Jordi Camba lived in Llobet el Cul, Barcelona, from early age his mind freaked out with the avangardest pictoric schools, like the churrigueresco, manierisme, miniaturist, trianglism, ovalism, manuelism, futurism, merde-nouveau; and all the aesthetic branches of what Goebbels used to call degenerate art.
In 1976 Jordi Camba started taking lessons at an institute in Badalona ‘Institut d'art i merda comparats’, strange house with irregular walls, and an asymmetric architecture, overcrowded with a rare fauna of people with odd hats, plantpots on their heads etc.
Soon, Jordi learnt everything about trends, like the glassism, or the art-on-crap; in such classrooms were painted real still-lives, with excrements of the zonal surrounding cattle, like are the cows or swine.
During the sessions, to inspire even more the alumni, it were played sibilant, high pitched noises on a cassette player, very loud.
The students used to have orgiastic intercourse at the classroom, even on the institute’s adjacent streets, in performances that were called 'carnassa' or 'coxinche', with artistic aim only.
These performances were often interrupted by the local police: the Mossos d’Esquadra; who remitted everyone into the dungeons, in expeditious way.
Finally in 1980, after years of brainsome study, Jordi had his expositio (sic), at the gallery ‘Galeria per a exposicions i cops d'Estat anti-monàrquics Marcel Marsol’; where the guests were regaled with canapes and a final orgy with the participation of Dino de Laurentiis as curator.
The place was bombed by the NATO and had to be evacuated, with Jordi in notorious spiritual shock.
In 1982 it was very commented his work ‘La torre dels fills de puta’, a replica of the Eiffel Tower, built in penises of dugong and stucco, all covered with skin of albino dolphins.
Greenpeace and PETA claimed genocide, and Jordi had to exile himself in the Populist Republic of the socialist peoples of Maldives, escaping with clandestine flight of Air Libya.
But this would come to a tragic end while he was painting an acrylic; maybe it was the polymer emulsion that doped him, no one knows, but he started painting with an ardour so fervent, that was feeling he was one with the oeuvre; and in a flash, the painting swallowed him within an inch.
Like a black hole, the eye of Indra: a door towards the beyond.
Some neighbours found, days later, the painting, with Jordi encapsulated there inside for ever, with an inhuman gesture, his figure almost shaped as a swastika, his eyes, out of its orbits, in a-quasi-bovine aspect, surrounded by a frame, forever nevermore.
Unspeakable, atrocious...
subnormal.
About the man, the art, the unexpected, what.
...And from now on, the story gets entangled into the transparent swirls of the night...
The incomprehensible end of Jordi Camba
.
