When I was studying art I was living in Valencia. This city has one of the biggest medieval parts in Europe. During the time I was living there many buildings had to be renovated. A company tired/tore all the content of a house in a big metal container. In those containers you could find a kind of chaos capsule of time, furniture, photos, lamps, books, and personal belongings. All objects from a family or an old couple there looking at me, telling me the story of their lives. I remember since I bought books from other people in the second hand store, some of them with personal notes it always made me question about the owners, who they were and what were represented in their lives.
Like a snail we leave unconsciously traces, a part of ourselves on the way. Why are we storing those traces? Does it make sense? Why...did our grandfather collected all those tools and rubbish and our grandmother kept all those photos and personal things in every drawer? Is it memory or uncured melancholy? Are humans ill of memories or do those things shape our identity?
My shadow scratches the walls of my house. You can feel the sadness in a room, somehow the pain and the pleasure splash in the places, and our traces are there too. Some artists want to leave a trace, tell something about themselves, something personal. About someone who left, left marks, signs, the rest of the wreck. This exhibition shows two versions of traces from the same mess. The messy world in which we are living.
Text by Marcos Vidal Font
Entrada actualizada el el 18 may de 2016
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