Matta architect: Writtings
Sensitive Mathematics_Architecture of Time 7 Minotaure Magazine
It is a matter of discovering how to pass between the rages which displace each other in tender parallels, in soft and thick angles, or under the shaggy undulations through which fears are well retained. Man yearns for the obscure pulses of his origin, which enclosed him in humid walls where the blood beat near the eye with the sound of the mother. Let man be caught, incrusted, until he possesses a geometry where the rhythms of crumpled marble paper, of breadcrumb, smoke’s desolation, are to him as the pupil of an eye between lips. Let us put aside the techniques which consist of setting up materials always used and brutally push him who inhabits them into the midst of a final theatre where he is everything, argument and actor, scenery and that silo inside of which he can live in silence among his rags. Let us overturn all the display cases of history with their styles and their elegant wafers so that they may escape from the rays of dust, whose pyrotechnics must create space. And let us stay motionless among revolving walls to rid ourselves with our nails of the crust fetched from the street and from work. We need walls like wet sheets that can deform and embrace our psychological fears, arms that hang among light switches throwing light that barks at shapes and at their colored shadows susceptible to awaken the gums themselves like sculptures for lips. Leaning on his elbows, our protagonist feels deformed to spasm in the corridor, reeling, and caught between the vertigo of equal sides and the panic of suction, giddy when he finally realizes the efforts of the clock which manages to impose an hour on the infinity of time of those objects describing in wood or in eloquence their existence, which he knows is perpetually threatened. And he wants to have at his disposal surfaces which he could fasten to himself exactly, and which, carrying our organs in wellbeing or sorrow to their supreme degree of consciousness, would awaken the mind on command. For that, one insinuates the body as in a cast, as in a matrix cast on our movements, where he will find such a freedom that the liquid avalanche of life which gives in here or resists there will not touch him, without this being of interest to us, however. Objects for the teeth whose bony tips are a lightning rod, ought to inhale our fatigue, propel us angles in an air which will no longer be angel-blue but with which it will be lawful for us to struggle. And again, other objects, opened into, comporting sexes of unusual conformation whose discovery provokes to ecstasy desires more stirring than those of man for woman. Until the knowledge of the very nervous irresolutions which can compensate for the full opening of trees and clouds from this window onto always identical daylight, plated from the outside. In a corner where we can hide our acid pleats and bewail our timidity when a lace, a brush, or any other object confronts us with our incomprehension; and ever since then, in reaction, consciously, with a hand gloved several times, rub one’s intestines with hosts. This will succeed in creating in one charm and gentleness. Very appetizing and with molded profiles, furniture rolls out deploying unexpected spaces, receding, folding up, filling out like a walk in the water, down to a book which, from mirror to mirror, reflects its images in an unformulizable course designing a new architectural, livable space.
This furniture would relieve the body of its whole past from the right angle of the armchair; abandoning the origin of its predecessors’ style, it would open itself to the elbow, to the nape of the neck, wedding infinite movements according to the organ to render conscious and the intensity of life. To find for each one these umbilical cords that put us in communication with other suns, objects of total freedom that would be like plastic psychoanalytical mirrors. And certain hours of rest as if, among other things, masked firemen, crouching so as to crack no shadow, brought to the Lady a card full of pigeons and a package of moneyboxes. We would need a cry against the digestions of right angles in the midst of which one allows oneself to be brutalized while contemplating numbers like prize tags and considering things only under the aspect of one single time among so many others. By the mixtures of fingers similar to the clenched hands of a woman whose breasts are slashed, the hardenings and softnesses of space would be felt. And we will start to waste it, this filthy ragged time offered us by the sun. And we would ask our mothers to attend the parturition of a piece of furniture with lukewarm lips. Project-model of an apartment: Space to render conscious the human vertical. Different planes, stairway without railing, to control the void. Psychological ionic column. Flexible, pneumatic couches. Materials used: inflatable rubber, cork, several papers; cement, plaster; a rational architecture frame.
(French translation, Carolina Enriquez). .
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