how are you? Is the blue still hunting you?
I’m working on a new series of drawing for an upcoming solo exhibition, the one I believe will be the most intimate I’ve made so far.
I draw cave entrances using a black pen, as I used to do when I was a little kid. The constant movements of the pen on the sheet and the overlapping of signs I’m doing to recreate the dark areas of the caves causes a sort of trance and stimulates the production of mental images. As a reference, I’m using a collection of pictures I’ve downloaded form the internet of real and mythological caverns, from those inhabited by our ancestors to the one where Osama bin Laden had taken refuge.
If I draw and write, it is mostly to free my mind. These are the most effective and least expensive methods I know of. Not for nothing, these are recognized forms of self-therapy capable of helping us to elaborate some of the most complicated passages of life and, as in my case, also to convey the flow of ideas that moves behind every one of my projects.
Parallel to these drawings, I’m thinking about showing the notebooks I’ve collected over the past ten years or so. You went through some of them. Most of the time the pages got filled without thinking too much about concepts, composition or style. The storyline explodes and I don’t care about the outcome. A page becomes a cave, and when I turn it I don’t know if and how the story will continue. But it’s a very delicate matter and I’m well aware of the risks it implies. I know that I need to distance myself in order to find a way to deal with that unregulated flow avoiding self-satisfaction.
I’m here, with the caves on one side and hundreds of sketches and notes on the other, thinking about a possible dialogue between these two elements. I’m thinking of scanning some pages, releasing them from their original context and create an alternative storyline.
Both the subjects implicate a descending movement. The cave as a metaphorical figure could hold together all the fragments taken out of the diaries, becoming the level where the drawings could perform.
Lately, when I go to sleep, I imagine a child standing in front of a cave entrance. I follow him as he makes his way through ferns and tall grass. He is not afraid, and he knows where he is going. When he arrives in front of the cave, he stops. I see him from behind and slowly his gaze becomes mine: I notice the veins of the rocks, their porosity. The light that gradually fades into darkness, and vice versa. We listen as if we are waiting for some remote signal, as if that unreachable depth was the only place in the world, of the world, capable of sheltering chaos that doesn’t need to be organized, a language that needs no translation. It is as if, in front of all that darkness, we could finally make peace with all that we will never be able to explain.