VAGUELY A SECRET OR A SHELTER FOR SUCH A LONG ESCAPE
On the canvas there are, after all, so many things? There is the strength of a stabilised dream, as hard as an insect’s shell and full of legs pointed at every sense of the sky. (Antonin Artaud)
Traps, webs, suitcases. People and objects. Like those Kantorian travellers. Bio-objects and organisms. Skin and flight. Each other’s. Nomads, without end, without home and without homeland. Artists and other itinerant people that cross the exhibition. In this theatre of situations, art is a journey full of people incomprehensible to others or a state of matter, Kantor said. Sometimes that inferior condition is enough. The objectivity of the concept and the intensity of reality. New configurations, always incomplete spatial practices that both unfold in erratic mountains and spread open bodies that enunciate themselves like arrows. The indetermination that obscures and blurs finds in the light the perfect double. A coup de theatre. The power of play.
Object-matter that incorporates the pictorial practice. Trajectories that are drawn between personal and collective memory. The beginning and the end. The days. Life and death. The art that happens in this transitional space. Materiality in flux. Transporting to one thing the name of another, this is how Aristotle defined the place of metaphor, which is not only relation but also place and form of thought. Time in places, voices and uses without historical narrative. Floating mechanisms and devices. Mirrors and images. So many names, so many heteronyms. Languages and the state of war. History converted into foreign words that return us the silence. An exterior. Perhaps an intimate diary. Without a fixed place. The mother. The refugees. Where everything merges. The boat. Hell or a promise. The house.