Serrahima Gallery, Barcelona. 2000
Trains without a destination. Wax machines.
Carriages burning and hurtling through deserted stations and immense clocks stopped at the barrierless crossing of this level crossing that is to shed years, at breakneck speed, on rails of fire.
All that remains is to call what we have experienced a landscape and to use the sulphur of old photographs to create the mineral dahlia of longing. Collecting the fossils of the air we breathed yesterday, raising albums with the fragile health of mirrors, building with one hand on memory and the other on the alarm clock of the next day the spinning top that dances again endlessly, crazy and perplexed, frightened and aware of the limited time that the spin itself entails. The unbearable lightness of schedules gained for bread, lost forever.
All that remains is the ruse, the manoeuvre, the tireless valve of the heart rising, the green adolescence of putting on an avalanche and skating without brakes.
Fernando Beltrán