Our show aims at hearing those cries of despair, horror, indig- nation, and stupefaction simultaneously, all at once, without having to choose too fast, without having to join our usual camps and brandish some hammer to complete some act of deconstruction. Hence the cacophony, which is the audible equivalent of the iconoclashes and which occupies so much of the space of the exhibit (see Laborde).
Through sound as well as image, we want to restore this sense of ambiguity: who is screaming against destruction and why? Are these the lamentations of the eternal philistines shocked to be forced out of their boring and narrow circle of habits? Hear, hear! Are these the wailings of humble worshippers deprived of their only source of virtue and attachment, the sacred relics, the precious fetishes, the fragile factishes that used to keep them alive and which are now broken by some blind and arrogant reformer?
Hear, hear! The weeping sound made by the As realizing that they will never attain the gentle violence of the prophetic Bs, and that they have simply emptied the world and made it even more terrifying. Hear again, behind the cacophonic laments, the sardonic laugh of the blasphemous Es, so healthy, so happy to deploy their juvenile charivari. And behind it all, what is it, this other sound? Hear, hear! the prophetic trumpet waking us out of our deadly attachment to resuscitate a new sense of the beauty, truth, and sanctity of images. But who makes this horrible raucous noise? Hear, hear! what a racket, the blaring sound of the provocateurs, looking for new prey.
Yes, a pandemonium: our daily world.