To walk-kill The Silence by Santiago YdáñezExhibition June 30th - August 4th 2007
Places cheat us, they pretend to be recognizable. We look for help to orient ourselves, as if that would be enough. We think that we identify faces, looks, movements. Till the minimal details.
It is the same if shouts or rests. The walk is made of loss and founds. Of a smiling cruelty. Of death's kindness. Of a silent blue, which pretends to be calm. Of a love and a loss of everything. The end is nothing but the gentlest destruction. The frozen walk, the frozen face, the broken hands.
The walk is white; it pretends to be sweet and dosed. Landscape is not the place. It would like to be an enormous and disappeared body. To be always everywhere.
Silence is always a return point. A moment. Not even mirrors are needed. Everything becomes visible. In clarity and in shadows. In the gestures. And at the end of the performance. When monstrosity results to be beautiful and beauty is sad. Touched, disguised landscape, ripped in its rests. Also stopped in an ecstasy that perpetuates in the indifference. To mingle with the Absolute and with the disappearances. Like a mislaying of the visible.
In the strange coincidence between the immobile and the violent, the walk remembers us the impossible. Like a chant that can hardly be heard. Like eternal silent birds. Like a slow cold that finally stops everything.
Landscape is now a universe. Uninhabited and kind. Not even hostile.
Once we have exceeded the consciousness, there are no further shouts to be heard. We are allowed to watch the disaster. With a mortal indifference. Listening- repeating a terrible supplication tempered by tears.
Landscape is a gesture, another joke. Some-place-another time. Nowhere. A pleasant walk that finally vanishes. Another try to stay (just for a moment) until guffaws stop. Until confusion is cleared.
The smiling gesture of disappearances, the nice turn of the absent glaze, the concessions to the animal-divine to write with spots. The whispered advertence of terror. As if once again laugh would not be enough: the eternal confusion of tragedy stroked by indolence.
During the walk, rests intertwined each other. They stop in the middle of the shadows. Rests are white eternal landscape. Landscape that returns once and another time. And they are the obscure. Inhabited and empty. Memory, presence they intertwine once again and as always.
María Ángeles Díaz Barbado