Incidents (of Travel)

The shoreline of Buenos Aires bordering the River Plate is generally inaccessible almost throughout its whole length—except for nature reserves, it’s either comprised of private residences, the port, industrial complexes, or concrete walls. Nevertheless at the northern part of the estuary, Diego Bianchi has found a short strip of land close to the city limits that opens to the river like a slash between clearly delimited territories. He regularly goes there to collect debris cast up by the river which he then might use in his artwork. He also likes to think that he is unconsciously driven to this site to experience an encounter between water and land that reminds him of the beach town where he lived as a child.

This was the first stop on our day out and it inaugurated a series of experiences involving the crossing of borders between controlled and planned environments on the one hand, to those that are lawless, free reigning, and have been left to regulate themselves on the other. There was no official pathway to this part of the shoreline, no formal invitation to access this chaotic, unattended place. This no man’s land is not inaccessible if you are simply willing to enter it.

This was also our first encounter with a scene of accumulation. There was estuarine air, wind, humidity and sand—enough to turn the visit into a summery outing—but the area left for walking was filled with wire, iron, concrete, fallen trees, and a kind of confetti made up of crushed rubbish. All sorts of things had been brought together by the river tide, recognizable bits and pieces that might easily go out of sight yet never entirely disappear.

My car keys eventually fell, unnoticed, onto this permanently-reconfiguring floor. When we suddenly realized I didn’t have them we feared they might have been absorbed by it in a quicksand effect. Somehow, fate had it that half an hour later Diego found them. They seemed to have been generously returned from the thickness of this border-world, where there is always room for what we believe has been expelled or lost.

Velatropa is a communal settlement that dates back to 2007 that is organized as an eco-village and was initiated by professors and students from the department of Natural Science and Architecture to prevent the zone from deforestation and the land being used for parking. Since then it has grown into an experimental center for permaculture, sustainable development and environmental education. Residents usually stay here temporarily and it is open to visitors interested in learning or collaborating in tasks such as the construction of adobe houses, maintaining a variety of structures built with recycled materials, or working in the vegetable garden.

We went in through the lush vegetation that separates it from one of the main city transit arteries and encountered a form of living based on self-regulation. Housing had been built by different members of the community who have taken over the construction process as they come and go. The structures have not followed an original plan, but grow organically. They have resulted from a balance between needs, means and self-initiative. The land is planted and harvested according to the principles of permaculture, it is low on intervention and for the most part has been left to be modeled by the natural ecosystem. Exchange here is regulated by the principle of reciprocity, which means each individual gives and takes according to what they can and feels is appropriate. Hand-painted legends appear over a variety of surfaces—from pieces of wood to the pneumatic tires used as pots—to inspire armonía y amistad (harmony and friendship), invite people to pide y recibe (ask and receive), or simply saying si ves una tarea es tuya (if you spot a task, it's yours).

Like the shoreline, access to Velatropa was not self evident. And although it is closely linked to some of the university programs, a degree of secrecy is still necessary to protect it.

Our next stop was Once—a commercial area known for its affordable prices and for concentrating what is possibly the highest immigrant population in the city, making it one of the most diverse neighborhoods. Its population increases dramatically during the day, as it is visited by people coming from all over and beyond Buenos Aires, primarily for trading. Multiple transport lines converge here, “generating a very rich exchange situation that takes place in the middle of town, something that usually happens in the frontiers,” mentions Diego. “This area is exuberant. I find its abundance very attractive and am fascinated by how such a huge amount of people manage to live together, to organize themselves and navigate through the area to do all sort of different things—buying, selling or walking around, moving huge loads of goods or simply window shopping.”

Walking around Once, we somehow lost our sense of being either inside or outside. Goods take over the streets, expanding the shops’ limits, and people wander inside and across linked internal galleries with a sense of ownership and independence more usually found in a wholly public space. Façades are covered with signs and objects; every bit of empty space has been temporarily conquered for exhibiting merchandise or to position someone to promote a service. “If you stay still for a second you feel someone’s going to stick a sign on your body,” says Diego.

Street vendors have recently been banned from the city. However, they have devised strategies that allow them to still operate by being alert, relying on mutual complicity, and techniques that can easily go unnoticed. One can sense preoccupation and anxiety. While we ate we were offered bracelets, which Diego bought, but we were unable to photograph our salesman.

As we reach what we call the city centre, the traditional financial and state administration area, we stop for coffee at La Unión, a small and carefully decorated café at Calle Esmeralda 266, and a usual haunt for Diego if he is in the area. In stark contrast to the commerce in Once, La Unión offers a single product within a clear context. Visual pause as opposed to permanent stimuli. Slow consumption rather than agile bargaining. These are both sides of a system that Diego is interested in understanding: how, as a part of a large community of consumers, we adapt and adopt all kinds of offerings, and negotiate between excess and moderation.

Diego and I take the chance to talk about fashion as we are still charged-up with memories of dozens-and-dozens of items of clothing, footwear and accessories from the streets and shops of Once. Voices enchanting us into buying backpacks or handbags – mochila-mochila-mochila-cartera-cartera-cartera – still ring in our heads.

“I am very much interested in how something that is at first strange suddenly becomes massive”, Diego comments. “And how people quickly adopt items that are signs of their zeitgeist as a way of affirming their identity. This is what I am looking for when I choose people for my performances, people attentive to these situations, be it in terms of how they use technology or how they cut their hair or what shoes they wear. Not very long ago, people weren’t proud of belonging to the popular sector, but now there seems to be a pride in it, and the appropriation of fashion has had a big role in changing this perception.”

Streets are constantly obstructed in Buenos Aires—it is usual to see scenes of barriers limiting construction zones, sidewalks being taken over by dump trucks, or rubbish spreading over pedestrianized areas. The desire to drive along predictable traffic routes is constantly frustrated, and other organic pathways are spontaneously created by pedestrians on the move. Walking often involves a quick zigzagging from road to sidewalk, crossing streets far from the usual junctions, and other chaotic responses to the obstacles that populate public space.

There is a strong police presence on the streets of Buenos Aires. We saw them in Once and we see them again in the centre. It is no coincidence that the area is also characterized by the presence of informal workers; not only street vendors, but also very specialized populations of the city, whether the trapitos (who suggest taking care of your car while its parked), limpiavidrios (who clean your car’s windscreen when stopped by traffic lights), arbolitos (offering currency exchange) or those distributing flyers by hand or sticking them onto facades and lampposts, just like croupiers dealing cards. All these activities spring up as quickly as they disappear, and transactions are sometimes completed at the speed of light.

In Diego’s installations, which reconfigure our urban landscape and confront us with an accumulation of its neglected inhabitants and excesses—as well as with the tension that results from the way presence and movement are negotiated—these subsistence strategies are often quoted.

Diego is a frequent gallery goer, an activity he devotes plenty of time when allowed by the demands of his own practice and his teaching duties. On our final part of our day we visited the Fundación Federico Jorge Klemm, one of the last art venues still open in the area, founded by the eccentric artist and patron who gives it its name in 1997 and dedicated to exhibiting his own art collection—which includes works by Joseph Beuys and Yves Klein. It also organizes group shows by local contemporary artists and a prestigious art prize. The site feels like an oasis in this part of town, a resisting bastion of a bygone art scene. Yet surprisingly, Fundación Klemm has doubled its bet on the area with a recent collection rehang led by young local curators Guadalupe Chirotarrab and Federico Baeza.

Although a minor example of Arman’s work, this split shoe seemed to wink at us in a gesture of cosmic order at the end of our day. Its discreet materiality not only spoke to the distances we had trodden. Comprising a shiny box preserving a glamorous yet disposable object, it also commented on the transformation of use value where the short-lived becomes a fetish, trash turns into art, and we found ourselves talking again about consumerism and materialism. Arman was a member of the Nouveau Réalisme group founded in Paris in 1960—Pop Art’s European counterpart. Diego’s pop-povera installations, although very much rooted in our local art history, suddenly seemed closer than ever to these traditions.

The latter part of our tour demanded speed and determination. We were risking not being able to take my car out of the parking lot where I had left it at Once. It would close at 6pm, and we were nowhere near. The crowds filling the underground station hardly left any gaps that would allow us to make our way to reach our platform. So we had to politely push our way to the right train before jumping on the carriage. We flowed with and against the crowd, widening gaps between people whenever possible and redirecting our course when bumping onto hard unmovable surfaces within this labyrinth. We managed to make our way through, and fortunately the car park had opened an unannounced 5-minute-fissure in time.