Barcelona Metropolis

The photograph is printed in black and white, blown up so that objects displayed are almost life-sized. At the centre of the image, between two half-paintings cut off by the frame, four unused hangers sit in a row. The picture is fuzzy, making it even more phantasmagorical. A stain of dark pigment descends from the hangers; perhaps it’s a shadow, you can’t tell the difference. The outline of the absent painting, slightly smaller than its neighbours, can still be seen. The naked stretch of wall, robbed of its artwork, shines in a gold-tinged light. Witnessing the capricious disappearance of the image is disturbing, especially when presented to us in the apparently static form of a photograph. The Mona Lisa isn’t really there; nevertheless, some element of it survives in the image. It’s so absent and luminous!

On a stand at a height of ninety centimetres and a half sits Joan Brossa’s Elegy to Leonardo da Vinci, the author of the piece starring in the previous photograph. The black case of a compass sits open and empty on a prismatic base of polished, white, light-veined marble. The effect of the chromatic contrast between the two elements is blinding. Within the case is the cushioned relief of the geometer’s tool. In spite of the surgical neatness of the composition, its tragedy can be felt. It gives the impression of a great deal of density in such a trifling object. The entire Cartesian imaginary, luxurious and aristocratic, is presented to us with the volatility of nostalgia. Brossa celebrates it like a precious museum piece.

In spite of their diversity of formats and authorships, the other pieces share with the aforementioned two the same aloof character, a certain darkness… The feeling is that the works on display are only visible in how they attempt to hide themselves. It’s as though their purpose was to make us see, rather than to show us. This assumption takes on a paradoxical, almost humorous tone alongside a photograph by Martin Parr from 2012 at the end of the exhibit. In the foreground, we can clearly see the screens of three mobile phones. They’re held aloft by three of the many anonymous tourists that snap pictures of the Mona Lisa in its current location. The star painting sits blurry in the background. If you look carefully, you’ll see that the person on the right really has their hands full. While they take pictures on their phone, they perform a balancing act to keep hold of the museum map. In spite of everything, the image has a tinge of resistance. In spite of everything.

Curator Alexandra Laudo and her team deserve to be congratulated for their excellent job. Their good taste and great care can be perceived here and there, from the pieces selected to the texts composed. It’s a carefully woven exhibit, although the connection between the different pieces may not seem evident at first glance. It includes Éloge de l’amour (2001) by Jean-Luc Godard alongside El lloc i la data (1991) by Perejaume, Christo’s project to cover the Columbus Monument in Barcelona (1984) in front of Sobre el sobre (1988) by Joan Brossa, or the entry Les yeux from Arxiu F.X. (2001) by Pedro G. Romero in the antechamber of Visual Strike (2012-2015) by Ira Lombardia, among others. The neighbourhood of pieces is surprising, and the dialogue among them is constant. Imagine the din when eyes are absent and the space is free of visitors! It’s a rare sort of exhibit. Plus, we can examine it in detail without leaving exhausted; it’s just the right size.