They say that the nature of all riverbeds is tied to their flow and to the character that the terrain possess; that water moves violently carving a trace and continents drift by chance.

They say that the form of rivers obey the shape of the land through which they traverse, that if all the threads of this immense configuration were organized in a single line, they would cover an enormous distance, big enough to encircle the world more than two million times.

Every stream relies on rain and rain penetrates the ground, repeatedly: ripping it apart, over and over. Inside an open furrow I saw a stream of water and darkness germinate, alongside an infinite gleam of light

Sometimes, when rain falls, it mounts on the slopes, forcing itself, tearing the ground and insistently constituting a water course. Then it rises, scratching the ground and implanting a furrow that later disappears behind liters and liters of tidal motion.

So they say.                                                                                                                    

When water starts to run, it generates a natural current that, due to its impulse, flows from an elevated place to a lower one: eroding it, wearing it, damaging it, rubbing against it, abusing.

But no movement can be precisely depicted. There is a give-and-take but also, an Inevitability

They say that surfaces crack when the soil is waterlogged; that water spurts down until it becomes a mass that saturates the earth. Water not only shatters the ground, but sometimes it stays for several days, skinning it.

Water behaves like a living organism, they say it is the most living of inorganic substances

They also say that if a stream of water meets a rock it oscillates like a wave or a snake, later it branches out and follows the shortest path. The direction of the stream as well as its intensity also determines the route. None of these movements exist without the influence from all the others.

A common pulse goes through the stream. The impetus of tearing apart the soil makes the edges recede; tension arises and decreases.

They tell me that impermeability is key in this process; that the best is to be insensitive; that fractures allow water to leak and that is better to give in to pressure than to crack.

It's better to let it go, despite the fractures.

They say that rainwater also plows through the rocks some permeable others porous to transform into groundwater. The water infiltrates permeable rocks while it inseminates holes and fissures on porous rocks.

Water pierces through permeable rocks, insists, impregnates and intrudes through holes and fissures.

They say that I wanted to scream and that inside my scream I wanted to implore. They tell us that screaming is moaning for silence and that my thirsty glass will not reach the sea.






  • Escrito como parte de la obra El surco / Written as part of the piece El surco. 2018



—-



Los cuidé cada día, creí que su unión podría resultar en algo nuevo.

En un germinar desconocido. Que al mantenerlos unidos a la fuerza algo podía a suceder.

Quería construir parásitos. Más no verlos. Olvidar que se cuelan silenciosos, que escalan en medio de la noche intentando pasar inadvertidos.

Hasta que atestan todo

Prefiero creer que son entes acorralados, que tuvieron que convivir. Que quizás podían vivir el uno del otro, el uno en el otro, incluso mezclarse

Pero algunos viven, crecen, se reproducen y otros se pudren. No va a pasar mucho tiempo antes de que los podridos transmitan su podredumbre

No todos quieren vivir así, algunos prefieren morir. Dejarse podrir por dentro.

¿Cual eres tú, cual soy yo?

Cojeas porque yo cojeo

Porque el desnivel del piso no está asi sólo por el paso del tiempo.

Quedo con mis manos sucias, saturadas de hedor, de podredumbre, de una agria mezcla entre cloro y agua descompuesta.

Larvas blancas en las uniones

Quedo con un cúmulo de plantas agonizantes, un cúmulo de plantas avaras

Si tuviera que contar esta historia la narraría al revés

Las iba a plantar, iban a crecer entrelazadas, quizás en un futuro iban a ser una sola. Tomando formas que no pude y no puedo prever.

Trenzadas.

 

I               N            O             C             E             N             T             E

Si, inocente

 

Es el terciopelo rojo-tirante el que permite que los brazos de São Francisco se mantengan en alto, rindiéndose

La sangre que tira, que une, que duele, que hiere, que pudre.






  • Escrito como parte de la obra Relación Personal / Written as part of the piece Relación Personal. 2018



—-



Querido,

Ha pasado tanto tiempo desde la última vez que te vi. Ese momento parece ser un fragmento de tiempo en una existencia paralela que no puedo recordar, una memoria. He tenido el impulso de escribir esta carta tantas veces, es como si hubiera estado escribiéndola en mi cabeza una, otra y otra vez durante años sin encontrar las palabras adecuadas, las precisas. No sé si estas son las correctas, pero al menos estoy escribiendo.

Mis días pasan en rutina. Camino todos los días por las mismas calles, con la esperanza de encontrar todo de la misma manera como lo vi el día anterior. Me molesta cuando huelo algo diferente. Como cuando ayer pasé junto a la anciana que pasea su perro cada mañana y no llevaba el mismo perfume. Incluso las estaciones me molestan a veces, pero tú sabes cómo en esta ciudad pareciera que el tiempo pasa particularmente lento. ¿Cómo es tu día a día? ¿Cómo va el trabajo? Apuesto a que va bien.

Trabajo regando plantas y arreglando ramos de flores en distintos departamentos. Voy todas las mañanas al mercado de flores en el norte de la ciudad, justo enfrente de la panadería, y compro flores: lirios, rosas y claveles. Voy a cinco departamentos y cambio sus floreros todos los días. Riego y podo las plantas; mis jefes aprecian la constancia. Creo que lo hago bastante bien. Otras personas me han pedido regar sus plantas y cambiar sus ramos pero sólo puedo visitar cinco lugares al día y las flores y el agua necesitan ser reemplazadas una vez al día. Si no las cambio, la sutil decadencia que se deja ver en cada pétalo se transforma en una vida vivida, un día vivido, un estruendo.   

Hay un departamento al que me gusta ir en especial. Tiene un pequeño baño justo al final de un largo pasillo con un feísimo papel mural floreado de los setenta. El papel es de color café, naranja, burdeo y amarillo, amarillento. Creo que nadie usa ese baño porque está claro que no ha sido renovado en años. Una de las paredes está cubierta de fotos, algunas enmarcadas y otras sólo apoyadas sobre los marcos o entre ellos. Pareciera que se van a caer en cualquier momento pero están cubiertas de polvo así que supongo que se han acomodado dentro de su inestabilidad. La mayoría de ellas están blanqueadas por el sol o tal vez por el tiempo. Es difícil reconocer a las personas que aparecen en ellas, las fotos están tan borrosas, arrugadas, amarillentas. Además, ¿cómo podría reconocerlas? Esa no es mi casa.

Un día me di cuenta de que una de las esquinas del papel mural se había desprendido. Esa pequeña rotura me permitió ver el gris brillante de la pared de hormigón detrás del papel. Me golpeó como un rayo. No sé si fue la desnudez del material o el contraste de los colores. Había algo en ese espacio gris que era cómodamente cierto.

Desde ese día he estado arrancando pequeños trozos del papel mural. No es algo en lo que piense mucho, no lo espero con ansiedad. Es más bien algo que ha ido sucediendo de forma natural. El martes pasado hice desaparecer una flor completa del papel. Por supuesto que me preocupa que alguien en el departamento lo descubra y me despida, pero siento que no puedo parar ahora. He estado tratando de romper trozos más pequeños últimamente, intentando que la desnudez de la pared se haga menos evidente. Sólo un trozo al día.

He descubierto que detesto ese papel mural tanto como detesto las hojas secas en las plantas. Riego mis plantas mucho, cuatro vasos diarios, la mitad de lo que un humano necesita. Me cuesta lidiar con el hecho de que incluso si una planta vive en las mejores condiciones, las hojas aún se secarán de vez en cuando. Cuando las veo arrugadas y amarillentas las arranco tan rápido como puedo para olvidarlas. Realmente detesto ese papel mural.

He estado soñando en blanco últimamente. No es que sueñe con un rectángulo blanco o algo así, son sueños reconfortantes, sueños vacíos, no relacionados a nada. Al igual que cuando escuchas una cinta de cassette en blanco…nada, la maquina apenas hace un zumbido, su engranaje circular gira y gira.

No creo tener cassettes aún, pero el dueño de uno de los apartamentos en que trabajo tiene toda una colección. No son de bandas, creo que son una mezcla de diferentes cosas, tal vez de su trabajo. Realmente no sé lo que hace para ganarse la vida, pero tiene un montón de equipos de música y cosas tecnológicas que no intentaría ni nombrar. Todos los cassettes tienen el clásico papel listado dentro de su caja plástica lleno de garabatos indescifrables. Me recuerdan al horrible papel mural y el hermoso gris de la pared de cemento. ¿Es la grisura una condición? Tal vez debería serlo. Eso es probablemente lo que hace que sea tan agradable de descubrir; su silencio, al igual que mis sueños en blanco.

Me olvidé preguntarte, ¿sueñas?

Ahora que estoy, en efecto, escribiendo, me doy cuenta de que no hay ninguna razón para explicarte todas estas cosas. Supongo que sólo quería contarte sobre mí y ya que la carta que quería escribir nunca tuvo palabras, ha sido difícil contenerme. Tal vez fue sólo como el engranaje, girando y girando.

En realidad, tengo algo que preguntarte, sé que soy yo quien te escribe, pero necesito que no respondas a esta carta. Me gustaría muchísimo saber acerca de tu vida pero preferiría no hacerlo. Lo sé, es una estupidez. No sé por qué, pero no puedo enfrentar el hecho de que me puede llegar una carta. Sé lo que estás pensando "¿por qué debería enviar esta carta en primer lugar si no quiero una respuesta?"

El asunto es que yo sé que una vez que la envíe, desaparecerá.

Cordialmente,




My Dearest,

It has been so long since I last saw you. That moment in life seems to be a fragment of time in a parallel existence that I can’t remember, like a memory. I have been having the impulse of writing this letter so many times, it is like I’ve been writing it in my head again and again and again for years without finding the right words, the appropriate ones. I don’t know if these are the right ones either, but at least I am actually writing.

My days go by in routine. I walk everyday through the same streets, hoping to find everything the same way I saw them the day before. It bother me when I smell something different. Like yesterday, when I passed next to the old lady that walks her dog every morning and she wasn’t wearing the same perfume. Even the seasons bothers me sometimes, but then, you know how in this city it seems that time passes particularly slow. How is your everyday life? I imagine it being so exciting. How is work going? I bet it is good.

I work watering plants in different apartments and arranging flower bouquets. Every morning I go to the flower market in the north of the city, right across Brown Ave and I buy flowers: lilies, roses and carnations. I go to five apartments and change their vessel’s flowers every day. I also water the plants and prune them; my bosses appreciate consistency. I think I am pretty good at my job. Other people have asked me to water their plants and change their bouquets but I can only visit five apartments a day and flowers and water needs to be changed once a day. If I don’t change them, the subtle decay in each petal of a lived life, of a lived day becomes the loudest din ever.

There is one apartment to which I especially enjoy going. It has a small bathroom with an awful seventies flower wall paper right at the end of a long corridor. The paper is brown, yellow, orange, burgundy and yellowish. I think nobody uses it anymore because it is clear that it has not been renovated in years. One of the walls inside that tiny bathroom is covered with photos, some are framed, and others are just sitting on top of the frames or in between them. A lot of them seem like they are going to fall at any minute. But they are kind of dusty so I guess they’ve accommodated to that instability. Most of them are bleached by the sun or maybe by time. It is hard to recognize the people that appear in them, the photos are so blurry, and crumpled and yellowish. Also, how could I recognize them? This is not my house or my people.

Well, the point is that one day I saw that one of the corners of the wall paper was peeled off. That small rip allowed me to see the bright gray of the concrete wall standing behind the paper. It struck me like a lightning. I don’t know if it was the bareness of the material or the contrast of the colors. There was something about that gray spot that was comfortingly true.

From that day on I have been ripping off little pieces of the wallpaper. It’s not like I think a lot about it, I am not anxious or something like that. It’s more something that has happened naturally. Last Tuesday I made a whole flower disappear from the wallpaper. Of course I am worried about someone in the apartment finding out and firing me, but I feel I can’t stop now. I have been trying to tear smaller pieces lately, so that the bareness of the wall becomes less obvious. Just one piece a day.

I have discovered that I really hate that wallpaper just as much as I hate dry leaves in plants. I water my plants a lot, four cups a day, half of what a human needs. The thing is, I can’t deal with the fact that even if a plant lives in the best conditions, leaves will still dry every now and then. When I see them all crumpled and yellowish, I rip them off as fast as I can and try to forget about them. I really hate that wallpaper.

I have been dreaming in blank lately… it is not like I dream of a white square or something like that. They are such comforting dreams. They are empty dreams, not related to anything. Like when you play a blank cassette tape and it hardly makes a buzz. What makes the sounds is the machine, its circular gear going on and on and on, not the cassette.

I don’t think I have any cassettes left, but the owner of one of the apartments that I work on has a whole collection. They are not from bands, I think they are a mix of different stuff, maybe from work. I don’t really know what he does for a living but he has a lot of boom boxes, and technological stuff that I wouldn’t even try to name. They all have the classic striped white paper inside the plastic box full of indecipherable scribbling. They are also crumpled and yellowish. I don’t like those cassettes.

They also remind me of the awful wallpaper and the beautiful grayness of the cement wall. Is grayness a condition? Maybe it should be. That is probably what makes it so enjoyable to discover; it is silent, removed. Just like my blank dreams. I forgot to ask you, do you dream at all?

Now that I am actually writing I realize that there is no reason to explain you all this stuff. I guess I just wanted to tell you about me and since the letter I wanted to write to you never had words, it’s been difficult to limit myself. Maybe it was just a gear going on and on and on. I prefer it that way, words bothers me sometimes so I should stop writing.

Actually, I need to ask you something, I know that I am the one writing to you but I need you to not respond to this letter. I really really really would love to know about your life but I prefer not to. It probably seems stupid to you… I know, it is stupid. I don’t know why but I can’t deal with the fact that something is going to fill my mailbox one day. I know that you are thinking “well, why should I even send this letter in the first place if I don’t want an answer?” the thing is that I know that once I send it, it will disappear. It is better if it becomes a fragment of time in a parallel existence that I can’t remember, a memory, like you. I prefer it that way, you know how I love my routine. Please don’t be mad at me, just don’t answer it and receive a big hug.

 

With much appreciation,                                           

 

Yours.




  • Escrito como parte de la obra That moment in time / Written as part of the piece That moment in time. 2018



—-



He started thinking about Marx because that year was the 40th anniversary of the military coup that overthrew a democratically elected socialist government in his country. At that time, he was reading an excerpt from a Francis Wheen’s book called Karl Marx to understand the historical context of that situation. He had been struggling to understand the place of himself as an artist in that specific moment in history considering the multiplicity of political realities. Maybe Marx had something to add to that struggle, he thought. There was one quote in the book that captured his attention “All revolutions are both social and political in so far as they dissolve the old society and overthrow the old power. Even if the revolution occurred in just one factory district. As with the Silesian weavers, it still threatened the whole state because it represents man’s protests against a dehumanized life”. He researched for more information about the Silesian Weavers riots. He found out at the Argentinian Communist party website that the Silesian weavers protest happened in 1844 (also known as the Silesian Revolt) and is considered one of the first laborer uprising in history. He also remembered that Wheen’s book mentioned Heinrich Heine writing a poem about the Silesian weavers. The poem was called Song of the Silesian Weavers and expressed in a traditional five paragraph poem the workers exploitation. There was a phrase that was repeated at the end of each paragraph. That phrase was: “We’re weaving, we’re weaving” and it implied the impossibility of escaping from labor. He remembered the image of his mother weaving. He thought about repetition. Repetition as a way for surviving in the world but also as a way of resistance, of public resistance. He recalled the student riots of his own country and how only through repetition they managed to install public education as part of the government’s political agenda. The images of people and of himself marching in the street populated his head. He thought about public space, about walking through those streets and its meaning. It reminded him of an old friend from his country who worked with performance…Thinking about that, he came across a text about the Flaneur and thought to himself: Is there any resistance in Baudelaire’s Flaneur? There was definitely a quest for a change of perception, the purpose though seemed experiential. Experience, time, performance, immateriality and the disappearance of a final product.

Pause

He went back to Marx’s quote and thought about revolution as something inevitable. Going to the Latin root of the word revolution seemed like a good way to fully understand what Marx meant. He found out that the word revolution comes from the word revolutio that means “A turn around”. The idea of turning around was related with the change of perception in the Flaneur. Also with the dichotomic use of the action of repeating that he had earlier came up with. He thought about the difference between turning around in 180° and in 360°.

Pause

He took four sheets of newsprint and taped them together in an asymmetric shape. He wrote down the ideas and connected them in a concept map. After a few days of looking closely to each part of this system he concluded two things: One, was that the idea of working with his artist friend complicated everything too much, the other one was that there was only one way of addressing all of these ideas and it should be through a simple gesture: he would walk backwards through the city for an entire week.

Pause

That Tuesday morning he decided to start his performance, after having breakfast he grabbed his coat and went outside.

He walked backwards through the streets of the city.

 A fort-five minute walk.

A five minute walk

A twenty minute walk

In one of those walks a Penn policeman told him laughing: “I give you permission to turn around”

Pause

He kept walking.

Pause

In his third walk and having spent most of the day struggling with his own body in the space,

 he stopped for some minutes,

Pause

 Stared at the ground and thought.

Pause

He slowly turned around

and walked forward.

 

 

  • Escrito como parte de la obra Backward Forward / Written as part of the piece Backward Forward.

2014