Nothing deeper than skin deep

A cherry has a membrane, like a skin, which separates the sweet nectar from the outside, a kind of protective film.

There are forms that grow like a plant in a pot, they need a certain amount of attention, their roots hide and adapt to the container, absorbing nutrients, while another part moves towards the light. I try to develop my pieces as grafts, like a craft technique in which a piece of tissue from one plant is joined to another already established one so that both grow as a single organism. Disparate materialities that approach each other, modifying the distances as in a game of encounter and seduction.

Sometimes I try to rebel in the objects of my own incapacities, as if the superficial fact does not end up resolving what I inwardly long for as necessary, a starting desire that negotiates through an object some kind of response. So that the results become an accumulation of attempts, and each attempt another attempt that tries to be more precise in reaching a more refined condition. I wish I could calculate what I lose or gain in each work but it's beyond me. I only make sense of things when they become facts, as if they were quietly giving clues until they overflow a connection, after all grafting is only possible between more or less closely related species.