An e-mail for Martin De Thurah

November 18th, 2015

7:00 PM (exact time)

I'm gonna start again:  
Let me tell you what you reminded me about. I once dreamt that both my deceased father and I could fly. I rarely dream about him in normal situations. We flew together over the skies and in between a very complex construction conformed by various stations, all of them were hexagonally shaped and covered by strange exotic plants, most of them wild creepers. At first I could only see a few stations, they had no windows but open walls, and as I flew over, in and in between I saw some of them had mirrors underneath, some left their wooden dark structure undiscovered, and some were fully covered by plants that hung for us to dodge when flying. It was difficult to know what was reflection and what was part of the structure, but we didn't feel threatened at all, being free like that came with the secure confidence that it was some sort of calculated grace that held us up in the air.  


Or as I would put it in Spanish:  
Era la prueba de la calculada gracia que nos sostenía en el aire (sounds much better).  


It was risky but pleasant, much like skydiving, or like jumping off a cliff in a reckoned fast swing and entering the water perfectly, like having to master a not-all-human technique and surviving it. Feeling the wind I flew faster and faster, and as I moved forward, its form became clearer: it was a giant green honeycomb infinitely replicated in fractals in a horizon my eyes could no longer distinguish. The sky was still open for us to fly around. All of this was supposedly built by Olafur Eliasson, and I think I had only seen some of his work before I dreamt this, the Sun from the Weather Project. Looking for more, I found he does have some hexagonal constructions. I figured intuitively he could've built this, and I loved it. And I love most of what he's done, I don't say all of it because I still don't know all of it. I feel really excited to know that you are gonna work with him, I can only imagine what you both will be able to do together, did you already meet him? Are you still working on it? On a more serious tone, were you in Paris when all of this outrageous violent attacks happened? Where are you now? Also: Every written landscape you share with me I turn it into a series of imaginary photographs, mostly your style. I want to use my camera, I want to learn more. Do you recommend anything at all to start again and get better at it? I feel like my mind wants to travel soon.  


Hope (but have the weird feeling that) you're okay.
Hugs, many hugs. 

Lina

Sobre el trabajo de mi amiga Ana María:

Counterweight

As a heavy blanket at your grandmother's home, the sand-filled fabric covers and protects the body in a twist. Much like a story, "Counterweight" needs actors too. It might be appropriate to remember how the word used for "pattern" in Swedish, more specifically “rekursion”, is also used as a way to refer to "narrative" or "story". The reference, like a theatrical plot, suggests a link between how our own gestures change in the interaction with another; in this case, how the behavior of the fabric is affected by motion and how the weight of the fabric determines how the body can move and sustain itself. The qualities of textiles and each fabric are not just to be seen, since most of them go unnoticed without a near interaction. Here we are reminded that textiles should be understood as less of visual treats, and more as tactile objects that relate to the body, and that may or may not hold its pulsations. 

Sand-filled patterns repeat themselves much like fingerprints on the bodies of those who wear them, but never in the same way. Therefore, Counterweight is where shapes come to be reshaped. Where folded cloths come to be unfolded, and then folded again with a new result. Where a fabric can only become a chair and take a body's weight with the right kind of interaction. It all comes down to the tension that can only be created through the dialogue with another object. Brought under the same logic of something being more than the sum of its parts, these patterns and fabrics are not just mere surfaces, but a cast of characters that when given the chance to be brought into play and interaction with a third, win new qualities with some levels of self-awareness.  From the materials to the geometric patterns that balance gravity, repetition differentiates itself depending on the potentials of each figure that animates it.

Like waves behind a motorboat, if the fabric was to be light, these shapes heavily resonate with the body, and weight becomes a tangible way to express that information is physical. To embrace it as a tactile potential means to empower the body and animate the qualities of each fabric, since it is true that there is always a chance of seeing while staying undiscovered, but it is impossible to touch and stay untouched. 

Querido AJK.

¡Tanto tiempo! 
No hablamos desde que querías irte a Cuba, desde que me invitaste a que fuera contigo. ¿Por qué ibas solo? ¿no tienes una novia tú? Confieso que he visto un par de fotos que me hacen pensar que sí. 

Yo te cuento que fui a Sao Paulo y me despedí de mi semana de trabajo y me fui a Río completamente sola. Viajar así puede ser aburrido, es cierto, por momentos, pero también bello y productivo. El diálogo interno se vuelve más fuerte y para bien o para mal, sirve. Además comes lo que quieres, donde quieres, cuando quieres, y ya está. Te dejas sorprender por las historias de otros y por la gente que se te acerca porque sí. 

Me enamoran las personas que conozco por ahí, y es una bonita sorpresa que nada tenga que ver con las consecuencias románticas de algún amor, se hace un poco más limpio. En general, este lindo mundo me llena de cosas nuevas todos los días, me está sorprendiendo últimamente con novedad, y personas increíbles, gente interesante con proyectos hermosos que me hablan muy directamente. Últimamente encuentro muy especial esa forma en la que las coincidencias llenan todo de sentido, un poco sin importar si creemos si son aleatorias, o no. 

Cuéntame cosas, confiésate. Me gustaba leer lo que escribías y creo que lo extraño un poco.

¿No tomarse tan en serio? A veces sueno muy solemne. Volver a encontrar el corazón. Cuando lo encuentro las palabras no me alcanzan, soy torpe y sueno mal, como alguien que escribe muy, muy mal. Pero me encuentro en las palabras de otros y sé que lo que pasa es que se me ha olvidado cómo crear. Probablemente sufrí de muchas angustias alguna vez. Se quedó pegado el tono. No tiene que ser ese. Tampoco tiene que huirle. Sólo ser sincero. Tan sincero como esto, que suena escueto. Medirse en la autorreflexión limitante. Sólo buscar ser mejor. Y dejar de pedir tantas excusas entre líneas. Tantos gimmicks inútiles. Fetichismo pendejo. Y nada que hacer. Tengo mi propia manera de hacer las cosas. Probablemente me demore años en sacar algo que me interese. Lo puedo hacer. Pero también puedo dejar de pensar en el otro. Un poco. Volcarlo sobre el mundo y ya está. Afrontar ahora mismo. Sin adolescencias no crecen adultos. Y no hay adulto que no tenga un poco de adolescente.