23 Minutes (Traces - 03/2021)

23 Minutes is a work in the form of an Artist's Book produced in a period of five weeks.

Taking as a starting point the adaptation to the environment of the human being and the new reality in which she is trapped, the artist creates a series of short texts, necessarily born of experience, accompanied by sequences of images and some leaves and flowers collected by herself as a small herbarium. The elements that accompany the images have a deep meaning and are presented in perfect order of travel and experience.

Forced into self-imposed isolation to avoid possible contagion by the virus that has plunged the world into chaos, the artist maintains a brief period of time in contact with the outside world on a daily basis. Only 23 minutes from your home to your workplace. Space that transits and that is enough to see the sunrise, seeing a small piece of urban landscape without human presence that changes from night to day.

This artist's book collects in text form the thoughts that recur to the artist's mind on her journey in complete solitude. Seventeen black and white images taken by instant camera illustrate his words, in an improvised and sometimes informal way, nevertheless forming together with the different plants an orderly sequence of essays and thoughts.

The artist resorts again to a typical feature in her work: the sequenced work. The work is inspired by the concept of the late works of Monet, the literature of Walt Whitman or the poetics of the works of Emily Dickinson in whom it somehow feels reflected.

This artist's book, permeated with a deep feeling of melancholy, supposes a form of permitted pain. An exercise in which the artist flees from impermeability to feelings.

 At the end of the day, the work is a learning journal in unfathomable solitude.

23 MINUTES (Complete text)

THE NIGHT

It's been a year since my only contact with the outside world is summed up in the short journey that I make on foot every morning to get to my place of work.

Only 23 minutes that I walk under the evanescent light of a few streetlights, while doing an introspection exercise like punishment.

Silence and darkness have taught me to see the nondescript landscape with new senses. Senses previously stunned by traffic noise or tomorrow's stress. "The future does not exist" I repeat myself every day, while almost in the dark I see how nature breaks the tiles, breaking through with the atrocious force of the desire to survive under any circumstance.

I have learned to interpret in the smell of the air, the rainy weather or the decrepit southern days that taste like dry leaves and have the touch of elephant skin, those hateful days of a thousand dry furrows that will confuse the mind.

Every ten tiles stepped on, I remember Dickinson's lyrics, his little world, his years of voluntary seclusion and his unfathomable world that increasingly resembles mine.

Those 23 minutes at night suffocate me in deep thoughts that take me away from everyday life to immerse myself in an unknown abyss and yet sometimes pleasant.

As I ignore the snails that carry their weight, I think of the people who hurt me and I am surprised to do so without hatred or regret, because I discovered that they were long ago forgiven, almost without wanting to ... Other times I think of my mother's hands when I I was a girl, in her big, always warm and soft hands that guided and supported me wherever I went. That sweet thought soon turns into a deep dark blue almost black, when I realize that those hands are now smaller, that time and work have made them rough and weak. Then I imagine the poor hands of my mother and I feel deeply miserable. I can only think that as that book says that I did not want to finish ... I will never be the way I want it.

The air dries the tears that flow through the natural channels of my face, overcoming the layers of felt, to flow like living salt on my cracked lips. I keep walking, I can't get lost, I can't be late.

I slow down the pace when I get closer to that building that I always avoid looking at, and that houses unknown dead. I beg God to welcome their souls, if it exists, if they had a soul.

Nearby three dogs appear that behind the high fence follow me with their eyes, and accompany me in the imposed distance, close by the cherry blossoms begin to be seen. Her gentle flowers brighten my eyes, and with a small smile that no one can see (even with the taste of tears) I tell myself that Whitman was right: Nature is a miracle enough, like doubting six trillion infidels.

Nature and its influence. Break through, despite everything ... The wind sometimes resembles the voice of a child, and the clouds cover the sky like giant pregnant bellies.

One last thought springs up as I approach the factory. 

A son. The idea of the son, of being a mother.

Could I have been a good mother? It's possible. I would have liked to teach my son to use the cutlery in the correct order. I would have been happy to show you that someone small can cast a big shadow. It would have taught him not to drag chairs. I would have liked to make up stories with him, teach him the names of the trees. Teach him that to learn to write you have to read, that you learn to think by feeling ... that Art is the only thing that makes us human. But not. Can not be. I am barren. I am like water. I am water in all its states and all in the same day. A child needs calm water to learn to swim and strong arms to support him if he is exhausted.

23 minutes, I'm already in front of the factory.

I return from the unfathomable.

THE DAY

The third bank is the very place of consciousness. Face the road, which plays its cavalier song. Ahead, a tasteless commercial building. On the right the factory and on the left the home. Behind, a warehouse where dogs live that react with empathy to the smell of sadness. Beyond it, a feignedly illuminated architecture, crowned by an orthopedic sign that houses the unknown dead, for whom I pray every dawn.

At noon, the snails that carry their weight on the cobblestones are gone. Lizards now appear on the bank, running with the vibrations to shelter themselves as I flee from the world's infectious breath. I sit down and drowned by the pressure of the felt, I perform an exercise of perfect humanity: I cry, I look inward and, surprised, find that between the second and third rib I harbor a sapphire called Esperanza (Hope).