Echoes

Echoes is a cycle of concrete works and remnants of concrete on glass/plexiglass where each element is the result of an invisible process, where the surface segregates its essence.

Organic maps of compressed reminiscences remain silent, waiting to be observed, investigated in the dark reflection of a shadow. The echo in the mountains resonates, turns into blurred images, veterans of night visions lost with the light of a pale morning. The geographies of our being are occult, vaguely interpretable in dreams, lie on beds of stasis, slight movements characterize them, as the formation of an unconscious ecosystem grow slowly. The gaze is lost and disappears, wandering in the labyrinth of a milky way of matter. Stone follicles breathe, tarnish the glass that captures them, guarding them.

The past is trapped, it is a simulacrum of what has been lost over time. A set of organic, stellar, cosmic particles lose their matrix. The only specimen of a static present, distorted and safe, is under glass. Not everything is approachable, we deserve only the surface: the most intimate secret has now disappeared, it becomes accessible only through a filter that nourishes perception. A maze of outlines, perimeters of a tangible nothing, of a missing trace, it is up to us to investigate, imagine the course of its metamorphic process. What’s left is just an evanescent sign, a ghost of something existed before us, visible only in the darkest nights, no one remembers their names. And here it comes the echoes, the trails of a future already lived resound. A leaden chime moves the surfaces, marking time, as if to remind us of our ephemeral and transitory presence on these lands. The transience of time moves its slow passing, in the dark image that blurs the reflection of our black souls, lost in dark waters, in impenetrable depths that remain motionless beneath the surface.

The basins of the deepest lakes hugs sediments deposited along the crossing of a thousand moons, rasing, waning and then dark and black. Every night the stars tell centuries of history, if only we could listen to them, if only we had the time. The black of a night does not fade with the lights of dawn, it disperses in the infinity of the sky dyeing it forever.
Layers on layers of matter, of infinite stories, woven in cold walls that fence unknown roads, far away, sons of lost times, scream their silent overlap, change over time and give no explanation. In an archipelago of meditative energies they complete their cycle, sedimenting and maturing their self-construction.  they wait absorbing inquisitive gazes, like hanging corpses.

The work spies the secrets that matter hides, makes visible only the final effect, its last face,  the past is unknow, so the path that every being faces to become what it is, resulting, therefore, as a distant echo, perceived through filters on filters and finally diverted by projections that the subject unconsciously searches in what he sees.
Each element is the result of an invisible process, where the surface segregates the essence.