In the womb of abnegada (selfless), our sinews stretch against the sugar-glass of our senses. Sunken into the hollows of our shoulders, the breeze of the other's voice bristles across the tight garment of our skin: longing itself is changed as it plunges from the dream into appearance.
The time here is a suspended dusk that closes all around us: daytime won’t ever stop moving ahead backwards on the stomach of the night. Very far away, the last sonorous tones of the storms which could make our glassy caresses what they desire to be - chrome-colored children on a dazzling beach, with the silly swelling of bubbles beneath our milk teeth.
On a certain scale, almost everything is porous and the screen becomes a membrane: the flash-frozen shatter of viscera against smooth glass only suggests a boundary. Here we are dragging under the bear-skins of accumulated time, smiling vaguely, huddled up but less than mute: the mirrors rush at us like friends, lovers, our desires. Siren call of our pheremones, senses: the body in its form and structure, its colours and chemical composition, its intercourse with the elements and with the stars: all are present within a single whole. This form is no offspring of the soul, but is an appearance which steps up to it and, bittersweet, discloses its effective power.
Cut the water as much as you like - you'll never find the skeleton - and absolute mastery of the body comes only in death.
(Txt: Torre Alain/various for Solo Show)