in art there are
in art there are intentions, will, manifestos, concepts, objects, incredible and poor skills alike, histories, politics of several kinds, forms, series, actions, institutions, curators, artists, receptors (public, viewer, listener among many denominations), the market, reviews, critics, publications, places, loci and sites,…
then, there is the materiality, and the labor, of love.
the unaccountable, the unquantifiable, the uncategorizable, as love manifests outside of the amount, only in immensity
it sends its rays, its waves, its convolutions, in around with and without that which originates an index.
not without touch, love involves, love devolves, love revolves. with it, i, you, them. then with hope, the them evolves into the us, as we is shaped in a perpetual now. what makes continuity such is the growth experienced together. hence history emanates a distance too wide to bridge, in need of extreme erasure, as yesterday has elongated too far beyond, and tomorrow is yet to return. similarly in space, distance is traveled ever so fast, leaving behind before durable traces are drawn.
how is the distance between layers of the same self traveled and what are the consequences in terms of abridgement?
have we become relentlessly fragmented in spite of love? if love is the glue that keeps us together (us the plural, us the singular), how, when, does love manifest itself these days? is there a need to represent it? does it not become, meanwhile, even if unnoticed?
is not time the real limit?
[in piñata it is the distance what makes it move, what shakes it, what breaks it. Distance as measured by a wooden stick and extended or retracted arms depending on the blower.]
[who, what, is the center of the radius? the subject? the object? Do their spheres intersect? anger management; piñata; possible; present—where words are the bridge and the gap—]
when i die, i would like to become an apple tree.