The memories I have of Nicanor Parra, over a bottle of chicha, date from half a century ago. At the age of twenty, I had his theories burned into my mind as if by a red-hot iron. But this concealment of the ego, this veiling of personal emotions, this impersonality of the creator, led me toward magic rather than distancing me from it. In magic, the same principles apply, but go further: the magician accepts the cutting of the ties that bind him to external influences, but knows how to receive, from the inside, the essential, impersonal being that has its origin beyond our solar system.
Parra was present in one of my happy dreams in 1998: in the helicopter I am piloting circling around the mouth of an erupting volcano Nicanor, as a young man, gives a lesson in poetry to a group of elderly poets. “Do not describe your experiences; the poem should be experience. Do not show what you are, but what you are going to be. Do not show your feelings; create a new feeling with the poem. Do not reveal what you know, but what you suspect. Do not seek what you desire, but what you do not desire. So, now that you are a dream, stop dreaming.” Then I woke up.
When I got to Paris, not having been able to establish the immediate contact I so much desired with André Breton and being always in search of metaphysical aspirin that would comfort me for being mortal, I found two teachers in books. One was Gurdjieff; I read everything he had written or dictated, as well as the works about him written by his disciples. The other was Gaston Bachelard, whose book La philosophie du non endeared me to philosophy and proposed new visions of reality that overwhelmed me. I gradually came to know excellent artists who, although they enriched me aesthetically, never suggested the idea of entering into the territory of magic or therapy. Quite the contrary, their quest was to escape from the Essential Being in order to exalt the power of the personal “I.” I do not mean to imply that I despise this; unlike some extemporaneous gurus, I believe that the part of our spirit with which we often identify ourselves — the ego — should not be destroyed or neglected. When well-managed, the egotistic personality can become an admirable servant. It is for this reason that the Buddha is depicted meditating on a sleeping tiger, Jesus Christ riding a donkey, Isis stroking a cat. The gods have steeds, and these represent the ego. The personal “I” is admirable if it is surrendered to the cosmic will. If it disobeys the Law, it becomes a nefarious monster that devours consciousness.
The Canadian sculptor Jean Benoit, a fervent surrealist, invited me to spend a few days of vacation in Saint-Cirq-Lapopie, a small town in southern France. Across from his house was that of André Breton, built of wood and carved stones. My friend laughed at my shyness and dragged me over to the home of the poet. His wife received us, saying she did not know where André was but that he would return soon and that we could wait while she was in the kitchen. I waited there with Benoit, who, joyously anticipating the future encounter and certain that it would be “electric,” began emptying a bottle of wine. I trembled from head to toe. The idea of seeing the mythological creator of surrealism in his private home caused me a nervous excitement, a mixture of panic and euphoria. After ten minutes I had an irresistible need to urinate. Benoit, enjoying the wine, made a vague gesture toward the stairs leading to another floor. “It’s on the left.” I climbed the stairs looking for the bathroom, feeling like an intruder but at the same time possessed by an extreme curiosity. On the second floor, I saw a small wooden door to the left. My pressing need to relieve myself caused me to open the door immediately. There I was, face to face with the master, sitting on the toilet, pants down below his knees, defecating. Breton, his face contorted and deep red, gave a tremendous yell as if his throat were being cut. His cry must have been heard not only throughout the house but also in the surrounding houses, because several dogs started barking. I slammed the door instantly and flew down the stairs, fled to the station, and got on a bus that was going to Paris. The scene had lasted only a few seconds, but I had committed sacrilege by seeing the exquisite poet shitting. Would it be forgiven someday? Doubting so, I decided to emigrate to Mexico.
The National Institute of Fine Arts, led by the poet Salvador Novo, hired me to teach pantomime in its theater school. My arrival in Mexico’s capital aroused much enthusiasm, and I had hundreds of students. My goal was to move from pantomime into theater — why not talk? — and thence into film, for which I had to train capable actors. I set up a laboratory for the study of bodily expressions at a private site, freeing myself from the stereotypes of pantomime. I was surprised to see the arrival of a group of doctors, all disciples of Erich Fromm. This renowned psychiatrist and essayist, suffering from heart disease, lived very near the capital in the pleasant city of Cuernavaca, which at that time was not yet sullied by pollution, enjoying the mild climate, lush vegetation, and low altitude close to sea level. A group of Mexican psychiatrists and two Colombians, drawn to his radical humanism, had asked Fromm to accept them as disciples. I suppose that Fromm found them to be caught in the traps of intellect, and in keeping with his atheist mysticism—“God is not a thing, and therefore cannot be represented by a name or an image”—invited them to free themselves from all mental chains, all “idolatries,” and to lose their individual limits in order to surrender peacefully to a happy relationship with nature. Of course, the body was the nature that was nearest, and for this reason, having learned of my courses in bodily expression, he recommended them to all. These psychiatrists, extraordinarily well educated after many years of intensive study, were skillful at handling theories but awkward when moving their bodies. Stiff, tense, and inexpressive, they identified with words and did not control their gestures. The first thing I did was to have them visit different spaces to feel how their attitudes changed depending on the dimensions of the place and the location of their bodies. They saw that they felt better or worse in certain places than in others; they understood that communication is not only oral but also spatial; they learned that their brains functioned on the basis of a territory, real or imagined. They noticed how rigid their spines were and how unbalanced their gait. They took the work very seriously and made great progress. I was asked by Dr. Millán to accompany them to the Tlalpam Sanatorium to help them investigate the body language of mental patients. I did so. Pleased with the results, they finally decided to invite me to Cuernavaca to meet their teacher.
Performing in a pantomime (Santiago de Chile, 1950). (Was I a precursor to Iggy Pop?)
Fromm received us in a beautiful bungalow with bougainvillea-covered walls. He had white hair and gentle blue eyes, a voice free of aggression, often quoting the Torah to affirm his atheism, and wore white pants and a light blue jacket so brightly colored that it gave him the appearance of an orchestral musician in the style of Tommy Dorsey. This kind Jewish man seemed to bear no resemblance to the stern father image that he projected to his Mexican students. As his wife served an appetizer, Fromm asked me to describe the techniques of pantomime, especially those related to the expression of weight. “The man who has not realized his freedom, that is to say who has not cut his incestuous ties to his mother and the ties connecting him to his family and his homeland, experiences all these as a burden without knowing that he carries that weight,” he said to me. As our conversation continued, Fromm suggested that we go to lunch at a restaurant on one of the hills on the outskirts of Cuernavaca. “I will go by car with the mime,” he announced to his students. “My heart does not allow me to take the pleasure of that delightful climb. But I advise you to go on foot, in complete harmony with nature and one another. All love is based on knowledge of the other; all knowledge of the other is based on shared experience.” When we arrived at the restaurant Fromm asked for a jug of tamarind water and said to me with a blissful smile, “Let’s drink this healthy liquid in tranquillity. My collaborators, talking to each other and enjoying the beautiful scenery, will take at least an hour to get here.”