N.A.S.A.L.
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Pablo Andino

DOBLAR EL HUMO

I detach my eyelids, adjust my gaze and look from one side to the other. I rejoin with the smell of smoke, ash and sweat. Right behind my eyes and at my temple I feel the pain and the absence of celebration. Strangely the party is still there, but it's broken.

Life has an inclination towards exhaustion. Everything points to expiration, death, dust and smoke. This little journey is a marker of time, but also a search for plasticity in the forgotten, in the profane and in the brief. It is the after charm and brightness. It is a game of what overflows the party.

I wonder how the archives of the world are constituted? The archive appears to be the death of the party. What happens if we make of those remains the opening event, the art show, the party itself?