Stormy season 

 

 

Sometimes I have to squint my eyes when I walk down the street to see less and blur things, to daydream forms or to abbreviate the world.

 

A good pillow fight. 

If you’ve never been in one, today when I get home…Pillow strike! Pillow strike!

 

Moments.

It is so hard to capture a moment of magic, unfettered reality goes well beyond art in charm and abundance. “No more fiction!” “No more reality!” The shouts are heard from either side of the divide.

 

A desperate attempt to slow down the time of things, to make the fleeting everlasting. And to always wear the same size.

 

Engraved on another morning pillow is the shape of the sleeper…click!

 

So one shape is a contingency that endures over time…an instant in the flow, the extraordinary coincidence that ushers in a perfect exchange. Suddenly things are the same onto themselves, signified and signifier vanish.

 

But interruption—art always comes along to interrupt, to freeze the perfect version of the image.

 

The sculptures are the result of a battle with the entire universe.

 

That longing to find a soft and malleable, receptive and kind element.

“…furry and gentle, so soft outside they would say it is all cotton, no bones at all.”
But it withstands everything: time and gravity, dampness and all the cataclysms to come. Always aglow.

 

But… is it asking me to embrace her?

These sculptures lead my eyes astray and confound my senses.

I can touch the war and sense easiness and impossibility at once.

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Formalist obsession is exquisite, but a condemnation to always rub up against the world’s chaos.

 

If I could make sculptures when I clean the house, when I straighten out the furniture, when I spread out the counterpane.

For the sculptures to be fresh, they should show up spontaneously in the flow, in the midst of our acts, as if a sort of perfect exchange—suddenly, things are the same onto themselves once again…

 

The exhibition works if it is a drama halted at its climax, an adrenaline parade that confuses and moves. May everything be strident and lusty and overblown so that everything is unfettered, may the pillows fly through the air once again.

 

Just Jessica, ninja artist, fighting everything, up against the textures, the glimmers, the forms of the air, of the wind that blows into your clothes in the middle of a furious storm, struggling with desperate waves of the arm and embraces.

I can’t come up with a better engine than desperation to make art.

Or a better method than battle.

 

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Diego Bianchi

Buenos Aires, september 2022