“All the world began with a yes. One molecule said yes to another molecule and life was born.”
Clarice Lispector (1977): The Hour of the Star.

All the organisms around us, all the organs we are made up of, all the rhythms that inhabit us… Porous, moist and never stable. We are pure metamorphosis, transformation and blending. We are made of the same flesh, of one breath. Our cosmos is a space of reciprocal exchanges, an endless contagion between elements that make up the same substrate.

The artists’ pieces rest in a latent state, gradually transforming by mimicking living matter. They begin to breathe, expanding. The air passes through their veins; their water, their rivers; and life clashes against the rocks of their skeleton. They throb, exploring new ways, seeking possibilities of being. The sound of their voices intertwines, seeking distant ways to speculate, outside of us yet also close, caressing our backs.

And suddenly, we feel. Immersed in this strange feeling of perceiving ourselves as a body, of growing tiny roots in the organisms around us, of losing shape and becoming a veil. We start to cover the matter, we interrupt the space, we fold into the hermeticism of some concealed thing and explode. We come up against the ardour of sedimentation, of the objects generated collectively. And of our body’s hidden bacteria; of the rebellious flows of water; of communities born from consensus; of challenging messages to decipher; of the strangeness of the body itself; of full deposits where elements hatch.

The artists’ pieces become limitless bodies, made from every hand that has caressed, shaped and felt them. And the specimen is an organism full of marks.