domingo, 5 de marzo de 2017

Plots from the labyrinth: Dialogue with Beatriz Oggero and Orlando Alandia himself, about his work

Bea invites. I follow her, always with pleasure. Now, away from the garden. Paths.
Let’s go, more coffee...
By way of introduction,s he tells me a few years ago in a conversation, an Italian architect who specialized in the quatroccento said something that I always remember: "Beatrice, art became textile when it left the wall and went to the canvas..."
And yet  I allow myself  in the proper representation of robes, special fabrics, dressed in embroidery, in texture, a permanent evocation...

I have often been struck by the passion of some painters (and not minors) for representing the tissues. I remember how, after being totally shaken by Goya’s Fusilamientos in the Prado Museum, I stared at the detailed velvet brocade cloak in the portrait of Doña Isabel de Francia, a caballo, by Velázquez, in another room.
And there are the paintings of Holbein; even served to name a style of carpets. The list is long, and in modern times the famous versions of Paul Cèzanne on Mount Saint Victoire are of great interest, in which the painter lets the canvas also participate in the work...

The hand opens. Generosity.
Walking between the images... My dear Beatriz Oggero gives the name. Orlando Alandia. Architect, graduated in Italy. Before us, labyrinths; Enigma and revelation of the minotaur. Exploration that the artist repeats, deepens.


Echoes of her voice, by the readings on purpose (it was an interview she did some time ago):

... Durrenmatt, Cortázar, Borges, redraw the inner spaces of the labyrinth and populate it with characters, sometimes imaginary, sometimes real and give life to new stories or sub-stories, collateral to the mythical Greek.
A character like this of the Minotaur, who understands the world through sensations and not through concepts, makes fascinating the challenge of representing his visual / sensorial world, and ultimately his life, in paintings that are, in some way, the representation of what we cannot see and conceptualize (as Paul Klee would say) and only, feel...
If we perform the exercise of defining or describing a sensation, surely we will stay with very few words and resort to the eloquence of the onomatopoeia...
Condemned not to be a god, neither human nor animal... rather, only and nothing more than Minotaur, unable to rationalize his sensations in concepts, and his feelings in words, lives a life marked by his perceptions and very rudimentary mechanisms of understanding Of the world around him  so monotonous...


As in the old negated perspective painting, with characters whose dimensions were conditioned rather by their importance to the god who was supposed to rule and contemplate everything, so, in this case, the limited world  opens, rich by the importance coupled every stroke and form as element / medium of the cosmos all to the humble eye of the prey creature. Much more than an inner world, by refraction to our referents, certainly an entire universe.

An architectural work commissioned by King Minos, and conceived by Daedalus to keep the Minotaur away from other human beings, and prevent them from contacting him...
Exclusion...

Yes, which leads to an attempt to reflect on the marginal. The different and consequently marginalized. I turn to the color, to make a personal reading about this fascinating personage and its history, that in the last analysis I reduce to few elements: The rational (the conventional, the public, the social, represented by the outside world of the labyrinth) Instinctive (the emotional, the marginal, the dark, the intimate, represented by the same Minotaur locked inside the labyrinth).


To reflect definitively on the human condition through these elements and personages: architectural constructions and mental constructions that make the instinctive come marginalized of our social lives, where instead they develop every series of intrigue and traps giving us an illusion of belonging, with The only purpose of burying our instinct at the bottom of that labyrinth we are building throughout our existence.

It resounds  sophistication.
Great success, the authors concerning... Borges, especially,  so far from instinct; So far from reality.
(Sabato's posture, by the way, takes on a sharper sense.) The dark paths in Abaddon, the exterminator, that other world, deceive, to bring us back to the brutality of the denial of the living, complex, vastness, and death itself, through Of a crude and powerful symbolism.Thus, I think, forced to value this novel and On heroes and tombs under certain labels, it is necessary to recognize them before Gothic..., that philosophical. Interesting attempts, through the language, to the reality that Is deformed in civilization..., in the process of illusory forge of a History...)
Deception, deception.

Let us also remember that it was not only thanks to the thread of Ariadne that Theseus manages to assassinate the Minotaur and escape free from the labyrinth, but also thanks to a trap, a very rationally conceived trick: disguising himself as Minotauro in order to get as close to Asterion as possible The blow of a dagger to treason, just as the creature tasted an unparalleled happiness  a feeling he could not understand  seeing that he was not the "only" Minotaur in the labyrinth (his world), that he was not alone and That there was a possibility of sharing with their peers.

What is not appreciated "literally" in your pictures is a description of the labyrinth... and neither does the Minotaur appear...


My painting tends more and more to a reduction of compositional elements in the bi-dimensional space of the canvas. The process is developed in time and space by superimposing layers of color with different technical resources (glazes, opacities, textures) in a color plane, determining what I call "color construction". Resorting to an architectural image, it can be said that there are colored floors superimposed and supported by a structure given by the composition and the handling of that space.

In this way, the resulting color is itself rich in chromatisms, textures and transparencies, allowing partial glimpses of the lower strata and in different ways, just as in a tapestry sometimes the weave and sometimes the warp appear.

With the annulment of perspective,  the annulment, also, of time,  and its layers. More than unification.
Integration prevents measurement and time is the illusion of segments; Temptation to speak of states rather than conditions, such as the purpose of happiness... Temptation to define at every step, conjugating verbs (complication, added, often too much, to the real complexity of phenomena).
Time aside,  substitutes. And eloquence in the very penetration of consciousness...
Firmness in the proposition, which allows to leave certain strokes free, to create indefinite spaces...
There, a response to the vain assumption that there is not much left to put inside a picture, that sad and confusing roll that blindly puts technique by object: that word by word, aesthetic flourish, (as when John trembles Banville, everyone who dares to leave the description...)

To question the plane of the canvas as finite, delimited space. The indefinition of the edge or rather the approach of a random, indefinite margin: a space in which the color dissolves, frays and vanishes to reveal the background, the foundation, which comes to be the canvas itself.

I have been able to observe during these years, this evolution of your painting. While it is about the repetition of a subject, the result has a different quality.

This is a long process. As I discover new technical possibilities over time, I have been able to create a certain codified or codifiable language that returns to me in its materiality a synthesis, recognizable, of the infinite possible and even unexplored combinations.

The canvas lends itself, far from the optical illusion of depth, to a penetrating contemplation through and between the very limits of each cloth,  windows and interstices, circumventing the rational sense of geometry, revealing a more eloquent motif in color, In the liquefaction of this, as if it resisted to be part of a single moment, present. Discover thus, the trick to kill the creature, makes its meaning, undeniable,  he affirms. So his proposal is given to weave also with postulates from other sources...

Painting, architecture, engraving, textile art, archeology, novel, poetry, are present in different ways, at different times, with different intensities in my work, although this is essentially pictorial.


The threads, to the case, among other works / cloths, give of silences. The strands arise from each (a) to the tuning in the abstraction.
These pictures do provide a unique opportunity.

Abstraction, abstract thinking are present in art from its origins. From cave art to the present, it gives us the possibility of observing things from an improper point of view (to put it in the language of geometry) and timeless. It shows us that which is not visible and that has to do more with the human condition that through history repeats incessantly gestures, acts, attitudes... it is in that field that I search through the exercise of art.

The balanced composition of the warm and the cold distributed in multiple planes acquires here the value of language; They are not content to suggest, they say. To replace them with other tones would be equivalent for the artist to introduce the vagus where it is intended. A form is not born at random. A living structure, that is, that modifies, imagines, dreams, is not a passing invention, the result of an aesthetic choice. It can be the revelation of a thought, of a situation. The artist refers us to memories of childhood and adolescence, such as that formidable alignment of the sun, moon and planets that he linked in his imagination with a thread of Ariadne, a cold dawn Minessotta.

Vocation. Delivery,  acceptance of all that conforms and exceeds rational consciousness as well; I set the course, go ahead, safe by the pulse.

Thresholds to cross to find a new reality.
To cross the lintel is to take risks, said Orlando.
Cross the gap, go to the other side of the mirror.


"The aim of the painter is no longer to provide a double of the universe, but to inform about possible," says Francastel.

Let’s go.


(Translation, by María Eugenia Mendoza)

Time Marrow: From Fiction, and The Bone Clocks, David Mitchell's novel, with collages by Susan Ringler

Last Novel by David Mitchell, The Bone Clocks. Seven hundred pages. They fly; at the end there is one, a brick closed between hands, astonished, well disposed to another wheel. More than that.
(To integrate notes, before moving on to another book.)
Notwithstanding certain boiling observations, to recognize: how difficult it was that the author put it, and with what grace he has left after the acknowledgments, agitated, sure, but well aware of merit, ready for applause.
Well apprehended a tradition, polished the method. A lot of discipline: cold blood for beveling... or rebound violently, to a clear objective. Huge bets every time.

(From the plot, on the back cover of the Mondadori edition in Spanish:
After a fight with her mother, Holly runs away from home. When she enters the English countryside, a stranger crosses her path and asks her for "asylum," a request to a wing that the adolescent accedes without being aware of its meaning. Suddenly, the strange visions and voices that stalked her as a child again persecute her and alter her world until she acquired an aura of nightmare. To this will be added the traumatic disappearance of his little brother, a disturbing child with an unusual intelligence.
It will be many years before Holly understands what happened that weekend.
                                                                                                                                                     Anyway.)


Many reviews refer to genre fusion in terms of "conjuror" modes...
The variety of scenes and the way in which each one develops, in addition, with so apparent ease: the precise and recognizable tone in each case (which, yes, correspond to two classical genres), provokes in me, rather, the idea of ​​a collage
– and I remember Susan Ringler; their collaborations.
Wealth of resources for  weaving, and assembling...



The collage is often considered too closely related to recycling. Use of "past" elements, possibly discarded if not for the eye that rediscovered in them, the life that they had arranged from the beginning forward. Then arises the parody of the vision that pretended to anticipate our present; And in the best cases, the questioning of any future perspective, because despite so many "revolutions", the symbols and the variety of mistakes by clisé have hardly changed, from platform to platform, from format to format.
I complete the work, the way the cuts, the different prints, the fabrics  and given to the voice, the textures  reveals harmony (from another perspective, fluidity), reveals the authentic consistency of the proposal.
This is so far from entertainment.



Fiction...
Far from protecting us abstractedly, perhaps establishing an area of ​​our own as mere shelter, the mind sets out to draw by itself, then, directions beyond the world as we know it and to which, often and with danger, we could get accustomed, to Through the challenging ways of the simple impulse of freedom.
Questioning, always.
At the risk of crushing the obvious, I allow myself:
Several times I have come across a curious statement, which I have always thought of, it must be the hasty paraphrase of a more complex, surely justifiable thought: that the style of the narrative is determined by the history or the type of history that is wanted to be told…
Why refer to it? For emphasizing the importance of the approach, which conditions on its part, the very nature of the story that is wanted to tell, and embodies in the style...
And what a good example the one that Mitchell gives us with Bone Clocks.



How decisive are actually the facts. Curious, almost interesting subject to the plurality of works possible with the same succession of events, let's say, faithfully portrayed reality or simple documentary precedent. Nothing else.
The order of the facts, this, is a serious thing. And what about the aspects to obtain the appropriate voice: conjugation of will, conscience, intuition, knowledge, instinct, skill and fortune..., because it results in half the dialogue by the question,  guarantees his contemplation after reading , Exceeding the memory; Rewards with experienced minds awake; Enthusiasm and temptation with the possibility of doing the same, too, often to whom it is not enough to live a life, incapable of such fullness.
We know of invention, disposition and elocution, but I think it is possible to speak, without loss of rigor,  a commitment, by composition, to the realization of a vision through the logic of codes and signs of culture, mainly  a narrative as a display of reflections with time as a functional element on the subject of illusion, with facts as milestones in which to sustain this, a possible, potential reality: laboratory...
The substance,  in the silence to which it is invited from the language: transferred the understanding of the entire logical proposition, weighed the qualities of its system, its effectiveness in the own conscience, given the moment and circumstances, in the process itself  from which something own and different matures,  certainly in the reality of the reader , in the doubt that takes off from the appointment and threatens the stability of the environment, comfortable to exist / survive, and leads us to stop spending time, to take us , awake really to – be the time.


If the Cloud Atlas only comes in merits to Clocks..., it causes to approach it as soon as possible.
Attentive to the "entertaining" Mitchell.



sábado, 4 de marzo de 2017

Of waves - and deep distortions: Dialogue with David Kattán

Part of making way, returning to certain jobs. Contact the parallel floor. And measure, say, the temperature of a spirit. Without falling into the illusion of reflections, with attention, always, to refraction.
David Kattán,  Thinking Rock; The calculation on deep wells of dread, too. Question of youth. And, luckily, more.
The body plays a special role. Element of integrity...
It shows a change with the passage of time (little time, in addition)...

There are authors that I have been away from but that, in their diversity of proposals, continue to converge on a primary point: an ethical-aesthetic search...
In this sense, and to name a few, photographer David Nebreda was truly epiphanic. The christic intensity of someone who plays (literally) with their own flesh, led me to a kind of dream-like where art-life are deeply linked and, above all, possible.
Life as raw and expressive material, in relation to the ethos, in a Spinozist sense, has led me to a kind of cumulative polivocity where the variety of records have a high contrast. I do not know whether for better or for worse, since it could be read as a symptom of a work still immature. In any case, you have to start with something.


The abandonment of the categories comes later... Concentrated as you go to "produce", rather, to create, it is logical to protect in terms that facilitate those who are not yet linked (!) with your work, read you a few , Before, in prose... than in virtual canvas...


(David (is) questioning.) Technique, culture, are for the moment an obstacle. What is a wonderful symptom, or more precisely, the clear signal that the restlessness that moves him has found a firm medium - to disrupt outside... Put another way, methods, more, modes, and, full, style, are setting far from the theory.
To say of this corresponds, therefore, to those who prowl trying the causes of their effectiveness to question...
The brutality has given way to the violent allusion, also by textures. Echoes of what was previously explicit,  with greater certainty now in the provocation of the one who looms.
Image... Sign...)

We live in a world in which the image plays a deeply privileged role. The advertising images that invade our daily lives when watching television, at the bus stop or in social networks, show us, in Lacanian terms, product-phalluses that imprison our desire in a passive attitude of insurmountable anguish. Perhaps by inheritance of illustration, political speeches only reinforce the branding of a character whose image has the only claim to become a phenomenon of the mass media. This type of communicative image, prepared to massify sensibilities, has only annulled the individual power of the spectator as co-creator of the image. In a publicity poster, part of the image is that legend that the publicists call copy, and that only works to the extent that says what the image does not, that is, the text as a complement. Everything points, then, towards the image; That is, a merely illustrative and, of course, communicative function. I'm not sure, but I sense that's why poetry is where it is...

(Sip  strong coffee...
I dare say that I agree, if not because I feel, certainly, closer to an eloquent pessimism with nothing else to reach out to the sea of publications.)
The image is incapable of relegating authentic predicament on its own... There is learning. The creation of the sign always passes through abstraction and develops, whether or not, through time, in the sequence  construction: rhythm. So the capture of camera, the representation with brush can hardly, even today, without the device you are referring to,  nothing...
It follows that the words, or rather, the language (which does change), has a weight that, curiously, is gaining a special weight, exclusive in its understanding... By excluding when it comes to serving the conformation of the plans... including those who seek to dumb. You speak of publicists... Well, they articulate, they elaborate much more than a visual attack.


Poetry, fortunately, remains alive, particularly subversive in so far as it compromises the balance of what is understood through the language which also employs, converts, betrays...
This gives for much more. I mean the writing by syllogisms integrated to the creation of music; To what they had been doing for so long, Tsvietáieva and Plato, for example; to the risks of Albert Cohen, bordering on the pathetic, to end up shredding the French Romanticism...
Finally, returning more punctually to the matter, I regret the bunch of bugs in the effort to merge continuous texts (conventional paragraphs, for example) and images, but I celebrate the successes, that there are... and those that you have participated.

If one takes into account, for example, the enormous historical fact of Banksy (and in general of Street art in Europe), which resides precisely in bringing art into everyday space; The artistic image plays a diametrically opposed role, which goes beyond the democratization of art, converges into a demand of the viewer as being sensitive to an aesthetic product. But it's not just about distribution. The process of creating or producing an artistic image is required to become a resistance tool in the visual market. An image that invites to be observed, and not simply be assimilated by the eye automatically.


Art is freedom, not democracy..., cannot be partialized to this or any other system. If it is really Art, he questions this as well as, what is more necessary, of course, the demential-conventional atrocities with which a pair of assholes hopes to achieve the good for all the others, determining the price for it on each occasion: romanticism Hysterical..., monarchy, etcetera...
The nobility of the human goes with compassion... Make own the other's feelings... From there, too, the intuition of - an eye for... And the possibility of provoking, awakening the issue to others. In the same line of the offer detached: vocation...

Bacon said that the image has to enter through the nervous system rather than through the eye. Of course, I did not agree with other proposals more figurative (optic-haptic) or more abstract (purely optical), but I think a very powerful idea. I think it lies in the aforementioned possibility: the claim of the sensible-active spectator.

Your work...

Now I try to prioritize the textures. And then, try very tense contrasts: the viscosity of a gut in front of a rusty metal plate (to give an example). Adding the light mostly tenebrist, the highlight of the texture becomes more evident. The relief invites the viewer to touch the image...


Art  artifact...

On the other hand, through the sensation of trepidation, blurred, moved or unfocused; Or figures barely suggested in a stain... colorist, the faces are freed of their identity, as well as the bodies of their organism. Bodies whose movement subsists virtually, violated by a kind of temporal synthesis. It is at this point that I let the stain, the blotted figure, do its own work.
I like to think of a kind of implicit blindness, and it is from this blindness that the image stops being representation to become modulation, through lights, shadows, colors and textures, of a presence.

Discipline, Contemplation... and the attack...
Apparently he is crouched, but with his senses completely sharpened in scrutinizing a certain sense, always... So he is not far from the dispassionate contemplation. The mastery of art itself in the fullness of intention is often confused with that thrust which is only by chance fruitful...

There is a question that, today, I find very complex. How do I access that place that allows me to create something? And I use the term "create" in a strict way, because taking it lightly causes us to run a very big risk. I mean that each author has to manage on his own to be able to nullify that imaginary third that harasses us saying "you have not done anything yet, this is not going well.", and I think it is a common ghost, to the great majority. I call the creative fact as the leap into an abyss, since it needs to detach itself from a huge (very comfortable and at the same time aggressive) wall of preexisting data before one can even make a stroke, give a brushstroke, Or write a word... Without this leap, the act of creating will end up involved... in something that we call "... something that we will simply have inherited and reproduced (family, cultural, aesthetic, etc. inheritances).


In this sense, to create is to fight against oneself. And this is the door to chaos, not understood as something opposed to order, but as something from which everything, even order, can emerge. It is precisely what I look for in the creative act: to organize, to order the abyss. It involves a meeting, an event or an accident, that is, something that allows us to create by evading the tax imposed by our own clichés, our reason and our inheritance, and the latter is deeply related to illustration, representation and figuration.
For me, the accident is blindness. There is a moment where the plane (pictorial, photographic, digital or even a blank page) has to be taken by the forces of chaos and then, yes, the attack. Order the abyss, he said. And only in this attack do I consider that someone is able to put his signature on the canvas or his name (now so far from his own name) on the cover of a book.


Although it does not interfere with what we have been saying, the way in which the sufficiency of verbal language is taken for granted to completely establish the terms of a speech does not cease to amaze me...
I believe that those who spend hours writing or formulating questions through this and other means, try to summon through this legacy, the sum of tools that our culture contributes, deep voices behind the first codes... In some way, silence...
That is why the elaboration of a speech always compromises integrity. That his understanding necessarily implies the close observation of the processes of creation of art... That curiosity for the one as it reflects much of the instinct that we must well raise...

The idea of ​​a discursivity by means of creative-technical mechanisms... Games purely significant. Thus, what happens in the image (again, as opposed to the advertising image) cannot give us the certainty of a message. Something happens in the picture, of course, but not as "a saying", but as a show.
Even in my last project with Adolfo Macias, María Angula -Versión Punk, when dealing with a graphic novel, the image plays out of a fable that, on the other hand, is suggested lyrically in the manner of a Punk song. Beyond history, there is a duo-built mechanism. And this is something that has obsessed me for some years: the abysmal relationship between text and image. Perhaps it is my way of inviting the reader to a seemingly aggressive space, but at bottom, I think, much more friendly, since the gesture is to throw it out of its condition of passive receiver.

It comes to mind, Sebald's elegant, high-profile provocations, who in Austerlitz, his final text, and masterpiece, presents himself as a character, at last, culminating a process of representation that might seem , Would derive in a different way, by the line of his previous three novels... Austerlitz and the own Max, suddenly, in contact... beyond the own photography that generates "a history"; That is to say,  in her, by her, plotting a new language... Free experience that does not combine or link,  offers: disposes for the election challenging the breath of the reader...
Here, the breath as a bridge to the essence,  eye...

David Kattán... and the arts... What about the character...

Somehow, I think that privileging the affection led me to curiosity for the arts. It is the way I have left to connect with the world: through reverie. This probably explains the need for bodies, viscera and fluids in my work: a deeply affective need.
On the other hand, there is the fact that I cannot define myself as a painter, photographer or digital illustrator. I think my work does not fit perfectly in any of these disciplines, but it does appeal to them... vitally. In addition, the influence of certain poets, mainly Latin American, has allowed me to construct artifacts that, in their interdisciplinary eagerness, become nothing but things. I feel it is an enriching exercise.
That is my horizon for now.


You have illustrated. Visions are shared, exchanged. Something that is easily labeled as misinterpretation and we have something new... Refraction, hundreds of times...
 Influences...

I have seen on the Internet an English painter named Ian Francis. I find in his work an immense amalgam of records. For now, I also feel its influence.
Nanoo-G, a French photographer who also uses digital resources. She has a very particular posthumanist work.
Emilio Seraquive, an Ecuadorian painter about my age, is an expressionist who takes his work to a real limit... with the northern line.

– (!) –...

Some of my fellow writers with whom I have had the privilege of deeply relating, and of whom I have learned much.
This to name a few...

Occasion for echoes...


(Translation, by María Eugenia Mendoza)

martes, 31 de enero de 2017

That strange dance in pursue of: On dialogue with Ginebra Siddal

Serenity at the fitting of the shadows of a grove – from beyond. The tone which she uses to say I’ll try, for, suddenly, letting that run, that that also in silences gives shine to her eyes.
Effortless.
The ride opens the path, the shadows decorate…

Every time I tour a museum, or I tour a library playing, slipping my fingers through the chants of books, or I hear the melody of a piano…, the voices of ghosts inside my head. Sometimes, they argue so loud all at once that I shatter. But after a while they calm down and whisper to me… from inside my mouth, inside my eyes and they echo against my ribs.

Ginebra Siddal...


Figuration of a condition from which reality collect, for estrangement (!), deep delight. Perfumes of dreams that reveal sometimes horror. And in it, also life. Taking bets for a certain harmony, with which, suddenly, the unconfessed need for affections, the moderation of desires and the acceptation of the own finitude, they all look together numbed before a flash that stops time.
Romanticism, we said… (about German way)…

Art in any of its forms enrapture me, creates certain warmth at the inside of the stomach and produces me something close to love. You could say is something like the Stendhal Syndrome, or at least the romantic way to see it.

As it goes far from the pathetic provocation, from the eagerness for a divine role -offerring the supposed virtue on the fly and turning the shirt into a flag…; that of sublimes spirits and promises of bloody echoes.

People for themselves don’t create emotion, unless they are really close to each other, that’s why I often observe them… as living paintings: watch their movement, listen their tone of voices; I get lost between details looking for invisibles brushstrokes of light, or feeling their color against my teeth. When I do this I discover myself waiting for that sparkle of adoration, that when found, it makes an strange complexity to take over me, not so intense as the chromatic contemplation of Monet or the symbolism of Pre-Raphaelites -in thoseoccasions so much beauty seems to give me a twinge of pain-, no, the sparkle of people is more affable, more sweet, it helps me talking about the out loud secrets of voices that the ghosts in my head resurrect.

Remember that the others, the other, has been a child as well, is going to die as well; which is not possible in masses.


In your photography you appeal to the most personal portrait: just one coup that takes on the flight certain shapes and colors…

Of course, my photography always will appear for the rest much more simple than all of this, I’ve always felt that I leave a more obvious passion in my writing… But the details on those persons, their eyes, the color…, that’s what is relevant to me.

Rigor for going further than the mere reproduction of phenomena, the capture of reflections, barely going for a deep aspect of that, that in another way would get lost between the common. It’s about representations of a rebel spirit, inquiring from the stubborn manifestation of its secret (without free keys)…
Asserting for asking, asserting from knowledge, the technic…, sometimes, certain wisdom reached. Always, transmitting that vital inquiry…

It has never pleased me to see the image just as a tool, an object with specific purposes that don’t go further than the recreation. I associate it with the tecnéArt theory, that sums up to the craft production of an object but no to the artistic production, establishing the differentiation between craft or art.
Yes, it obsesses me to unify the art with a message, with a print of sensations and life. Nevertheless, an image with a confusing code will arrive badly to the receiver, are we, then, condemned to the execution of a work always accessible, easy? No. Definitely no. From the own frustration, an ulcer!


Knowing… The capacity of reference determines the level of understanding of the sign, the evocation of its sense.

A lot is told about the artist ego. But I’ve always thought that the artist is only looking desperately, at producing his work, to convoke other affine souls that understand the sensations that he or she has depicted. As a weird courtship dance of an animal of different plumages that don’t look exactly the vanity of showing but the acceptation of a platonic love coming from those who succumb to the artist’s dance.

Because the other is the constant source of the self. – Communicate.
The Art is not a purpose in itself. He who says everything for the Art, is really aiming to his own liberation, to transcending disregarding more means, throwing his question against the crystal of general appearences. It’s a possibility…
It comes good to us to draw, again, the difference between the romantic approach that we have discussed and, let’s say, that other approach, more popular, that produces as well, unfortunately, frivolous suicides.



Let’s go. Visions…

Is there really a feminine eye or just one kind of eye that is prone to human sensibility? I want to think that sensibility is not something that gets caught through one gender or another, even though since centuries ago this sensibility has been expected to come from women, while strength from men. Does this mean that feminine eye can not catch fierceness? Can the feminine eye create masculine art? This kind of questions, in this point, seem laughable to me, as if I had gone through the mirror and look at the other side of my distorted thoughts.


As Bellow said one time, the fishes do not argue about Ichthyology, taking away big questions about the nature and the type of artist… This goes as for the authenticity of the vision. Every vision. Talking about gender implies conjectures about the power.

Many women talk about to me this all the time. Some assume this supremacy or this advantage that we have to create images loaded with feelings, no sentimentalism, while, on the opposite side, men tend to be more straightforward and address some themes as the nakedness of a sexualized form. But I don’t believe in this, I know men with a beautiful sensibility in their works, men that understand that something is there… evading the question that if it’s about feminine eyes? I don’t know. But it turns out beautiful to me all emotional capture in a work regardless the biological gender with one was born. So I wouldn’t talk about a feminine eye, but about a one magic eye, maybe…, that lead us to the creation of the new…

Something eloquent in itself. Work.
What we say about images is more some kind of translation at the border, over motivations and pretensions, conditions and referentiality. The vocation implies integrity.

Some people elaborate an interesting speech to defend their works…

Indeed, thinking on defending them, exposing them, this liberates of justify to almost every attacker…

But this only belongs to our head, it’s the image that has to leave one message or another, leaving words with no place where to hang them. On the contrary, lastly, I think in a tree with fruits but no roots.


The critic as a healthy phenomenon. It holds all that we have been saying…

The critic is there every day. Many times, I feel it more inside me than outside.
From several photos that I make with a purpose, I usually stay with one piece.

The character of whom who exercises it. Another form of contemplation. In the cicle it mutates – participant. It goes about facets, in oneself.

It comes to my mind the Japanese character kanji, that correspond to person: hito. Ah, I don’t know too much Japanese, a little more than nothing… But the first time I saw the traces, I recognized as well the representation of two parts, two roads that end up meeting each other in one point. If you think it that way it means that people are like that: paths, unions. And it could be that in these paths our vocation is revealed, that one that leads us to a certain point.

Crosses. In so much senses… Confluences.
And there is influence…

Pre-Raphaelitism, Kandinsky, Sturm und drang, Japanese Esthetic Theory, Victorian art. 19th century poetry. Klimt, Art Noveau. Alkan, Chopin, Davis Terrance, EikohHosoe, the language of flowers…


To the question of where do all of them come together – at what depth, it is usually the case that we don’t get to peek in ourselves the bottom. Pits of history which gestures reveal in its place – the experience. Phenomenon more complex, less complicated.

Many times I wonder if I try to talk with the child I were or with someone that is not in this world anymore. In other cases, I imagine myself leaving some kind of encrypted message in a bottle to my future self, telling her not to forget me, not to forget me or the past. But probably most of the times I’m just trying to pull out of from the depth of my subtle secrets, to make them arrive to someone interested enough to decipher them…
But this last thing will appear somehow so pretentious…

Decipher implies an unbeatable complexity, the limit of the capacity, not disregarding the language limit. The elementary is not the same as the simple.
Some days ago someone asked me a list of criteria. For that, to the manuals. A nonsense. Pity.
He who pretends to communicate his doubt, intend to transparent, that I can accept, his sense… To polish, to polish… Work…

What comes next, what follows?, effort, of course…

That at least, regarding the rigor, it seeds sparkle… Perhaps, new clarity…


(Translation, by Paolo Tizón)

Through the mist, the road: On dialogue with Arim Almuelle

Kilometers, miles; seasons, years. A chance of silence. Violent, inner struggle.
Traveling between, and also different paths, of questions and questions. Eyes eat up its thing, and a different vision, far from the simple representation, it was taking shape. Lets say, making use of the technical term’s double meaning, – indeed, it was revealed…,it was produced…
After all, coincidences regarding: issues to be shared…
Arim Almuelle. Long strides walk; flames on his eyes.
Thick voice and kind manners are part of. The key.
Here and there glass windows, folk art which he knows… Cigarette smoke in between… (That recalls other mists by the way)


Breaking through, the intimation; more than that…

They are characteristics, lets say. That’s what someone pretends with the image.
The subjective part of the process where it emerges from, just as you see it.The polysemy; the possibilities: the freedom of interpretation, opened to many ways. And there is also transcendence. Or should I say, conscience’s transformation.
Pretty strong all of this. But I think that’s what it’s all about. Anyone can recognize it when it’d been seen. It’s known.
It prevails.


In that matter, I return over the Colca Valley exhibition and I say to myself: Good! but for me, photography and art, are also something else…!


It’s about light, the same that reveals the object and the phenomenon that others could be simply watching, and how it generates through the author (in this case, you), because of the perception that he owes and the conditions that determines it’s moment (physical, biological, neurological); because of his understanding, also his knowledge and intuition, a distinct image.
After all, it offers back a new object that at the same time is instrument. Creation.


In the reality distortion, that we easily consider unique and present, and perhaps we assume equally for the others, – the dialog possibility…

It is also about an open reality, depending on someone’s learning to see from many different points of view.
We know there are paths; there are shapes that help us in those processes… Find yourself… That’s what it’s all about. Waking up.
Contacting someone else.The one who has learned and knows. When all of sudden you approach to a new perspective, you abandon yourself and then you can see again… It’s a whole world.
How much there is that we don’t see, that we can’t simply see?


(Learn…)
Courses…

I was little. Eight years… I felt in love with a camera on a trip. Back then I couldn’t have it. And I think that impossibility was the best thing that could happen to me. From that moment I spent my time imagining what kind of pictures would I do if I had that machine with me…
I fantasied.
So by the time I could buy it –because yes! I came back for that same camera when I finished some job–, I already had in mind a whole bunch of images.
My own style. The vision emerged like that, by the edge, and in a very specific way.



Eloquent.
Vision from whom, freely, takes, even within the framework of a specific task, what really matters. The quantity as a submitted measure to the quality of the election…
From that, – virtue. Another interesting issue.
(Anyways, there will be always some idiot who will claim that he doesn’t see andenes, nor the mountains in this Colca exhibition, yielding to his limited understanding…)


Value of different…

Once I was twenty, experimenting –back then I stood wake all night, trying, testing–, I achieved an important photography for me. When I saw it on paper, the only word that hinted to me for describe somehow what I accomplished with it, what I approached was mystery…


Tempting a language for that matter…

The opportunity of giving another step… There are artists that do so.
Do you remember when we saw the photographs from Musuk Nolte? What a tremendous thing! One can just leave… transformed…
Windows, doors. They are that. Those pictures…, big ones.
Through the look of the other, that inquires you, that confronts you to deep issues, those that we avoid often, can make you cross to another level, it opens. For example, if we are talking about a canvas, we penetrate in it, and it shakes us, it breaks us –we are talking about the conscience–, and we get out of it, come back to reality, far from the canvas, transformed. That’s what it’s all about.

(Arim moves his hands, draws up pentagrams, moved – fingers like elastic limbs that tears the space up and offers his memories on each image, closer, alive through the voice, like inviting to pour the own questions over the flesh o his chest, before the pictures, would seem, that he is capable to see right there…)


The torment, you said… Interesting…
Yes, who finds himself, stops questioning. It’s himself, he rises.
The process, step by step… And the sudden possibility to open themselves to another level.

The exhibition goes for that matter… Knowledge…

I consider, in fact, that art comes from some place else. That it’s from another world, somewhere wide, where it’s possible to look completely and through. It reveals.
Those doors, those windows that some artists are capable to open, they really open to another sphere, which we can access because of our sensibility, beyond logic.
Man has always known.


You propose a look beside the time, reminding how much other cultures got to see centuries ago. Contemporary knowledge, confirmed by science, that it’s being very formal on establishing dates, discovery by discovery…

It doesn’t stop surprising me. It’s the same… And you can see: it’s set out over and over again that, in fact, there’s more. Which gives a great value to our questions.
We offer our own glance, which assemble hard, rough and painful enigmas. Each one…
I haven’t realized yet the most intimate images.
I feel it like a pending matter. It’s not easy.
And I must keep traveling…


There are those who think that photography consists of capturing the moment. That everything is in this sort of being alert…



But how is it possible that inventivenesscould be part of other art, but photography… If the symbols we create emerge from reality, but go beyond these. If the point of view we use to interpretand the range of the question itself, in fact, they all come from intuition, maybe somewhere else.

And it realizes in the boundary… The dialog completes itself.

Conscience’s transformation…


The arch reaches both sides of the limit (we find here the substance which tends, provokes, communication: shape, color, volume, vibration, dynamic, sign, word…). Inside and out the work, these measures become new reference, absorbed elements for interpretation. Deep inside, we know well, the issues barely change.
The author’s vision, –through the complete arch– hands over himself in every vision he has. Vocation… All of him…
As Svetlana Alexievich said, respect of who cares: The space that one human being occupies, just one… Because where everything happens is there, really.


Each one, a single door.
A universe.

Where to…
– We keep questioning.
Fertile valley…



(Translation, by Zindy Valencia.)