Lessons of drift. One: no text without mud. Two: no story without a landscape. Three: no dream without ground. Spinning dust in spring. Babel inverted. Cones devouring the sky. In soot-torn air, everything leaves a trace. Mexico was here once. The nopales no longer stick their tongues out at tourists, the magueys are perishing among erections dry of fermenting juice, the worm has died out. Enough stories: time is blowing us away. That is the story, and it has no moral. Understand who may. Artworks are whirlwinds: random wanderings, chasms of signs, black holes of words. If this photo or that text have no business being here, it’s only that they came with the wind. To have clashed and crashed down at last, that is their power of re-turn, their revolt. Seek silence in the lightning bolt/Sow rumors in the earth Stray notes, clippings, words, interruptions, alarms. Dismay and confusion, ordinary havoc of days. Gestures are just the steps of a ritual for trampling and shooting illusions. Up on the hill-brow, an obstinate endeavor: to seize clarity in a turbid, blood-stained era. Mexico City, Summer 2010 Translated by Lorna Scott Fox
Estudio para Tornado, óleo sobre tela sobre madera / Study for Tornado, oil on canvas on wood, 20.8 × 14.4 × 1.7 cm, 2010 Página 151 / Page 151: Still de / Film still of Tornado, 2000-2010
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Cuauhtémoc Medina · Spinning Dust in Spring
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Tolvanera-primavera