The Illogic of Kassel

6

A year after that encounter with the fake Chus, at the beginning of September 2012, and a week before I was to fly to Frankfurt to catch the train to Kassel, things had changed, and I was even doubting whether to go on this trip. After a long year in which I’d hardly had any contact with Documenta’s curatorial team, there was almost nothing encouraging me to leave in a week for Germany. In that whole long year I’d received one single succinct email, from someone named Pim Durán, with my Lufthansa tickets attached and instructions for catching the train from Frankfurt to Kassel.

I had no further news from Chus Martínez (or, rather, from the person I believed to be Chus Martínez), and all my attempts to communicate with her had failed. Even so, I was completely sure I’d be seeing Chus as soon as I arrived at Documenta; a friend of hers had told me that most likely she’d been very busy co-curating the huge exhibition and hadn’t had time to get back in touch with me, but in Kassel things would probably be easier.

From what I’d been able to read about Documenta 13, one thing was very clear: that is, it had far surpassed the previous occasion, the twelfth, which, among many other mistakes, had given in to the temptation of pandering to the media by inviting the Catalan chef Ferran Adrià. Its far-reaching television coverage undermined one of the unwritten laws of the twice-a-decade exhibition: to maintain a weak connection with the art market.

As if that weren’t enough, I remembered that the unfortunate twelfth edition had been a venue for Ai Weiwei’s media initiative that surprised everyone by bringing 1,001 Chinese citizens to Documenta. This event cast a shadow over my invitation. When I was seized by gloominess — this inevitably happened every evening and sometimes lasted way into the night — I feared, sometimes very dramatically (as comical as that might seem), that 1,001 Chinese writers were going to show up at the Dschingis Khan to see what I was writing, all standing behind me, at my back, gossiping about my handwriting and my writing behavior. .

In any case, given the lack of attention I’d received over the past year, nothing obliged me to go to Kassel, and even less thinking that the trip was only to hole up in a corner of a Chinese restaurant to show impertinent and curious people what I was writing.

With very little time left before my departure — I see myself on that day I’ve not forgotten, September 4, to be precise, just one week before having to leave for Germany — I remember walking in circles around my desk in Barcelona. Perhaps because of the late evening hour, feeling anxious and tormented, actually completely anguished, I’d been bothering everyone with my huge doubts about whether or not to leave for Frankfurt.

In spite of being invited to travel there, I knew absolutely nothing about Kassel, except that downtown there was a cinema called Gloria, a fascinating photograph of which I’d come across on the Internet one day. I’d saved a copy of it on my computer because there were no longer any screens like that in Barcelona, and because the Gloria seemed so very much like the neighborhood cinemas of my childhood, with continuous showings of classics on the big screens. As a boy, I’d hung around them looking at stills from the next week’s films and also those announced with the ambiguous sign saying “Coming Soon.”

For months, the Gloria Cinema was all of Kassel for me, since at no point did I see any other image of the city. On one occasion I even came to suppose that it was named in homage to the Van Morrison song “Gloria,” that track whose beauty comes in part from the singer only speak-singing, or sing-speaking, imitating a growl like Howlin’ Wolf’s, that son of cotton farmers, whose voice was compared to “the sound of heavy machinery operating on a gravel road.”

In fact, for a whole year, whenever I remembered that I’d soon have to travel to Kassel, all I could think of was going to the Gloria Cinema and the sound of heavy machinery.

Complicating everything on the evening of September 4, when anguish arrived punctually for its appointment with me as it did every evening, I received, through an editor of a newspaper that I habitually contribute to, a message from the Mexican writer Mario Bellatin, one of those authors I knew had preceded me in the Chinese chair at the Dschingis Khan. Bellatin had asked the editor to alert me to certain dangers that awaited me in Kassel: “If you see our mutual friend, tell him to tread carefully at Documenta, because they’re quite irresponsible. The artists get accident insurance, but the writers don’t. I had my computer stolen in broad daylight while I was working, and they couldn’t have cared less.”

When I read this, my fears got much worse and I considered not participating. So this famous Dschingis Khan, I thought, wasn’t just a boring place at the far end of a park; it was also a dive where delinquents came straight in — with machine guns, one could only imagine — and took the tools of trade away from poor prose writers.

I decided I would not go to Kassel, but it didn’t take me long to change my mind again when I remembered how eager I was to know what the state of the avant-garde of contemporary art was. I also thought that if I didn’t go, I’d be left wondering forever what possible hidden charm there might be at the very heart of the Dschingis Khan and Carolyn Christov-Bakargiev and Chus Martínez’s proposal.

Curiosity turned out to be stronger than fear, and I decided I’d go, though there was no way I was going to show up at the Chinese restaurant with my laptop. After all, nobody likes to get their gear stolen. But about three days before embarking on the journey, I sent an email to Bellatin to find out just how dangerous it was to set up in the Dschingis Khan. “Hi, Mario,” I wrote, “I’d like it if you could give me more details about the circumstances surrounding the theft of your computer so I can get a better idea of the situation in which I’ll find myself in a few days in that Chinese restaurant.”

He answered almost instantly: “Don’t worry. You just sit at a table in the back of the restaurant to write for a while. Go with a pencil and eraser and don’t take your laptop, though that’s not where mine got stolen. . I had another activity at the Documenta bookstore. I was working there trying to sell a hybrid book, and that’s where the theft happened, someone in the middle of the throng took my briefcase with all my stuff in it.”

Having learned that the danger wasn’t at the restaurant, I calmed down a little and decided to write Pim Durán to inquire about certain aspects of my upcoming visit. In the email she’d sent me in April, under the letters of her name was written “Personal Assistant to the Head of Documenta and Museum Fridericianum, Veranstaltungs-GmbH, Friedrichsplatz 18.” Such a long description of her position made me remember a Blaise Pascal phrase, a McGuffin about brevity, or its opposite: “The only reason this letter is so long is because I didn’t have time to make it shorter.”

I wrote to Pim Durán: “Dear Pim: The day on which I am theoretically to fly to Frankfurt is approaching, but the lack of news from your end makes me uneasy. All I have is a piece of paper with a round-trip ticket, and nothing else. I don’t know what to expect.”

As soon as I sent that email, I realized that perhaps I’d gone on too long with the text because I hadn’t had time to make it shorter. I was about to send another to apologize when I received this succinct, efficient, very speedy reply from Pim Durán: “I’ll get in touch with Alka, who is the person in charge of your visit to Kassel. Don’t worry, you’ll be well taken care of and we’ll keep you apprised of everything. Alka will be waiting for you at the Frankfurt airport.”

The message calmed me for a few moments, although it worried me to have to depend on Alka, which was an indecipherable name for me. I didn’t know if it was a masculine or feminine name, or that of a fourth-generation German robot. On the other hand, what did this mean, a “person in charge of my visit to Kassel”? Would they not let me take a step on my own?

I did a Google search and found an Alka Kinali, a Croatian belly dancer born in 1986 and known simply as Alka; she’d been dancing since childhood and had won international recognition thanks to a variety program called Zagreb Show. It could be her, why not? I didn’t look any further. When I met Alka, I wouldn’t tell her, but I’d always associate her with the Croatian dancer. My grandmother’s sister had been the lover of a Croatian dancer, but that was another story; it’s probably not at all relevant, although it confirms that, as a dear second cousin, the grandson of my grandmother’s sister, used to say, every story leads to another story, which in turn leads to another story, and so on into infinity.