Entre flores de escarcha, pájaros de agua

I draw in White Sands — white gypsums that lead to madness, suffocating heat and cold sands, dragged among winds without a north, immense spaces with signs of impossible delicacy, without water without living, quick black strokes on a paper turned into spaces between signs. Our perception changes reality; White Sands is cruelty and death clothed in unfathomable beauty. My drawings are now works whose references dwell in memory.

Beauty — and its loss? It is an act of cruelty. “Nature is beautiful when it at the same time possesses the appearance of art, and art cannot be called beautiful unless we are aware that it is art.” Kant leads us along sensible paths. Does beauty exist in science? That is, creation that exists with its languages, and beauty at its limit, are the only things that let the shock of existence surface.