Ruth Benzacar Galería de Arte presents this exhibition by Ernesto Ballesteros that brings together the series of drawings “Algo en el espejo opaco” and “Retratos”.
With text by Marcela Sinclair, it can be visited in Room 2 of the gallery until Saturday, July 15.
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By Marcela Sinclair
After the crash he had the motorcycle’s tank painted with a ying yang. It’s great because they adapted it to the shape of the tank, and you can hardly distinguish it at first glance. After you’ve seen it once, it’s been there forever, with the sinuous curve at the top separating and connecting the black and white, with an oval of the opposite color on each side.
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Hours crocheting with glasses on . As they are leftover balls made from unknitted sweaters, it has an unthinkable palette. She chooses one color, then sticks another, a soft, fuzzy wool next to a thicker one, in combinations that are sometimes subtle, sometimes strident. She looks at the colors closely and lets herself be impressed. She says she has to let things touch her.
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They arrive at the lab, prepare the material, and then get down to microscopic observation until the lunch break. Each one analyzes about a hundred plates a day. I go in to renew the water in the thermos flask and every now and then I spy on those miniatures that barely move between two panes of glass. The light from the hospital’s park comes in through the window. The trees filter it gently.
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And I know Cortázar is not in fashion now, but in the story there was a musician and the theme was how it was transported by playing. He even hints at the suspicion that the guy altered time. He was a trumpet player or something, a trombonist perhaps. There was a train or subway ride, which you didn’t know if it lasted a few minutes or eternity. Jazz was the music. What was the name of that story, me cache en dié [Fuck my god]?
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During the whole game the players were concentrated in the central area. Sometimes they were all running after the ball. Sometimes they moved in different directions and it was hard to understand what was going on until finally the play appeared. One that did not come from the blackboard but was put together on the field. Passes made without goal anxiety, beautiful play.
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He stands still in silence, with the blind almost completely closed, only a few cracks through which some light enters. Segments of straight diagonal lines of about two inches each are projected on the wall in front of the bed. They are warm white because it is sunny. On Sunday, with no traffic, it’s like a silent movie, as well as abstract.
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By the third time out, it came naturally to me. The instructor brought to my body’s memory the breathing I use in yoga. Exercise the synchronization until it is perfect.The left foot releases the clutch and the right foot presses the accelerator, the gear starts smoothly in first gear.Second, third, second, wink and brake to repeat all over again.
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When he plays Tinenti, there’s a clique around him because he has some pebbles that seem to be bewitched: they stay floating in the air for a few microseconds. It is discussed in the school if it is really a skill of the thrower’s wrist or if it is the chemical composition of the marbles, which he brought back from the mountains of Córdoba during the summer.
…
By the third time out, it came naturally to me. The instructor brought to my body’s memory the breathing I use in yoga. Exercise the synchronization until it is perfect.The left foot releases the clutch and the right foot presses the accelerator, the gear starts smoothly in first gear.Second, third, second, wink and brake to repeat all over again.
….
When he plays tinenti, there’s a clique around him because he has some pebbles that seem to be bewitched: they stay floating in the air for a few microseconds. It is discussed in the school if it is really a skill of the thrower’s wrist or if it is the chemical composition of the marbles, which he brought back from the mountains of Córdoba during the summer.
…
He goes to the workshop for a while and dedicates himself to the concentric rubbing of a color, with the pencil well sharpened at the beginning, to enter the valleys of the paper. As if he had all the time in the world, or as if his life consisted in drawing that color. Very softly. Without thinking about the next one. He doesn’t care if a seven-color drawing takes him seven days, or seven months.He moves forward conscious of each mini stroke, letting the shapes appear.
