Of Business and Pleasure

of Business AndpLeAsure: An essAy 00_Menick_book.indd 33 18.05.12 13:51 00_Menick_book.indd 34 18.05.12 13:51 New York, 2002 After an introductory title, alow-resolution video stain resolves into ajungle landscape. The image, near colorless, is an obvious victim of VHS transfer, at least acopy of acopy of acopy. On the soundtrack, static. The camera points out of the open door of an airborne helicopter. Below, trees and brush blur from right to left. Maybe this is the Amazon. Arifle barrel on the upper right of the frame points to three or four indigenous men running, their bodies kinetic across the jungle floor. The rifle recoils, shooter unseen, round unheard. The second indigenous man in the column falls. Acamera zoom. Again asoundless rifle discharge. Aim-fire-reload, and now the first indigenous man in the column falls. The image erupts into static, then silent-film vignettes to reveal the remaining living indigenous man. This time we see him very clearly: face, loincloth, tattoos. With the helicopter closer to the ground, maybe ten feet above, the brush is waving in geometric patterns rolling outward. Cut: Now the helicopter is alongside the human target, the camera over the shoulder of the rifleman, camera aiming with rifle, the two machines momentarily conspired. Afew seconds of running, another soundless shot, the indigenous man collapses. Then anew angle from above, still only static on the soundtrack, two more indigenous men running, this time we don’t see the rifle. Another fall. Another new angle. Another dead man. Flicker, focus, new shot. 35 00_Menick_book.indd 35 18.05.12 13:51 Areportonthe city Several mercenaries are dragging an indigenous man, dead, with circular tattoos on his face, aloincloth around his waist. Better color. In ajigsaw of pixels, amercenary carves off an ear, ascalp. The camera pulls out, solving the jigsaw: the mercenaries are standing over arow of bodies. Eighteen or more by my count, mass-grave layout, dusted with quicklime. Then the image is swallowed by static, the introductory title reappears, and the low-resolution video stain again resolves into ajungle landscape. Holland Cotter, “Art Review: AMexican Anti-fiesta Full of Uneasy Realities,” New York Times,July 5, 2002 What do you do with such an obscene document, if it is indeed adocument? Like the photographs of lynched African Ameri- cans exhibited in aNew York gallery two years ago, it belongs in amuseum of atrocities, not in agroup show in an art space. But to direct outrage at the artist—censuring him for telling us things we don’t want to know in the only language he has—is misguided. The focus should be on the realities he’s revealed: crimes against humanity, and asociety, still in place, that per- mits them. But what happens if or when this piece, which is an outtake from amass snuff film, goes on sale, moves from the black market to the art market, is used to enhance acareer, enrich a gallery, burnish acollection as it gains value from notoriety? Apart from the stunning insult to the film’s victims, it becomes an operative part of the very system—why do we keep pretend- ing that everything’s not connected?—that produced the original film and permitted the murders to take place. 36 00_Menick_book.indd 36 18.05.12 13:51 Of Business and Pleasure Mexico City,2010 The previous year, 2009, my wife and Isublease our one- bedroom New York City apartment and move to Mexico City. She is there for ajob; Ithink Mexico will be ajump cut away from my fifteen years in New York. For many rea- sons, it isn’t. Partially this is because Idon’t learn Spanish: despite four years of high school Spanish and months of daily classes at my apartment in Mexico, Ispeak Spanish like achild. Most of my friendships are with Mexicans who can speak English very well and American and European expats. In New York, Ianticipated an expanding social circle in Mexico. Instead, my world shrinks. Unexpectedly, isola- tion makes the friendships more intense: people Iwould have seen only once or twice amonth in New York, Isee in Mexico on aweekly and sometimes daily basis. Friendships become aimless and unscheduled, taking up entire after- noons, evenings, nights, mornings. Imeet with one friend— aFrench graphic novelist—every Friday to play chess. In May 2010, this friend and Imeet at acafé in Condesa, an upscale neighborhood home to an alarming number of dog owners. As usual, he quickly wins the game—in fewer than ten moves, probably—so with chess out of the way, we sit and chain-drink espressos. Overcaffeinated and jumpy with digression, the conversation moves to tall tales: things heard from friends of friends about noirish murders, urine- soaked sex clubs, body alterations, impossible fetishism. It’s friendly competition, the-worst-things-I’ve-ever-heard kind of stories. Most of my friend’s stories revolve around bizarre sex escapades, and finishing his last story—he’s won, Idecide—he stops, clears the tears of laughter from his eyes, and drops his smile. We pause, watching the dog owners, none using leashes due to how surprisingly well trained dogs seem to be here. He begins telling me about awealthy dinner party afriend of his attended in Beaubourg, Paris. His tone 37 00_Menick_book.indd 37 18.05.12 13:51 Areportonthe city changes, becoming more serious, blue irises moving left to right following adog and its owner crossing to the park. The attendees, he says, art-world people, were seated around atable talking to one another. One man at the dinner—not my friend’s friend, someone else—had just returned from Mexico, from ahunting expedition, except the hunted weren’t animals, they were people, indigenous people. My friend says that the admission (Boasting? Provocation? Alie?) did not go over well with the fellow partygoers. My friend doesn’t know if the man was asked to leave, or if this man gave any details, or if people refused to speak to him. My friend wasn’t there. He asks me if Ihave heard of any- thing like these hunting expeditions. Itell him Ihave. Mexico City,2010 Idon’t look for Ivan Edeza. Not in any systematic way. Not like agood detective would. Agood detective would find Edeza before finishing the morning’s coffee. I’m abad detective, anondetective. My search takes one month, maybe two. And search, quote- unquote, is an exaggeration. More atendency, not entirely conscious, to bring up Edeza in conversation. Hey-did-you-see questions. You-don’t-happen-to-know-who questions. The favorite non sequitur. Iusually get shaking heads and shrug- ging shoulders. The art world is small here, but no one knows Edeza personally. Or they never met him. Or they met him a long time ago. Most people know someone who knows him, and that person is always alittle out of reach. There’s nothing mysterious about this, really. We seem to move in two differ- ent groups, and like Isaid, this is not adetective story. Acurator tells me the title of the work: de negocios yplacer (of business and pleasure). Edeza didn’t make much art, she— 38 00_Menick_book.indd 38 18.05.12 13:51 Of Business and Pleasure the curator—says. Edeza himself was a curator for a brief time in Puebla, and he ran an independent gallery in Mexico City. He made a series of works about pornography, the curator thinks. Tough stuﬀ. She describes him to me: medium height, heavyset, green eyes. Says he doesn’t talk about the origins of the video. Won’t say. Won’t say whether it’s real or not. The curator tells me she thinks she knows the guy who sold Edeza the original video. She’ll see if this guy (always guy, never salesman or person), a video pirate special- izing in pornography, can meet me. Sure, ask him if he can meet me, I tell her. Weeks later, she emails me: the guy has gone out of business. How can someone who sells porn go out of business? Can’t be that, I speculate. Has to be something else: probably got pinched. Moved on. Maybe never existed in the first place. VHS Our meeting is near the Gayosso funeral home in Colonia de Valle. I’m early so I decide to give Gayosso a look. It’s a large building, a giant patterned tissue box taking up the entire block; its windowless exterior makes it feel more like a 1970s department store than a funeral home. A nun, head down, walks past the security guard at the entrance. I look inside, past the guard, and see a few more men pacing around. Since I’m new to the city I’ve never heard of the Gayosso funeral home, but several people called it famous. The taxi driver knows exactly where I’m going even though I told him in terrible Spanish cerca de Gayosso. I’m not sure how a funeral home can be famous, but this one is. The nun disappears into the building and I cross the street and go to the meeting. A quarter of an hour later, Ivan Edeza and I sit in front of his laptop in his home oﬃce. He’s showing me his work 39 00_Menick_book.indd 39 21.05.12 18:47 Areportonthe city from the past ten years. Contrary to what I’ve heard, Edeza has produced alot of video work. (Also contrary to what I’ve heard, he doesn’t have green eyes.) He has exhibited his work internationally before and after the P.S.1 show.

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