Everything began as usual. A conversation with friends in a bar, where suddenly everything becomes urgent and important, and then bam! It disappears!.

This time we were discussing about the truth of the objects and the possibility to communicate them (what a son of a bitch!, we were talking about the possibility to speak!). Objects are, we were saying, univocal and undeceivable. However, the language that refers them is not, therefore everything we say is an agreement that surpasses them and constitutes us like subjects.

The walk suggested us that the objects are that way because they do not have culture, since they neither have fiction nor language. On the contrary, we are the language we use, we are the rules that we use to understand or build the scheme of things.

Furthermore, with the body we build the basic trust that will allow us to hold together what we say, and then bet on them on the risk of words. Or vice versa.

We believed that night, that reason can resist everything but lack of sense; where there is not any, it builds it. We use words to pretend things are something else. Something else that satisfy us, that we enjoy, that make us possible.

Objects are honest; we are the fictions that unravels. In this we play our everyday, upon it we establish the relationship with others, to love them, to desire them, to make things with them and then not anymore.

As if this was not enough, we settled that art is a relationship intermediated by an object. That was all, our fundamental vice suggested that we needed an exhibition to prove it. Then we went to dance and to forget a bit about everything.

Then I went back into the house and wrote. It is midnight. The rain is beating on the windows. It was not midnight. It was not raining.

Jorge Sepúlveda T.
Curador Independiente
Buenos Aires, julio de 2009.

[créditos: traducido por Ximena Musalem]