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Photos: ©Emilio Moreno Text: ©Lola Martínez

Many of us have vaguely started to wander through the image. Some lost, some strolling bored among images without acknowledging himself in none of them, other etching old ideas or, what is even worst, simply leaving the camera. Disappointment, a strange feeling of lost, the necessity, the ability perhaps. The lack of questions and the terrifying skepticism facing all available visual answers find us at the end of the road with one answer: the silent. The silent we are after is the outcome of a need for rest. The visual range that surrounds us nowadays is the consequence of an indiscriminate abuse and of excess. The need for producing have blinded the underlying reality of the image, the form and, more so, its content that are hidden under a veil of empty information, a construction of absent structure, kept together only by appearances and the mask. We have tired and devastated our eyes until the image started to live an independent life, selfrefered, excluding us; expressing in a language that we are not able to understand or that we understand solely by pure inertia.

The images succeed each other like lightings, they invade our retina, but before we can assimilate them others have displaced them.

Earlier we searched the images as a mean of representation of our lives, now our life represents the images.

 

We have inverted the current and now we are the mean, the support. Support that emulate fiction and fictions that are sold as reality. Borrowed feelings, learned emotions, bodies and forms in unreachable colors, closeness of an antihuman time that we can’t follow. Paper life that we try to live with bones and flesh bodies. The life pressed back, the experience displaced to two dimensions, flattened and pushed into the background. Echo of echo of copies of multiple fictions. Supply of images without questions, only with answers closed and learned. A lack of process, of an experience leave us inert facing this visual shelling given that we can’t participate or be empathic. Nothing we see we have lived. Nothing lived we see.

Silent help us to avoid an obsolete language that construct a world based on the negation of truth, on the negation of the human being. We have created a language that excludes us, an image that has condemned us to become a support. We have, perhaps, mistaken our decisions.

 

 

The world build has, perhaps, wrong foundations. Foundations that we must search scrutinize and analyze to learn what are they made from. To chisel the image until we detach everything that remains, every distraction that keeps us apart from that cero degree from which we can start anew. That cero degree where nothing is build and everything is possible, new regenerated, like that first universe of creative Äucaos, Äu on which rest several cultures.