Aire Fresco en el Verano del Amor: An exhibition organized by Abraham Cruzvillegas

We dream and -touching the ethereal crystalline and inverted transparency of the Lacandonia schismatica- feel the bite of the big headed nauyaca on the abductor of the thumb, whose skin transforms into someone else's, perhaps an intermediate entity, a sticky succulent, made of chewing gum, armpit sweat, arse, hair and latex. A pacifier hanging from a chain of events.

Humiliated in its scale and proportion, salivating, we caress the upcoming future -which in many ways has been a permanent shift to the past that continues to happen day by day- while we ruminate our finest red-sole sorrows.

And accumulating that dense, enzymatic and tasty, juicy drool, we irrigate nourish and make matter  rub, rib, relish and recognize that our identity is not one. While spitting on our momentary container, pedestal, sculpture, potty and tree, something sprouts, at least with this heat, we will take root.

And while we keep sweating, smiling, we only perceive her mouth, but we know that it contains the stories of generations of minstrels and bards, who call themselves differently in another language, with our tongue, wet and warm, transmitting a knowledge that is no longer called, just calls.

The symbiotic contract with nature broken, we eventually endorse a possible restorative bond, sometimes called kintsugi, but I continue chopping down logs, ravaging and overheating the pot in which we fry, flood and drown in my narcissistic ineffective chant.

The ssssssssssssssssss ssssssssssssssssss ssssssssssssssssss of the northern rattlesnake reminds us of her serpentine dance, its indispensable liturgy to revive whatever has to be, also releasing its exquisite and phantasmagorical envelope. 

And our specters dance from here to there, retinal and olfactory, discreet, nebulous, agitators, never agitated, reminding us of our light reality, hacktivist, revolutionary, but without pamphlets or propaganda.

It reflects us, includes everything, the universe that contemplates our tiny and brittle humility, angularly polyvalent, plural, the size of my hands. Speculative, the sculpture attests to a possible stomp that shelters all possibilities. I am our monstrous, bizarre, mimetic inside.

Rising from among our own bones, we position ourselves as powerful, the hard and muscular calf that wants to strive for a complex identity: that of the fervent spectacle that caresses with the eye and that stops before the vulnerability of the quivering flesh. Her teaching is that of resistance, in every way.

Embodied on the burnished surface of a ceramic plate, licking ourselves  and our -momentary- partner, we claim our belonging to the animal kingdom, sweating, moaning and ignoring reproductive morality, not to mention religious morality: we insist on the possibility of renewing desire, as we have dreamed of since the year of the beach under the pavement.

Of course, there will always be those who murmur, who conspire: 'The twilight of professional life decreases disproportionately with the instability of the market, even though the libido increases, the income does not necessarily come in a stable and regular manner.' That is one of the conversations in that almost microscopic corner of the drawing.

In the slightest part of our insomnia, perhaps from sleep, or from the misery of exhausting wakefulness, we scramble our multiple and generous identity into tiny fragments, multiplies into almost less and less of almost everything, little pieces of paper that signify without having to affirm this or that, we take shape in space. We are.

We connect then, without letting go off our vinyl, and curl up, in the word, in what we decide is the image, sound and inertia of an unnameable pleasure, which throws the phone through the window and call ourselves in different and contradictory ways, it is the multiple self to which we secretly aspire (with its seven attributes), that which is thoroughly everything, with everything, and with everyone.

We want to have a jagged cup of something that turns us on, a tisane, a tea, an infusion, and on our little dish -also knavishly organized- set a tasty cake, Viennese, Hanseatic, from Madrid, from wherever, but that can help to rethink the zipper or the gear as sensual and compatible forms of pleasure.

Like the customary wheelchair, which carves a sculpture in its daily transit to the place of rest and conspiracy, marking the full experience of unconsciousness in its corner, we choose to recognize by touch the little whacks and the peelings on the bodywork. With our sandpaper and flannels, we decompose a palette that includes in a single glance the history of painting and that of traffic accidents. 

Crumbling the walls of Bonampak, Cacaxtla, Palacio Nacional, the Assisi Chapel and the Sistine Chapel, we plunge our finger into the mixture that becomes twin skin and flesh of an archaeological find to be discovered, tomorrow at noon, inside the oven of a stove.

In our most essential indigence, it surprises us with its only eye, standing in this threshold, where the redundant question extinguishes any answer, and our pubescent gaze responds with all other possible questions, turning us into what we see without making us salt, nor stone.

Similarly, when someone listens to us, sometimes secretly, they don’t find truths, nor can they cease to listen, because, as the sign clarifies it, there’s no way to set barriers, not even covering their ears with their hands,nor covering their eyes, or their mouths: we perceive, and we are perceptible. 

Our ashes awake in the cobalt and light blue urn, where the graffiti, the cartoon, the lampoon, the Riso, and the rain that gets through the power cables, celebrate the impossibility of stopping the energy, our joy, our tragedy and our possible healings.

Without dropping anything on the way from the plate to the mouth, we intuit a stealthy and discreet portrait, almost insignificant in our humility, and the question is repeated three times that results in others, never in response or conclusion. Am I? Are we?

Then, we hold on to our own image, which, naturally, has not  belonged to us for some centuries, chopped off with the hands that illustrate the cover of his free Literature textbook, those of the brilliant suicidal architect, the one who killed himself three times, the same one who painted the mural that celebrates The Great Gertrudis, the one in the library of the old capital of the empire of Those Who Visit Each Other.

With the lightness of the two sides of our tooth, the leaf becomes moist and rapidly evaporates the sweetness of the tropical nectar of the orphan seed of the palm tree, in Marseille, in Quito, in Majorca, in Tangier, in San Pedro Sula, in Doha, in la Quebrada and in Posto Nove, producing another flood between the lips.

Tying knots, sliding, slipping through its fingers, matter makes sense only when it can -once again- be unstable, suspended in time and space, bites its tail, returns and demands its place, its moment and cries out for silence, while pollinating itself.

Please read this entanglement as a quipu, in such a way that it provokes a pink and emerald epiphany, like the moles on someone's lower back -face down on the grass of the Panhandle park, or in Barra de Potosí, or in Chacahua, or in San Agustinillo, or in Chacalilla, or in the infamous Bombilla park- embraced by the loved one(s) and by the Fresh Air In The Summer of Love.

- Abraham Cruzvillegas.