Construire autrement
Je ne suis pas mon père
Colette Durruti, Antonina Rodrigo, Joaquina Dorado Emilienne Morin, Perpignan. Utopía colectiva y donut color carne. Latencia. Chirría ruedas.
Avec mon marie et pour plaisir. Avec Marie et pour plaisir.

Casa rosa, bata rosa, carta verde, cosa rota, tierras del Ebro. Árido paisaje ensoñado. Dibujos. Lecturas y anhelos. Me revienta la cabeza y no me callo en la mesa. Mirada hater. Corazón rojo o marrón. Hinchado de amor. Hablemos de privilegios, geopolíticos, socioeconómicos, de networking, de privilegios dérmicos, neuronales, hablemos de números enteros, de virtualidad.

words by Lucía C. Pino

images by Violeta Mayoral

Parlament Tòtem

The anthropocentric discourse of capital has led to a commodification of identity, where we create our own brand through selfies, profiles in social networks and the use of closed codes to express and quantify emotions. Besides, the use of the so-called “refugee crisis” in Europe reinforces the antagonistic polarization of a “them” vs “us” opposition within the essentialist ideology of the nation-state. Building a totem of ourselves with poor materials, to generate a self-representation that may break the Western society-nature binarism, allowing to think a hybrid community to question the rhetoric of totalitarian discourses. Creating our totems and writing our speeches to inaugurate a pulsing parliament.
A project in collaboration with the students of 4th and final year of compulsory secondary education at the Carles Rahola public secondary school in Girona.



There is something maddeningly attractive about the untranslatable, about a word that goes silent in transit.
Anne Carson

The ritual or trance happens by itself. Things end up on the paper like automatic writing or stream of consciousness. Or like a ouija. Many ghosts also appear there. The choice of colour and type of ink must be made according to the same logic, in an instinctive effort - this is difficult but when it happens it means you’re well inside the rave and that’s ok.


Beauty in free fall. A history of consciousness

As a leisure time activity or as a missionary deed, as a self-sabotage or as a libertarian initiative, there is something in the idea of free fall that can be connected with the subjective experience of beauty. In this fall into a hypothetical depth of consciousness, the dark jungle, Charybdis or the dark web, if there was a bottom or a landing of some kind, this could be subjectivity as a construction returning an ambivalent reflection of a social context. It could be a permanently raw, wild state, an irrepressible impulse of excitement in the stomach, sometimes something that feels like crying, moments of dusty cloudy nature that belong to a cultural heritage. An unsystematic archive of images taken from the media, found in books and family albums, with the potential to generate certain emotional or physical states, which seem to breathe in an atmosphere with a strange and familiar heartbeat as background noise. Images with a power of interpellation that seems to emerge as a source of energy, as the energy in the conflict encapsulated in the tensions implicit in them. This experience of the beautiful, through an instinctive and visceral feeling, and a magic of some kind, turns them into totems, companions, friends. Like free fall, should there be any intention at all, it could be that of being a reminder of the impossibility to be taken into account as that other feasible history, a useful tool for discontent to be transformed into horizontal networks and structures of nesting and care.


I worked for some years in an office. In my work, and in the way in which the organisation itself operated, text was everywhere. Sometimes, in the kind of wasteland those texts seemed to me when I was feeling tired or melancholic, something different appeared. Something caught my eye for its strangeness, its evocative power, the potential for containing oblique meaning. I was reading a long email, a legal text, administrative regulations or technical descriptions, and fragments that could be completely separated emerged, at times it was a sentence, the way an adjective was used, the subject of an email, or even a single word.
During the month of November, I had a desk at the offices of Arts Santa Monica and I read the contents of 104 file boxes stored in the Xarxa Zande space. The reading has been a philological exploration and a subjective and emotional search at the same time, looking for the anomalous and epiphanic element, a reenactment and an exorcism. I collected words and fragments that have turned into titles and verses, grouping themselves mostly in the chronological order as they were found, adopting the mechanisms of literature and (re)incarnating as a poetry book. It has been translated and edited, and published using materials and possibilities available at the offices of the institution. As if it had come out of a black hole.
Poetess Núria Martínez-Vernis reads poems of the “Recherche” edition in the darkness of the museum office, pointed by a spotlight mounted on a coat stand.

The Berlaymont Cake

Bruxelles, 200 Rue de la Loi. The centre of power and its architectural representation stands as a legendary monolith, celebratory and funerary. Transitioning from the mass of steel, concrete and glass to an experience defined by physical and emotional symptoms, transforming solidity and sharp edges into the effects of sugar blues, euphoria and hangover. A ceremony to say goodbye, getting in and out of altered states, patterns that linger like ghosts haunting life from neoliberal mirages.

Oracle of the Origin

I’m sure you remember this. When you stopped in your
path ascending the hill, the afternoon turned in
to orange and you saw this, all this orange dust,
slow dust ascending, the world was contained in that
dust, in that field. The orange light in that after
noon, you cannot forget, do you. Don’t try to store
that memory in your head, it does not belong
to you.

You expect answers to questions. Solutions to
solve problems, so that things can keep going, so that
pain can be endured. That’s why you are here. I have
images in me, you are maybe able to
see them. They will be just glimpses, thin layers of
time ready to disappear.

'Shadows of Language Travel at the Speed of Light'
words by Sonia Fernández Pan

The Cookbook


>>>>>>> Archive / works 2005-2012

acid iridescence chalcopyrite
porcelain volcanoes, a love story
red bayou

'As above so below'
words by Gabriel Virgilio Luciani + Margot Cuevas

Stepping stones / caronte

paths trails travel, how rigid fragile fluid a surface is, what holds the weight of the body in the rites of passage
matter sustaining you, intermediate states, the spectrum of nuances between life and death and their very own ouroboros
making with hands, on a non-productive scale, limitations of your body’s strength
unessence, shape and tactile veil of what can be said, much better without the thereof_one_must_be_silent, with the word as an approach to things like they were porous stones

a project based on the work Caront (1998) by Joan Brossa (1919-1998)

iris _ swans _ sediments

arriba a les esquerdes
i rellisca per les corbes
il·luminar les formes en l'espai
alimentar una respiració

'La imatge-miracle'
words by Jordi Vernis


'text de carn'

words by Albert Mercadé

solc i no clos

Desire can’t be trapped, it perfectly evades definitions, as matter belonging to life. Desire is a force that wants revolution. Expression of being inside life, of being this life. Connecting with utopia, breaking systems of oppression, keeps on living in a sheet of paper or some rocks or inside the creases of the skin.
Mirror-words, shapes blurring, atmosphere where representation dissolves, makes you look through a fog where senses are at full capacity but coordinates are unknown. And a beating surface appears, no recognizable boundaries. Inside the cave, sweet-smelling, might hear sounds. A space like a body, all the fragments need each other, nothing exists without nothing.

images by Roberto Ruiz

words by Irina Mutt