Invited by Ruth Benzacar Galería de Arte, Francisca Rey presents her first solo show, which will be on view in Room 2 of the gallery.
“Her discreet exercise of humor, sometimes macabre, opens in each image a way of entry and once there, we are part of a game that was not foreseen”, says Hector Maranesi, in the text of the exhibition.
Until August 10
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“Life is the fragile and restless center that forms do not reach.” Antonin Artaud
The paradox is to go into the uncertain without expecting more than to come out of it with something to create. A certain type of enjoyment that as such does not exclude pain or suffering. This is the way of some artists.
This is just the prologue:
When Francisca creates she advances on her own track. She checks on her marks. She knows that there is a lot behind, something she has not yet embodied and is waiting. This will not be her only possession. She also knows that an invisible thread connects her to the world. She will speak, sometime, about a subtle pain she knows and recognizes in others.
There is, in spite of her, no white canvas, no object, no silence. The supports are screens. Her instinct provides her with the necessary will to insist and to see. In her practice she finds the guide until she configures the apparition with which to unfold that overwhelming background and what were obscurities become images: the ghosts live among us. I cannot simply ignore everything that is happening around us.
As every story implies a story, the symbolic universe unfolds and allows us to enter into that which remained unknown. The possibility that she offers and offers us from fiction is to link us with the inevitable, the memory and the fear of the unpredictable, and a certain twisted grimace humor allows her to constitute and share something like a mirror. Perhaps this is the justification of her craft and his practice.
To enter, to lose ourselves in its territory, is nothing other than to venture to be taken as far as we can see, read or discover, as far as our spirit, our impetus allows us to undertake. Where we are left. It does not let us be simple observers, nor voyeurs desirous of other people’s stories. That which we discover, that which is unveiled, between each layer of paint, after each brushstroke, between the bars of their cradles, in the objects that emerge between them, challenges us a step beyond curiosity. It is something more than a foreign story or a strange gesture. The material that builds this experience is vast and very precise.
With delicate insistence she conjugates a personal imaginary nourished by different visual artists, historical and contemporary, also from the cinema and literature that she has visited so many times until she appropriates them and turns them into his vocabulary. She also resorts to that sounding board that is artificial intelligence, orchestrating in the liminal space of representation something that should not be there.
There’s something weird going on. There is something that does enough in each image to involve us. We are, in every sense, being part of an event. We watch and are watched, we know as much as we ignore. Her discreet exercise of humor, sometimes macabre, opens in each image a way in and once there, we are part of a game that was not foreseen. As in a dream or in its exalted version, a nightmare, we are part of it. We have no way out.
