, you
are lying on the floor of your place looking up, a small draft runs through the room, between the door and the window, and all things seem perfectly still, wind only disturbs concrete in imperceptible ways, or it may take millions of years to
be noticed and, as the air runs through the space, all your plants move and all
is animated and all
is alive somehow, and here
are the thoughts of all men in all ages and lands, they
are not original with me, and that wind upon your plants
is the common air that bathes the globe, and we have no ambitions of universalism, and I
'm glad we don't, but the particles of air bring traces of pollen and
are charged with electricity, desert sand, maybe sea water, and these particles
were somewhere else before they
were dragged here, and their route will not end by the door of this house, and if we tell each other stories, one can imagine that they might have
been bathed by this same air, regrouped and recombined, recharged as a vehicle for sound, swirling as it moves, bringing the sound of a drum, like that Kabuki story where a fox recognizes the voice of its parents as a girl plays a drum made out of their skin, or any other
event, and yet I always felt your work never tells stories, I tend to think that narrative implies a past tense, even if that past
was just five seconds ago, one second ago
was already the past, and human memory
is irrelevant in geological time, plants and fish know not what tomorrow will bring, neither rocks nor metal do, but we all live here now, and we all need visions and we all need dreams, and as long as your metal sculptures vibrate they
are always in the
Present, and their past
is a material truth alien to narrative, but well, maybe narrative does not imply a past tense
at all and they
are writing their own story while they gently move and breathe, and maybe nothing
was really still before the wind came in, passing through the window as if through an irrational portal to make those plants dance, but everything
was already moving and breathing in near complete silence, and if you
're focused enough you can feel the pulse of a concrete wall and you can feel the tectonic movements of the earth, and you can hear the magma flowing under our feet and our bones crackling like a wild fire, and you can see the light of fireflies reflected in polished metal, and there
is nothing magical about that, it
is just the way things
are, and sometimes we have to raise our voice because the music
is too loud and let your clothes move to a powerful bass, sound waves and bright lights, powerful like the sun, blinding us if we stare for too long, but isn't it the biggest sign of love, like singing to a corn field, and all acts of kindness that
are not pitiful nor utilitarian, that
are truly horizontal as everything
around us
is impregnated with the deadliest violence, vertical and systemic, poisonous, and sometimes you just want to feel the sun burning your skin and look for life in all things declared dead, a kind of vitality that operates like corrosion, strong as the wind near the sea, transforming all things,