LANDSCAPES OF A SHIPWECK THAT ABSORBS WITHOUT CLEMENCY
In the game of introspection we sometimes find ourselves on the threshold of what gives us meaning and we allow ourselves to fall into our own despair, we submerge to fit into our skin or into the room that shelters us. Sometimes we have a presentiment of places that house our unconfessable desires, places that pierce any glimmer of consciousness.
Objects that seem like a vision, reflections of an action of living, spaces that inertly show the interventions of memories that leave a trace. A place that alludes, that is solitude, that issues an invitation to seduction, and in the course of the game one becomes an executioner oneself. An intimacy that we guard jealously, and yet in an instant a cut and slash brings us uncertainly close to living. A punch that pierces the skin as it weaves and painfully draws memory inside it.
The woman who impotently pounds on the wall, who angrily shakes the clothes and resignedly folds them again, stabbing and leaving a mark, stabbing and leaving something hanging, stabbing and leaving a desire, a rage, present and evident. “Thrust the needle into the cloth, stick it in now without feigned sweetness, for in the end you will join what you want and you will not have to ask anyone’s forgiveness.”
Now, in this dark transition, a vortex draws us down into a one-way journey, we are lightly led along the path of life with neither rest nor clemency. Inaccessible society becomes occupied, memory seems to be violated, solitude is breached. In this crossing, two parallel worlds circulate without touching: one collects the remains of the wreckage of life in its nooks and crannies, the other seeks the meaning of its own identity among those remains.
NATIVIDAD NAVALÓN, April 1999
In the game of introspection we sometimes find ourselves on the threshold of what gives us meaning and we allow ourselves to fall into our own despair, we submerge to fit into our skin or into the room that shelters us. Sometimes we have a presentiment of places that house our unconfessable desires, places that pierce any glimmer of consciousness.
Objects that seem like a vision, reflections of an action of living, spaces that inertly show the interventions of memories that leave a trace. A place that alludes, that is solitude, that issues an invitation to seduction, and in the course of the game one becomes an executioner oneself. An intimacy that we guard jealously, and yet in an instant a cut and slash brings us uncertainly close to living. A punch that pierces the skin as it weaves and painfully draws memory inside it.
The woman who impotently pounds on the wall, who angrily shakes the clothes and resignedly folds them again, stabbing and leaving a mark, stabbing and leaving something hanging, stabbing and leaving a desire, a rage, present and evident. “Thrust the needle into the cloth, stick it in now without feigned sweetness, for in the end you will join what you want and you will not have to ask anyone’s forgiveness.”
Now, in this dark transition, a vortex draws us down into a one-way journey, we are lightly led along the path of life with neither rest nor clemency. Inaccessible society becomes occupied, memory seems to be violated, solitude is breached. In this crossing, two parallel worlds circulate without touching: one collects the remains of the wreckage of life in its nooks and crannies, the other seeks the meaning of its own identity among those remains.
NATIVIDAD NAVALÓN, April 1999
