a series of objects opened up by contingency and chance.  Flatness, inmateriality, and virtuality; weightlessness, suspension, and mobility: These are Calder's sculptural innovations, the tactics his work summons us to understand anew. If they are to be understood as simple negations of sculptural convention, the tactics would seem to call up the modemist project of abstraction. But as opposed to negation, Calder's favorite word for his aesthetic imperative was instead disparity. “To me,” Calder wrote,"the most important thing in composition is disparity."? He repeatedly chose black and white as the most disparate of tones; red, for providing an equally disparate contrast with them. Contradiction rather than negation seems to be at stake. Fernand Léger (1881-1955) pointed to the humor such contradic- tion might provoke, the intense disjunction Calder's objects embraced, in his description of the disparity between Calder's body and the sculptural aesthetic he produced:  “It would be difficult to find greater contrast between two things than between Calder, who weighs 220 pounds, and his slender, gossamer mobiles. Calder is something like a walking tree trunk, displacing a lot of air as he moves, and blocking the wind"  Disparity, evidently, points in a different direction than abstraction. It points to a connection, illogical and contradictory, between the most incongruent things. It also points toward one of the repressed dimensions of the origins of Calder's aesthetic, one far afield (disparate) from the landscape of abstract modernism. For everything militates against locating this origin point in the formative visit Calder paid to the studio of Piet Mondrian in 1930, deciding to produce “abstract” work in this visit's wake. Such is the story that every historian seizes upon in announcing the onset of Calder's mobiles. But Calder's mature sculpture originated in relationship to a very different set of artists. These were the artists who, notoriously, named his practice; who recognized it, we might say: Marcel Duchamp (1887-1968) and Jean Arp (1886-1966). It was Duchamp who christened the mobiles; it was Arp, slightly later, who called Calder's stationary works stabiles. It is a recognition that forces us to consider the links between Calder's work and Dada“  If Dada's contribution to modemn sculpture can be summed up with Duchamp's word readymade, the connection to Calder's work would seem se- verely attenuated. Nothing could be further from Calder's aesthetic—no matter his engagement in the 1930s and 1940s with material we might call “found objects"—than the nonproduction, the anti-production, of the readymade. The majority of Calder's early works are instead jerry-built; they showcase the obsessive labors of a tinkerer, being resolutely if intuitively handmade, the products of the workshop and the tool shed3 And yet Duchamp focused on something else about Calder's work when he shared with his new friend the word mobile, a term he had previously applied to his own moving objects (some of them readymades)* He focused on the unclassifiable nature of Calder's “line”: “Calder's line was so distant from any established formula, that there was a need to invent a new name for his forms in motion.” Line points away from the readymade and toward Duchamp's and Dada's images—to works like Duchamp's The Large Glass (The Bride Stripped Bare by Her Bachelors, Even) (1915-23) or Picabia's "mechanomorphs” created in the same time frame as The Large Glass—and thus to what has been called Dada's engagement with the “bachelor machine” As imagined in Duchamp's The Large Glass, a bachelor machine contem- plates an impossible fusion between bodies and machines. Duchamp's spinning “water mill,” his “chocolate grinders,” his “malic molds": A bachelor machine operates a logic of conjunction that will never be achieved—the interpenetra- tion of body and machine, the bachelors seeking erotic union with their “bride"—a combination that cannot be resolved. They are machines that thus allegorize states of hybridity, incompletion, and perpetual motion. Their frus- trated drive toward erotic fusion produces both failure and violence—an endless inscription, a kind of “writing,” as Michel de Certeau has asserted, that is also a form of self-abnegation, a ceaseless “torture.”* Endlessly spinning, endlessly connecting, endlessly producing, the bachelor machine achieves only a wayward drift. Duchamp composed for them a hymn he called his "Litanies of the Chariot," the bachelor machine's incessantly repeated chant: "Slow life. Vicious circle. Onanism. Horizontal. Round trip for the buffer. Junk of life. Cheap construction. Tin, cords, iron wire. Eccentric wooden pulleys. Monotonous fly wheel. Beer professor"

A Propos of Measuring a Mobile
por Alexander Calder

It was more or less directly as a result of my visit to Piet Mondrian’s studio in 1930, and the sight of all his rectangles of color deployed on the wall, that my first work in the abstract was based on the concept of stellar relationships. Since then there have been variations from this theme, but I always seem to come back to it, in some form or other. For though the lightness of a pierced or serrated solid or surface is extremely interesting the still greater lack of weight of deployed nuclei is much more so.

I say nuclei, for to me whatever sphere, or other form, I use in these constructions does not necessarily mean a body of that size, shape or color, but may mean a more minute system of bodies, an atmospheric condition, or even a void. I.E. the idea that one can compose any things of which he can conceive.

To me the most important thing in composition is disparity. Thus black and white are the strong colors, with a spot of red to mark the other corner of a triangle which is by no means equilateral, isosceles, or right. To vary this still further use yellow, then, later, blue. Anything suggestive of symmetry is decidedly undesirable, except possibly where an approximate symmetry is used in a detail to enhance the inequality with the general scheme.

The admission of approximation is necessary, for one cannot hope to be absolute in his precision. He cannot see, or even conceive of a thing from all possible points of view, simultaneously. While he perfects the front, the side, or rear may be weak; then while he strengthens the other facade he may be weakening that originally the best. There is no end to this. To finish the work he must approximate.

In a way it is even desirable that one face be of finer quality than the others, for this gives a head and a tail to the object and makes it more alive.

A knowledge of, and sympathy with, the qualities of the materials used are essential to proper treatment.

Stone, the most ancient, should be kept massive, not cut into ribbons. The strength must be retained.

Bronze, cast, serves well for slender, attenuated shapes. It is strong even when very slender.

Wood has a grain which must be reckoned with. It can be slender in one direction only.

Wire, rods, sheet metal have strength, even in very attenuated forms, and respond quickly to whatever sort of work one may subject them to. Contrasts in mass or weight are feasible, too, according to the gauge, or to the kind of metal used, so that physical laws, as well as aesthetic concepts, can be held to. There is of course a close alliance between physics and aesthetics.

Strength and durability in sculpture are highly desirable. However, fineness and delicacy may be even more essential to the general concept, and it will then be necessary to decide which is to control the design.

Also there is the possibility of using motion in an object as part of the design and composition. The sculpture then becomes in one sense a machine, and as such it will be necessary to design it as a machine, so that the moving parts shall have a reasonable ruggedness. Even those sculptures designed to be propelled by the wind are still machines, and should be considered thus, as well as aesthetically.

However the mechanical element must never control the aesthetic. Much better a poor machine and a good sculpture.

So-called Industrial Design is not a fine art. Its motive is to instill “style,” i.e. a yearly trend, be it up or be it down, in our daily commodities. There are certain makes of automobiles, whose body designs of a few years ago were simpler and much better than those of 1941–42. And after accustoming ourselves to the hardy simplicity of Army trucks and Jeeps for a few years we are threatened with being subjected to cars after the war whose design will be essentially that of the 1941–42 vintage.

As mobiles are so particularly my product I feel a word or two about their measuring and handling to be fitting. A mobile in motion leaves an invisible wake behind it, or rather, each element leaves an individual wake behind its individual self. Sometimes these wakes are contracted within each other, and sometimes they are deployed. In this latter position the mobile occupies more space, and it is the diameter of this maximum trajectory that should be considered in measuring a mobile.

In their handling, i.e. setting them in motion by a touch of the hand, consideration should be had for the direction in which the object is designed to move, and for the inertia of the mass involved. Perhaps it is necessary to be fairly familiar with at least that type of mobile in order to decide upon the direction in which it will best move, but a simple glance should be sufficient to estimate the inertia of the various masses. A slow gentle impulse, as though one were moving a barge is almost infallible. In any case, gentle is the word.

Andr Kertsz Calder con Eucalyptus, 1940 (Eucalipto), 1940 Fotografa blanco y negro Andr Kertsz - RMN. 2018 Calder Foundation, New York / Artists Rights Society (ARS), New York.

Alexander Calder Object with Red Ball, 1931 (Objeto con bola roja). 2018 Calder Foundation, New York / Artists Rights Society (ARS), New York.

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Calder, "Un 'Mobile'", Abstraction-Cration. Arte no figurativo n.o 2 (1933) mostrando Cadre rouge, 1932 (Marco rojo). 2018 Calder Foundation, New York / Artists Rights Society (ARS), New York.

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Mobiles


por Alexander Calder

When an artist explains what he is doing he usually has to do one of two things: either scrap what he has explained, or make his subsequent work fit in with the explanation. Theories may be all very well for the artist himself, but they shouldn’t be broadcast to other people. All that I shall say here will be about what I have already done, not about what I am going to do.

I began by studying engineering. But after four years I decided that engineering did not allow enough play of ingenuity on my part. When I was working in a logging camp I first started painting. I went to New York, and then to Paris, where I started making wire toys—caricatures of people and animals, some of them articulated. Then I made things in wood, taking a lump of wood and making very little alteration in its shape—just enough to turn it into something different. Then I made a circus with elephants, horses, a lion, Roman chariots and so on: basically of wire, but with cork and wood and bright colours added. Most of these objects also were articulated, so that they made characteristic gestures. The material for this was based on my observation at the circus, and on drawings of it. I was always interested in circuses.

My father was a sculptor and my mother a painter, but it was quite accidentally that I became mixed up with modern art. Through a neighbor who knew about modern art—he had read the books, and so on—I went to see Mondrian. I was very much moved by Mondrian’s studio, large, beautiful and irregular in shape as it was, with the walls painted white and divided by black lines and rectangles of bright colour, like his paintings. It was very lovely, with a cross-light (there were windows on both sides), and I thought at the time how fine it would be if everything there moved; though Mondrian himself did not approve of this idea at all. I went home and tried to paint. But wire, or something to twist, or tear, or bend, is an easier medium for me to think in. I started with a few simple forms. My first show was at the Galerie Percier, of simple things ranged on a plank against a wall. In a way, some of those things were as plastic as anything I have done. They did not move, but they had plastic qualities. Then I made one or two things that moved in a slight degree. I had the idea of making one or two objects at a time find actual relationships in space.

I did a setting for Satie’s Socrate in Hartford, U.S.A., which I will describe, as it serves as an indication of a good deal of my subsequent work.

There is no dancing in it. It is sung by two people—a man and a woman. The singing is the main thing in it. The proscenium opening was 12 feet by 30 feet. There were three elements in the setting. As seen from the audience, there was a red disc about 30 inches across, left centre. Near the left edge there was a vertical rectangle, 3 feet by 10 feet, standing on the floor. Towards the right, there were two 7 foot steel hoops at right angles on a horizontal spindle, with a hook one end and a pulley the other, so that it could be rotated in either direction, and raised and lowered. The whole dialogue was divided into three parts: 9, 9, and 18 minutes long. During the first part the red disc moved continuously to the extreme right, then to the extreme left (on cords) and then returned to its original position, the whole operation taking 9 minutes. In the second section there was a minute at the beginning with no movement at all, then the steel hoops started to rotate toward the audience, and after about three more minutes they were lowered towards the floor. Then they stopped, and started to rotate again in the opposite direction. Then in the original direction. Then they moved upwards again. That completed the second section. In the third, the vertical white rectangle tilted gently over to the right until it rested on the ground, on its long edge. Then there was a pause. Then it fell over slowly away from the audience, face on the floor. Then it came up again with the other face towards the audience; and that face was black. Then it rose into a vertical position again, still black, and moved away towards the right. Then, just at the end, the red disc moved off to the left. The whole thing was very gentle, and subservient to the music and the words.

For a couple of years in Paris I had a small ballet-object, built on a table with pulleys at the top of a frame. It was possible to move coloured discs across the rectangle, or fluttering pennants, or cones; to make them dance, or even have battles between them. Some of them had large, simple, majestic movements; others were small and agitated. I tried it also in the open air, swung between trees on ropes, and later Martha Graham and I projected a ballet on these lines. For me, increase in size—working full-scale in this way—is very interesting. I once saw a movie made in a marble quarry, and the delicacy of movement of the great masses of marble, imposed of necessity by their great weight, was very handsome. My idea with the mechanical ballet was to do it independently of dancers, or without them altogether, and I devised a graphic method of registering the ballet movements, with the trajectories marked with different coloured chalks or crayons.

I have made a number of things for the open air: all of them react to the wind, and are like a sailing vessel in that they react best to one kind of breeze. It is impossible to make a thing work with every kind of wind. I also used to drive some of my mobiles with small electric motors, and though I have abandoned this to some extent now, I still like the idea, because you can produce a positive instead of a fitful movement— though on occasions I like that too. With a mechanical drive, you can control the thing like the choreography in a ballet and superimpose various movements: a great number, even, by means of cams and other mechanical devices. To combine one or two simple movements with different periods, however, really gives the finest effect, because while simple, they are capable of infinite combinations.

Ugo Mulas Trois disques, 1967 (Tres discos). Montreal, 1967 Fotografa blanco y negro Ugo Mulas Heirs. 2018 Calder Foundation, New York / Artists Rights Society (ARS), New York.

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Talks with Alexander Calder
por Katharine Kuh

Question: Does your work satirize the modern machin

Calder: No, it doesn’t. That’s funny, because I once intended making a bird that would open its beak, spread its wings and squeak if you turned a crank, but I didn’t because I was slow on the uptake and I found that Klee had done it earlier with his Twittering Machine and probably better than I could. In about 1929, I did make two or three fish bowls with fish that swam when you turned a crank. And  then, of course, you know about the Circus. I’ve just made a film of it in France with Carlos Vilardebo.

Question: Which has influenced you more, nature or modern machinery?

Calder: Nature. I haven’t really touched machinery except for a few elementary mechanisms like   levers and balances. You see nature and then you try to emulate it. But, of course, when I met Mondrian I went home and tried to paint. The basis of everything for me is the universe. The simplest forms in the universe are the sphere and the circle. I represent them by disks and then I vary them.

My whole theory about art is the disparity that exists between form, masses and movement. Even my triangles are spheres, but they are spheres of a different shape.

Question: How do you get that subtle balance in your work?

Calder: You put a disk here and then you put another disk that is a triangle at the other end and then you balance them on your finger and keep on adding. I don’t use rectangles––they stop. You can use them; I have at times but only when I want to block, to constipate movement.

Question: Is it true that Marcel Duchamp invented the name “mobile” for your work?

Calder: Yes, Duchamp named the mobiles and Arp the stabiles. Arp said, “What did you call those things you exhibited last year? Stabiles?”

Question: Were the mobiles influenced by your Circus?

Calder: I don’t think the Circus was really important in the making of the mobiles. In 1926 I met a Yugoslav in Paris and he said that if I could make mechanical toys I could make a living, so I went home and thought about it awhile and made some toys, but by the time I got them finished my Yugoslav had disappeared. I always loved the circus––I used to go in New York when I worked on the Police Gazette. I got a pass and went every day for two weeks, so I decided to make a circus just for   the fun of it.

Question: How did the mobiles start?

Calder: The mobiles started when I went to see Mondrian. I was impressed by several colored rectangles he had on the wall. Shortly after that I made some mobiles; Mondrian claimed his paintings were faster than my mobiles.

Question: What role does color play in your sculpture?

Calder: Well, it’s really secondary. I want things to be differentiated. Black and white are first––then red is next––and then I get sort of vague. It’s really just for differentiation, but I love red so much that I almost want to paint everything red. I often wish that I’d been a fauve in 1905.

Question: Do you think that your early training as an engineer has affected your work?

Calder: It’s made things simple for me that seem to confound other people, like the mechanics of the mobiles. I know this, because I’ve had contact with one or two engineers who understood my methods. I don’t think the engineering really has much to do with my work; it’s merely the means of attaining an aesthetic end.

Question: How do you feel about your imitators?

Calder: They nauseate me.

Question: Do you make preliminary sketches?

Calder: I’ve made so many mobiles that I pretty well know what I want to do, at least where the smaller ones are concerned, but when I’m seeking a new form, then I draw and make little models out of sheet metal. Actually the one at Idlewild (in the International Arrival Building) is forty-­‐five feet long and was made from a model only seventeen inches long. For the very big ones I don’t have machinery large enough, so I go to a shop and become the workman’s helper.

Question: How do you feel about commissions?

Calder: They give me a chance to undertake something of considerable size. I don’t mind planning a work for a given place. I find that everything I do, if it is made for a particular spot, is more successful. A little thing, like this one on the table, is made for a spot on a table.

Question: Do you prefer making the large ones?

Calder: Yes––it’s more exhilarating––and then one can think he’s a big shot.

Question: How do your mobiles differ from your stabiles in intention?

Calder: Well, the mobile has actual movement in itself, while the stabile is back at the old painting  idea of implied movement. You have to walk around a stabile or through it––a mobile dances in front of you. You can walk through my stabile in the Basel museum. It’s a bunch of triangles leaning against each other with several large arches flying from the mass of triangles.

Question: Why walk through it?

Calder: Just for fun. I’d like people to climb over it but it isn’t big enough. I’ve never been to the Statue of Liberty but I understand it’s quite wonderful to go into it, to walk through.

Question: Léger once called you a realist. How do you feel about this?

Calder: Yes, I think I am a realist.

Question: Why?

Calder: Because I make what I see. It’s only the problem of seeing it. If you can imagine a thing, conjure it up in space––then you can make it, and tout de suite you’re a realist. The universe is real but you can’t see it. You have to imagine it. Once you imagine it, you can be realistic about reproducing it.

Question: So it’s not the obvious mechanized modern world you’re concerned with?

Calder: Oh, you mean cellophane and all that crap.

Question: How did you begin to use sound in your work?

Calder: It was accidental at first. Then I made a sculpture called Dogwood with three heavy plates that gave off quite a clangor. Here was just another variation. You see, you have weight, form, size, color, motion and then you have noise.

Question: How do you feel about your motorized mobiles?

Calder: The motorized ones are too painful––too many mechanical bugaboos. Even the best are apt to be mechanically repetitious. There’s one thirty feet high in front of Stockholm’s modern museum  made after a model of mine. It has four elements, each operating on a separate motor.

Question: How did you happen to make collapsible mobiles?

Calder: When I had the show in Paris during 1946 at Louis Carré’s gallery, the plans called for small sculptures that could be sent by mail. The size limit for things sent that way was 18 x 10 x 2 inches, so   I made mobiles that would fold up. Rods, plates, everything was made in two or three pieces and   could be taken apart and folded in a little package. I sent drawings along showing how to reassemble the pieces.

Question: You don’t use much glass any more, do you?

Calder: I haven’t used it much lately. A few years ago I took all sorts of colored glass I’d collected and smashed it against the stone wall of the barn. There’s still a mass of glass buried there. In my early mobiles I often used it.

Question: Are there any specific works that you prefer and would like to have reproduced?

Calder: What I like best is the acoustic ceiling in Caracas in the auditorium of the university. It’s made from great panels of plywood–––some thirty feet long––more or less horizontal and tilted to reflect sound. I also like the work I did for UNESCO in Paris and the mobile called Little Blue under Red that belongs to the Fogg. That one develops hypocycloidal and epicycloidal curves. The main problem  there was to keep all the parts light enough to work.

Question: Do you consider your work particularly American?

Calder: I got the first impulse for doing things my way in Paris, so I really can’t say.

Question: Have American cities influenced you?

Calder: I like Chicago on the Michigan Avenue Bridge on a cold wintry night. There used to be no color but the traffic lights, occasional red lights among the white lights. I don’t think that looking at American cities has really affected me. We went to India and I made some mobiles there; they look just like the others

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Varèse on Calder: Excerpt from a Fictional Interview
por Alexander S.C. Rower
 

Being a grandson of Alexander Calder and having known some of his illustrious friends (among them, Marcel Duchamp, Joan Miró, James Johnson Sweeney, and Edgard Varèse), I come across occasions in my study of my grandfather’s life and works where I’d like to have details of circumstance clarified. This fictional interview is an attempt to mollify that desire. It is an amalgam of my personal and profesional experience, put into a different kind of framework.

Alexander S.C. Rower When did you first meet Calder?

Edgard Varèse Frederick Kiesler introduced us in the fall of 1930. I visited Calder’s studio, which, at that time, was on the rue de la Colonie, in the treizième arrondissement. Eventually, he made a fantastic wire portrait of me. As it has had numerous interventions and mishandlings over the years, it now looks more like me as an old man instead of representing my vigorous youth . . . a bit like Dorian Gray! [Laughs.] So, from then on, I became a frequent visitor, especially around the time he prepared for his show at Galerie Percier in 1930–31. I liked to watch him work, as his abstract compositions resonated with some of my own, such as Intégrales [1924–25] or Ionisation [1929–31].1

ASCR Your wire portrait, now at the Whitney Museum of American Art, New York, was not the only “portrait” Calder made of you. He also made Musique de Varèse [ca.1931], an abstract stabile that premiered at Percier [1]. It comprises an implied sphere of two wire circles that intersect at right angles, with a piece of shiny, tin plated sheet metal at its center that engages a radiating plane. Two small objects, a white wooden sphere and an ebony cube, project from wires that rise from the light-reflecting sheet metal. Was this one of the compositions that resonated with your music?

EV Yes, it has something of a contrapuntal disparity, much like the organization of my own elements. As I have said before, we actually have three dimensions in music: horizontal, vertical, and dynamic swelling or decreasing. And I added a fourth, sound projection—that feeling that sound leaves us with no hope of being reflected back, a feeling akin to that aroused by beams of light sent forth by a searchlight—for the ear as for the eye, that sense of projection, of a journey into space. Your grandfather understood this. He understood that noise was another whole dimension, and he even said that about his own works.

ASCR True, true. My grandfather also indicated on more than one occasion that the most important thing in a composition was disparity. And he, too, worked in the fourth dimension, realized in sculpture as present-time, active experience. Even before the mobile, his wire sculptures incorporated actual movement. His use of wire brings me to my next question. Would you liken your use of innovative, often pedestrian materials to Calder’s own?

EV When I first met Calder, my credo was “New Ears for New Music and New Music for New Ears.” Everyone was perplexed—not only by my materials but also by the timbre, density, rhythm, texture, approach, and so forth. Pierre Boulez said that the first time he heard Ionisation—featuring thirteen percussionists playing forty instruments, such as anvils, a cowbell, triangles, bongos, a güiro, even a lion’s roar (by way of a cuíca!)—it was like an object coming from Mars. In this sense, my vocabulary was much like Calder’s. He reimagined sculpture with wire, sheet metal, broken bits of glass, gongs, tin cans, and objets trouvés, many of which instigated rather shocking sonorous effects. My music called for new ears, yet Calder’s sculpture called for new eyes and ears. [Laughs.] Even [the journal] Transition missed the mark when, in 1936, it assigned Calder’s work to “The Eye” and mine to “The Ear.” The boundaries are rarely so starkly defined. On another level, one could examine how the namesake of my composition—“ionisation,” this breaking away of electrons from atoms —relates to the “atmospheric conditions”—deployed nuclei, atoms, voids—that Calder spoke about in his sculpture.

ASCR Around 1955, Calder wrote about a “ballet object” he had made in Paris more than twenty years earlier. He called it A Merry Can Ballet [ca. 1932–33] [2]. In his manuscript, he made a drawing of a stick with tin cans hanging from strings, and he wrote, “This was the ‘music’—Varèse liked ballet (but not ‘music’).” What did he mean by that?

EV It is often said that A Merry Can Ballet—the phonetic equivalent of “American ballet,” said with a French accent—referenced my composition of the previous decade, Amériques [1918–21, revised 1927]. Both Calder and I enjoyed puns, as did our friend Duchamp. As far back as the Twenties, I decided to call my music “organized sound” and to call myself, not a musician, but “a worker in rhythms, frequencies, and intensities. Yet the music of Calder’s ballet—this collection of tin cans, this notion of chance—was quite challenging for me to accept. His sculptures, especially Small Sphere and Heavy Sphere [1932 / 33], really sent the whole of the Parisian avant-garde into a conceptual conundrum (cat.p.156). But his sound experiments in structured chance were prophetic. In hindsight, it is clear that Calder’s various compositional exercises had a great impact on the young crowd John Cage, Earle Brown, and the like.

ASCR Calder used sound as an aesthetic médium as early as 1932, beginning with Small Sphere and Heavy Sphere. Do you suppose you inspired him?

EV I remember Calder saying that the sirens in Ionisation were the best notes in my music, although he did not make any such direct references in his compositions. My piece was a percussive ensemble, and, in many ways, so was Small Sphere and Heavy Sphere, with its disconcerting crashes, thuds, and so forth— all part of a real-time orchestration. Even more, it was an open composition, meaning that circumstances awaken the form of gesture. Looking back, I can see that this, too, is the actuality of the art in the “mobiles,” veritable tools to present or perform the necessary non-sequence of surprise and happenstance— the build and release of anticipation, as in the circus or good choreography. And yet the defining actions in his special space-time end up with our perceiving something greater than ourselves . . . something universal.

ASCR In Small Sphere and Heavy Sphere, displacing the large “heavy sphere,” which is made of cast iron, sets the small wooden ball in motion around a seemingly random collection of repurposed objects situated on the floor, which have been organized by the viewer. Clearly, this work was a forerunner not only of chance composition but also of avant-garde music in a broader sense. For one, Calder was asking the viewer to step into the roles of composer and conductor, of a sort. How does this compare to—or serve as a departure from—your experiments around that time?

EV I was never interested in the concept of “intervention”—I was seeking technological means to infallibly deliver the sounds I had in mind. I was confronted with tremendous resistance from the musical academic world, which prevented access to greater electronic tools for research and experimentation. I attempted to found a scientific laboratory in order to solve certain musical problems— for example, the impossibility of infinitely sustaining a pitch. This was in the pre electronic age, of course. I employed the means I had at hand, somewhat akin to Calder’s use of everyday materials and his exploitation of their limits. A bit later in my life, Earle Brown brought together a group of jazz musicians whom I directed with graphic notation in a semi-improvisatory fashion, but this was a dalliance. Charlie Parker sought me out as a composition teacher, but he died just days before our planned first lesson.

Herbert Matter Calder con el marco para Snake and the Cross (Serpiente y la cruz) (1936) en su taller a la calle en Nueva York, invierno 1936 Fotografa blanco y negro 2018 Calder Foundation, New York

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{NOTA_EPIGRAFE_5}

{NOTA_EPIGRAFE_6}

{NOTA_TEXTO}