OBJECTS
TINY, WELL DESIGNED objects, made for the eye and the palm, have spread across the planet. They attract the skin, beg for an absentminded caress, the kind you might give the cat. The cat is a living object. We know the hand’s taste for the black, oblong object. How to touch the heart of an object? Is it an issue of volume or body? Extreme pleasure is bound up in this comfort. At its center, each object contains a miniscule object with the same configuration. An object at the heart of the object. Its hard core. Empty. A step into the void. Tropics. My gaze has been conditioned by tropical fruit. Round, colorful, perfumed and edible. With a nut in the center. A fruit that will become one with our body loses its mystery. Whereas our relation with the object can’t go beyond the surface. The object penetrates us, but we can’t touch its heart. It is as impenetrable as a samurai. Yet the object spreads and gives us the illusion of warm contact. There are so many of them that we have stopped paying attention to their presence. With no modesty, we undress in front of objects. We eat as they look on. We quarrel in their presence. We have sex right in front of them. And we keep devising more objects, which end up, in turn, sculpting our lives. More and more frequently, living bodies must use objects to touch. The domination of the object in our sexual lives is undeniable; the emergency rooms at hospitals have seen their share. Japan is frantically fabricating handsome objects that have no function. Why? So we’ll fall in love with them? Is there a greater plan behind it all? Do the new objects ready to invade our shores intend to replace our pets? We need to rethink our relationships with the mineral world. The animal and vegetable realms are losing emotional ground. As for the object, it never grows old. I always carry my own personal movie camera on me; it is the only object that knows how to see.