Oh, Thursday.

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.


Oh, Thursday.

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.


Oh, Thursday.

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.


March-April, 2020