Ramón Andrés

It’s the destiny of prints to be left behind. They speak to those yet to arrive or those who come after the ancient script we are. Everything is replenished by the stillness we leave. Frost that does not crackle underfoot, a stream that flows beneath the ice, a clear sky that forgets us. Therein the goal: to be speech that says least; to be imminence never fully disclosed.

The world. Venture into it, feel your way, almost unpresent, in search of what remains of the emptiness of things. What could be called walking languageless: letting the far ahead name it all for you. The unreached, the possessed yet untouched, what they call ‘you’ and yet you never get to know that you come from afar. Consider distance: that’s the work. Concatenate silences: that’s the work.

The hand knows.

Not the housebroken hand, but the one that extends.

The fist that closes in the snow like usury but before long opens with the single flame that unearths faces when night falls. They look around the flickering light as it mimics their verticality. They are home. Home is a diminutive place where one dreams the vastness of the night. Those faces are our forebears, those who lived their lives carried along by the days without realizing that they passed through them until their bodies dissolved. Our task, to unbecome.

Consider distance: that is the work. White inside, fated, the origin lies in Manu Blázquez’s insistence in nothingness.