Lo profundo es el aire (The deep in the air)

Wednesday, October 26, 2016

Main Gallery & Visual Space


I try to discover identity and find only absence. I pursue matter that presents itself alone, all alone, before my eyes and suddenly, I am no longer there. I awake in a place of linen on the banks of a river whose name can almost be transposed thereby, Nile, and I discern what is at the core of that original plant, or perhaps that original word, from which a true creation in resonance hopes to emerge. Although for now, it shows itself solely as a timeless blankness: blank eyes, blank mind. Once born, it breathes among dense substances, encouraging through oils, through pure and impure waters that hope to become a hue, that may aspire to elevation and thus, transform our individual way of seeing things.

A voice is hidden somewhere in the wings of raw material. It is never satisfied. It seeks itself in a grayish yes, in a blackened no of its own nights, its own deaths. It believes it has found itself and comes to an end in the mirror that has created it; it wants to reverse itself because it needs other eyes to rest upon it, hummingbirds immobilized in an instant, avian pupils that bear away the reds, the eyes of blood, to other destinations. It is the voice that conveys. It does not feel comfortable traveling down a single path, and so it is forked through a scratching, a modifying among strange syllables in Sanskrit, or perhaps in modern languages of ductile riverbeds, transcribed and blurred, or in the solidity of facts, of indivisible unity: spells for a single season of the spirit. In that world, what seems to be a word can be read. It hurts to pierce it like a lance with one's gaze, causing its color to burst open, feeling the spring of a nameless mountain, an amorphous reality that is very much alive.

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