Hernán Aguirre, Lafolie8, Albert Riera Galcerán.

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FIT reúne el trabajo de Hernán Aguirre, Lafolie8 y Albert Riera Galcerán en una propuesta de obras instalativas, objeto, escultura, archivo y editorial.

La exhibición convoca al espectador a encajar en una realidad que en principio se ve templada y cotidiana, lo viste de Prada y lo empuja a desfilar. Después, todo lo otro pasa.

Las piezas que encontramos en el espacio recorren la senda que une el diseño y el arte para construir biografías a través de diferentes materialidades. Fotografías, esculturas, objetos encontrados o adquiridos, gastados por el propio uso del artista, regalos: el espíritu del archivo se encarna en todos estos contando una historia.

Un corrimiento sutil en los elementos comunes abre una puerta al surrealismo. La escena total y lejana es mágica, tierna y agradable, las obras se explican entre ellas y en un momento posterior, la cercanía habilita detalles sensibles, historias de una intimidad graciosa y conmovedora. Aparecen también revelaciones nocturnas, confesiones, debilidades, obsesiones y placeres prohibidos. El bronce bruñido eleva un destello suave en la oscuridad y asegura que todo es un recuerdo, excepto el instante que se habita.



There are phantom spaces that could never be inhabited. Tangent places with tangent elements. Scenes constructed with scraps, bits and pieces and objects that have been part of other lives at another time.
However, there are moments when everything we observe acquires form and consistency at will. And that which seemed alien to us becomes pleasant, melts and and settles until it becomes home and shelter.
Like that spectre window. Like that veil that bears signs engraved by years of sun.
Like that cloth with that hole that is neither hollow nor leads anywhere else.
Like that curtain
the print of another curtain that protects the front and back of a memory.
And then
that scene (previously enigmatic and distant) is now a refuge in which the world fits.

A man in a grey state approaches and observes.
He frowns, snorts and walks towards
a corner.
He spins on his heels rummaging through the holes in his coat and nods.
The man coughs lightly to clear his throat and clear his voice.
He pulls his hand out of his last pocket, points his index finger at a pillar, takes a step forward
and says before running away:
“That which pretends to be a tree is a body with a foreign skin that hides and shields a longing. As if ambition were a cause for shame. As if pretending to inhabit other kingdoms, was forbidden again”.

M. carves on a rock the last sentence
of an undated letter (a prediction dedicated to who knows who, who knows how long ago).
A sentence of six words that has awakened in him an indecipherable curiosity and a somnambulant desire
that does not abate and digs persistently in the eye of a typhoon.
M. affirms that the world has been pierced by words.
words like darts
that produce wounds

M. has engraved a stone with the
apex of a sabre.
He raises his eyes
and the sky collapses.
Someone shouts from afar that his shadow is but a filament of his soul.


- A few days ago I discovered that little damp spot on my wall.
- ah. yes. it’s a pond.

Javier Soria Vázquez.
June 2023, Tucumán, Argentina.

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