Iba bien, pero al revés Paula Leuro & Andrea Infante

“(...)This street is endless, I’m getting even more lost. These furniture are so useless, so impossibles. These guts written with things, with stuff that are things, and are called things. And there are other things that are these showcases inside the showcase. A bit of things. The poetry is like a furniture, it's known. Building a piece of furniture is like building a text, it's known. The furnitures are made by pieces, like the texts.”

Abstract from the curatorial text

From:
April 21, 2022
To:
June 30, 2022

I was going well, but backwards Paula Leuro & Andrea Infante. The diorama and the tongue Cycle of exhibitions in La Vitrina at Espacio Continuo Gallery Curated: Carolina Cerón

Thursday, April 21, 2022

I’m walking in one direction, I tread a tile and it spits out dark water, not one, but that one. I’m going under the rain, no, not the rain itself, rather the one that begins, I mean; It starts to rain and the tile spits out to me. It does not start to rain, but it ends. It begins and ends at once, it ends and begins. Is a hesitation in which it is raining, I’m getting wet and on top of that: lost. No, not lost because I'm going up 11th Street. I see a scene, a space in traffic, a suspended moment. Someone is moving in or perhaps someone is leaving. It is an in-between. But I’m still lost, especially a street you look for upwards, is a place where you can be lost. But I can't stop looking at this, and wonder who might be there. If you go up or down that ladder. I can't stop thinking why they put translation signs like in the movies. Why would they put that there. Like a screen capture when you're watching movies from your phone. I look at google maps every twenty meters, I take it out of my backpack and it gets wet, always the same. It can’t be, but it is. This street is endless, I`m getting even more lost. These furniture are so useless, so impossibles. These guts with things written, with things that are things, and are called things. And there are other things that are these showcases inside the showcase. A bit of things. The poetry is like a furniture, is known. Building a piece of furniture is like building a text, it is known. The furnitures are made by pieces, like the texts. I tread a tile and it spits out again. When I'm not wandering through the streets, I’m going home. Then I close my eyes and the time goes effortlessly. I don’t think it exists. This street is infinite, I get more and more lost in this labyrinth in a straight line. Something is freezing, but is moving. Either I arrive too late or too early. I’m going in the opposite direction! I was going well, but the other way around. The street was upside down on google maps. Maybe yes, well, not only the map: in me too, in my head, everything was backwards. I must rearrange my sense of direction: it is easy. I must place my head where I have the nape. It was 11th Street, the one that was upside down, actually. Now, the reversion was complete, absolute. The rain was upside down, and so was the tile; It's great I was not going or looking for 11th street. Good thing I’ve never been anywhere.