I do not lament your absence.
I do not lament your presence.
For there is a lament of laments,
a deep, deafening lament
like that of a ship and its irredeemable cracking
or that of baptism and its lifelong echo.
A lament like that of—house—dust,
like the one of the bird that is incapable of flying,
that tumbled onto the island’s margins.
A lament for angels, the lament of prayer:
the lament of the un-contact .
(1) Looking at you and not looking at you. Speaking your name, that
is no good for an image. Imagining you without any certainty, or
imaging you will be in the cardinal point that is meant for me, I
trace you by heart but un-remembering.
(2) The touch of my hand’s skin towards your un-removable moles,
my exhaling after having recognized your sweat. Everything is a rest
we keep watching, expectant (how everything is lost, anyways—is this
a pleonasm?), preferably, during that hour when we share creases and
vortexes and causes and effects.
(3) A goodbye made long until the following goodbye. A parabolic
goodbye, catapulted until the next discovery of one before the other
and then the other way around. The goodbye from the burp of the last
dinner in our house. The goodbye that neither the orphan nor the
father remember. The goodbye that shall forever measure, weigh and
sink like a goodbye.
It is an impertinence for magnets,
for the tense springs that travel
and organize the mine,
for the polar pressure
that inflates the globe,
that we both shall wander, separate
in body and hope
(possible desolation definition)
(4) A snail gets lost in the immensity of the day. I have seen
them take shelter, desolate, inside their shell. Light can only
measure what is gone. Darkness, what does not exist.
(5) And the birds cuddle, dreamy, the feathered cocoon of an
oviparous flower. Light intensifies the outdoor cold. Darkness
disappears all the way into the trees.
Where are you
at this time of day that never ends
and of night finished by the day.
– Fernando Carabajal
40 un-contacts arises from Thursday, a book written by Fernando Carabajal in a self-imposed exile in 2006, a text that today might seem premonitory. From this poem, and the literary intersections from which it emerged, Carabajal proposes a digital curatorship where all the artists who have been part of Arróniz in the last two years link a work, a sketch or a process with a random word from the poem, chosen by the author to generate a kind of log of the collective closure that we go through.
The proposal has included represented and unrepresented artists who have exhibited on the Arróniz walls, generating a diverse, international and intergenerational plastic conversation.
LOG OF THE QUARANTINE
- Day 01 _Carlos Sagrera
- Day 02 _ Fernando García Correa
- Day 03 _ Ricardo Rendón
- Day 04 _ Sergio Gutiérrez
- Day 05 _ María Ignacia Edwards
- Day 06 _ Francisca Aninat
- Day 07 _ José Luis Landet
- Day 08 _ Ishmael Randall Weeks
- Day 09 _ Fernando Carabajal
- Day 10 _ Alejandro Pintado
- Day 11 _ Roula Partheniou
- Day 12 _ Christian Camacho
- Day 13 _ Moris
- Day 14 _ Mónica Espinosa
- Day 15 _ Mauro Giaconi
- Day 16 _ Pablo López Luz
- Day 17 _ Francisco Muñoz
- Day 18 _ Sabine Finkenauer
- Day 19 _ Agustín ‘Guty’ González
- Day 20 _ Nicola López
- Day 21 _ Jerónimo Hagerman
- Day 22 _ Omar Barquet
- Day 23 _ Javier Barrios
- Day 24 _ Omar Rodríguez Graham
- Day 25 _ Perla Krauze
- Day 26 _ Segundo Piso Collective
- Day 27 _ Justin Hibbs
- Day 28 _ Viernes Collective
- Day 29 _ Manuel Muñoz GG
- Day 30 _ Mr F
- Day 31 _ Taka Fernández
- Day 32 _Jaime Ruiz Otis
- Day 33 _Daniel Alcalá
- Day 34 _Amadeo Azar
- Day 35 _ Paula Toto Blake
- Day 36 _ Alberto Lezaca
- Day 37 _ Almudena Lobera
- Day 38 _ Rodrigo Valenzuela
- Day 39 _ Ricardo Alcaide
- Day 40 _ Daniela Libertad