'Nothing deeper than the skin'
A cherry has a membrane, like a skin that 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 an artisanal technique in which a portion of tissue from a plant is joined to another already established one so that both grow as a single organism. Disparate materials that come closer to 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 did not resolve what I internally long for as necessary, a starting desire that negotiates through an object some kind of response. In such a way that the results become an accumulation of attempts, and each attempt another one that tries to be more precise in reaching a more refined condition. I would like to be able to calculate what I lose or gain in each work, but it overwhelms me. I only find meaning in things when they become facts, as if in a low voice they were giving clues until they overflowed a connection, after all, grafting is only possible between more or less closely related species.