Did you see it ripple, still of gauze,
from your feet to the sky, over the river?
J.L.O.
Slices of light pass through thousands of broken crystals, tiny accidental traces of the fragility of all things. Reflections barely shattered spill like waves across the floor and the walls until they disappear into the ceiling. The movement of a light that is too intense dissolves the images of the river; evaporated, they cannot be caught. The trail is useless. It is enough to go down a few steps to know that it is not a story, that the narrative is not possible. It may be, instead, a map of what remained when the mist dissipated, a direction in which to walk, or simply a space that must be occupied.
It may be an essay on the forms of light and its intricate ties with the construction of a landscape made of absences and voids, perhaps of words and silences. A space that expands, escapes, slips away: that asserts itself in its spareness. It is a blinding glow, a luminous flash, a sequence of fireflies, a miniature galaxy. It is a barely lit basement, papers embedded, perforated, embossed, discarded, simulated.
It may be a system of random encounters, of light touches between modules that repeat tiny and infinite. A ghostly construction of invisible joints, translucent and imperturbable. It is craftsmanship that refracts traditions so ancient they begin to disappear on a distant horizon, others so close to our noses we can barely see them. It is the rigor of work that offers, in exchange, tranquility, the tranquility of an autumn nap by the Paraná.
Sofía Dourrón.
