From one day to the next

Berg Contemporary. Reykjavik, Iceland exhibition website

From One Day to the Next
by Natasha Marie Llorens

For his presentation of new work at BERG Contemporary in August of 2023, Pablo Jansana betrays a fascination with an aperture that makes an existential change feel graspable. He does this by rendering transformation as both movement and proximity in relation to a portal, which beckons us to consider adjacent universes but does not guarantee safety. The portal opens unexpectedly between the known and the unknown, leaving a lingering suggestion of implicit violence. In Estrella distante, for example, four pairs of hands are depicted in various gestural poses around a pale grey oval that fades to a dusty blood red at its center. Two pairs at either extremity of the portal cup the phenomenon with their palms, as though either to conjure or to contain the passage. Two more pairs—laced with dark lines in a way that makes them appear skeletal—reach across the aperture longing for contact, despite the urgency of the vortex swirling below them on the painting’s surface. Between these hands, two dark red forms float; a pair of surgical sutures that bridge the yawning opening. Whatever the transformation in process in and around this oval void is, it is volatile, perhaps even monstrous.

Discursive associations flare up throughout my conversations with Jansana about this new body of work, for example Paul B. Preciado, a trans man, self-described feminist and queer philosopher based in France, and author of Can the Monster Speak? (Semiotexte, 2021). His slim volume reworks an address to a congress of Lacanian psychoanalysts in Paris in 2019 of a confrontational paper about heteronormative and patriarchal premises upon which—in Preciado’s view—psychoanalysis was founded. In it, he argued against a binary view of gender and in favor of a spectrum of identification that is radically in flux. Preciado’s experience of plural and volatile transformations in human subjectivity runs parallel to Jansana’s interest in the portal. “Imagine if we humans were that willing and able to transform, again and again,” the artist writes.

The same possibility frames the artist’s many layered references for this exhibition: What if we could fully metabolize the violence—such as heteronormativity; such as idealistic masculinity; such as authoritarianism— which we have been variously forced to endure, and become else through the passage beyond some volume in space/time?

The exhibition takes its title from the opening line of Myth of Pterygium (2022), Mexican author Diego Gerard Morrison’s debut novel, which reads: “From one day to the next, my right eye is bloodshot and itchy. Unusually so.” The central protagonist, Arthur, has awoken one morning in Mexico City with an ocular condition called a pterygium—a raised, fleshy growth that departs from the corner of the eye and, if allowed to grow, obstructs a person’s vision. This is case for Arthur, whose perception of several important transformations in his life becomes blurred, including the impending birth of his first child.

The eye out of which Arthur can barely see is figured as an oval portal in Jansana’s paintings. For Jansana, the novel speaks to the ambivalent nature of transformation. It represents the fact that change, which is integral to the human condition, is often both violent and hopeful. Arthur’s sudden loss of sight in the moment of change speaks to impending parenthood and the shifting priorities it forces on people, but Jansana also understood the novel as a statement about the nature of political transformation. In 2019, millions took to the streets in Chile demanding social and political change. The police targeted their rubber bullets at protestors’ eyes, leaving thousands half-blinded.

Many of the works that Jansana presents position the viewer inside a circular space of transition, one that resembles the ocular cavity, yet it is important to mark that like Arthur’s affliction, Jansana’s portals refuse the viewer cathartic resolution. The possibility to become otherwise is not a guarantee of stability. For example: on September 11th, 1973, General Augusto Pinochet led a military coup in Chile that would result in the suspension of civilian rule and all democratic political activity in that country. On September 11th, 2001 al-Qaeda coordinated four suicidal terrorist attacks on the Twin Towers in New York City, provoking a disastrous long- term US military response in Afghanistan and Iraq. Jansana’s paintings are not about either political event. Rather, they are addressed to the feeling of cognitive dissonance this kind of repetition produces in those who are close to both contexts. In Jansana’s case, he grew up under Pinochet and moved to New York in the decade of the Twin Towers attacks. The 9/11 he thought was a unique and irreparable transformation was experienced instead as a looping repetition.

In Jansana’s native Chile, where earthquakes are prevalent and of devastating force, people have turned to magical thinking to cope with the absurdity of large-scale catastrophic events that repeat. “Circularity is a difficult time and space to navigate,” the artist writes. “Magical realism helps to understand the feeling of mourning, that something is both close and yet so far away, that one is moving and also standing still.” Jansana’s new body of work is fundamentally concerned with narration, or how a story gets told, when this circular or looping aspect of the human experience is fully acknowledged.

n Offer for Communication (2023), a brick wall is distorted as two limbs emergence from its grid-like, rigid material regularity. The giant thighs rising to the foreground of the painting belong to a figure cut off at the waist. Where one might expect to find blood, muscle and bone, the space inside the forms is illuminated with a strange greenish-yellow light. I have the sense of standing above someone looking down at their own groin in stunned observation of an ongoing dimensional shift. Between these thighs, a dark greenish cloud is forming. A bright orange fin-like shape is growing out of the cloud and curling up against the brick background. Caught in the process of moving through a brick wall, I see a figure in the middle of birthing themselves and birthing a creature at the same time. Across the painting’s densely layered surface, human figures are drawn from observation in public space in Santiago and Copenhagen, alongside characters and symbols inspired by the work of Nancy Spero, Frida Kahlo, or Erna Rosenstein—all artists whose work depicts both pain and transformation.

The point of departure for Offer for Communication is the closing line of Myth of Pterygium, the moment in which Arthur becomes a father: ”From the deep ends of the room comes the disarming shrill of a new voice, shrieks of life and redemption. They’re appropriately angry, full of loathing, teeming with hope.” Jansana writes: ”The work is about this very dark place that transformation inevitably also is.”

An equally important conceptual reference for the body of work presented in “From one day to the next” is an experimental film by US-American artist Ellen Cantor (1962 – 2013), Pinochet Porn, which was begun in 2008 and finished posthumously by the artist’s friends and close collaborators in 2016. The film nominally follows the lives of five children raised during Pinochet’s military rule between 1973 and 1990. This is also roughly the period and context of Jansana’s own childhood; he was born in Santiago, Chile in 1976. According to writer and anthropologist Alkisti Efthymiou, the film speculates about “the construction of subjectivity and personal experience within a totalitarian regime,” or in a time and space that is suffused with both spectacularly public and intimate forms of violence. For Efthymiou as for Jansana, the film is a portrait of how people survive slow systemic violence or manage their own traumatization.

“At the same time,” Jansana writes, “I was reading and watching the play by Jean Genet, The Balcony.” Jean Genet (1910-1986) is an iconic French anarchist author and playwright, whose Encyclopedia Britannica entry introduces him as a “French criminal and social outcast turned writer who, as a novelist, transformed erotic and often obscene subject matter into a poetic vision of the universe...” marking several parallels to Ellen Cantor’s own vivid refusal of social norms and fascination with the abject. The Balcony unfolds in nine scenes, eight of which are set inside an eponymous brothel in an unnamed European city, which is in the throes of a revolutionary uprising. For Jansana, Genet’s play examines the ways in which political violence—physical force understood to be an extension of an ambition to rule—and violent domination in the context of interpersonal relationships bleed into one another. The half-blind thousands that marched in the street in 2019 will go on to live with half the world obscured. Sovereign force will shape their most intimate encounters for the rest of their days.

The works Jansana presents here are largely abstract, many with only the suggestion of an oval buried deep in their visual structure. My understanding of the body of work comes in part from a large and reassuringly figurative painting titled Self (2021) that I encountered in Jansana’s studio, but which is not included in the current exhibition. Nevertheless, Jansana marks it as the starting point for his work with the idea of the portal, and it is a key to the way notions of violence and hope saturate the work on view. In Self, a faceless figure with a large penis and an even larger open mouth squats in the concentric circles of a portal opening behind him/her/ them, like a pebble resting on the surface of water in motion. One hand casually pulls back its lips to reveal immaculate teeth, which frame a second narrative space within the creature’s mouth. It is as though this figure is using its body to transmute the outer portal into a smaller and more stable one inside itself. Here a standing figure is visible from above. They are walking through a green sliver of landscape, fearless in the face of their potential transformation and with apparent disregard for the strange creature into whose mouth they have fallen. It represents the latent message of “From one day to the next” concerning the complexity of a fully human existence in a world of increasing struggle, but in which there remains the stubborn persistence of hope, both of which keep looping, moving, sucking us into the vortex of transformation.



Galleri Susanne Ottesen. Copenhagen, Denmark exhibition website

Open Cases: On Pablo Jansana
by Martin Herbert

If we consider Pablo Jansana’s exhibition Rododendro as something akin to a crime scene - a gathering of beguilingly complex clues leading, ideally, towards a resolution - the viewer-as-detective might first approach the most visible body, which appears in Fantasma (2022). Here, a pale and naked human figure is floating diagonally in aquamarine space; this much we can assert. But there are deliberate obstructions to a conclusive reading, a diagnosis, that forecast where Jansana is going to lead us. The painting is thinly executed on grainy board, and the green-blue background equivocates between water, overfertilized grass, and the naturalistic texture of wood. The figure, equally, might be swimming

or dead or drowsing on a sunlit lawn, or - as the title, translating as ‘phantom’, suggests - not thereat all, maybe just a hazy memory or scary rumour. The ‘about’ of the painting, amid such inbuilt ambiguity, is not the figure itself but the viewer’s (and artist’s) inability to grasp something and,

contrarily, their determined attempts to do so. If you keep looking, perhaps now the two holes in the wood’s fabric resemble bullet holes. And if you turn to consider other paintings here, Fantasma will tilt more ominously still. Something bad has happened, another body added to an unknowable count, and someone - Jansana - is trying to find language for what we might only, at this point, carefully call ‘the crime’.

Rododendro takes its title from the Chilean cinematic master of poetic obliquity and time-expansion, Raoul Ruiz. During his multidimensional 2012 film Night Across the Street, a character who sometimes calls himself Rododendro splits into multiple selves at different ages, one whom shoots another albeit without managing to kill him. Ruiz isn’t a decoder for Jansana’s work here. But his approach parallels that of the painter’s fictioneering compositions, in which specific and invented figures from different eras and locations share space, sometimes accompanied by a breadcrumb trail of hints and references. Cisarro (2022), for example, features murky sadomasochistic situations in the foreground - pleasure from pain - and these melt, like elements of a warped psyche, into the face of Cristóbal Cabrera Morales, aka ‘Cisarro’, the now-jailed prodigious young hoodlum who might be said to symbolize the lawless side of Chilean society. Here is a hint that ‘the crime’, as it were, can be partially - though, as with everything here, not definitively - connected to Jansana’s homeland; and, if we extend that to his own life experience, the murderous, unconscionable military dictatorship amid which he grew up.

Cisarro is gouged and scratched with sandpaper and metal tools. Layers of paint have been disinterred, as if by reaching into the painting’s own past, its earlier layers, the artist might access the past and understand it. He partly does - there are things we can take and learn from this, and a feeling of a necessary reparative process in motion - but we never get all the way back. In Detectives and the Medium (2022), Jansana draws on the fact that Chilean police often consult spiritualists to solve crimes, and the trio of doleful figures seated around, perhaps, a crystal ball are relatively legible; but the painting is also a palimpsest, unpredictably layered with bubbling regions of ‘Magic-Sculpt’ epoxy clay. It’s notable that this formal approach is different from that of the other paintings mentioned above, and different in turn from other works on board such as Spectrum (2022), where sanding leads to a condition of radiant near-abstract obliteration. Traversing such works suggests someone trying on

different alphabets of meaning, trying to find one that’ll articulate how he feels.

A viewer looking to close this ‘case’ might do a biographical read: Chilean artist, Chilean history and present that’s too big and worrisome to be imaged, case closed. But Jansana’s art resists such limiting. Ramona (2022) has two main elements, pulled from different places: a lefthand section picturing a revolutionary poster from the 1960s (and also recalling, perhaps, the failed Chilean revolution in 2019) and, rightward, a scene of male-on-female street violence, against a raw brick wall, based on a painting entitled The Alley by the English artist Carel Weight. The parameters of the crime, or simply the dimensions of human violence, here expand. Yes, Chile inflects Jansana’s art, but the history of the world is in many ways one of domination and violence on a multiplicity of scales, from individuals to juntas. It’s literally unspeakable but someone ought to speak of it; or speak of how you might speak of it.

And speak beyond it. For, all the above notwithstanding, Jansana’s art is inherently hopeful, operating in various ways against darkness. A key painting here, the densely worked, lyrical, near-abstract Don’t Slip Off My Chest, Sleep Close to Me (2021) has a dreamy nocturnal quality, inflected by its title with a sense of tender mutuality and human-to-human consolation that resounds in this context as the humane opposite of brutality. And much of the work speaks, in various ways, of a sense of possibility through change. Embedded deep in the large, enveloping, double-sided painting that descends from the gallery’s ceiling, Kai Kai and Treng Treng (2022), for example, is a pink-faced self-portrait, a figure

that Jansana considers his alter-ago. Alongside this are a pair of serpents (named in the title), referring to a creation myth of the indigenous Chilean Mapuche, in which a sea serpent and a land serpent created the Earth by battling. But all of this is half-drowned in a polychrome scrabble of paint, and the verso is different again. What the viewer might draw from this is a sense of multiplicity: that artmaking is a way of marshalling multiple selves, in order to approach reality from different angles - because

reality, including how you think the world began, is just how you perceive it. We, as viewers, might also begin to split and multiply as we go from painting to painting, each with its own aesthetic, each inviting us to pass into and through it, like a portal. In that regard, note that Jansana’s paintings, at base, are always layered - even Fantasma, the most quickly worked, offers a conversation between paint and visible ground - and we can move through the accretions of paint (some earlier stages made visible by Jansana’s scratching and gouging). This movement, in fact, is

double. Something seems always to be rising towards us, towards the surface of these works, albeit obscured; and the viewer is travelling inward to meet it.

Maybe we can never quite get to it. But we’re at least facing it: in psychological terms, we are ‘doing the work’, undoing some species of repression - and again, this is scalable, from a national past to something within ourselves - and allowing for the possibility that we can self-transform. This is perhaps nowhere more apparent than in Jansana’s human alphabets, in which depictions of posed and bent figures form language, articulate sentences. In the poster that accompanies this

exhibition - its text made from these acrobatic figures - the phrases that speak to Jansana’s key concerns: self-awakening and passage. Rododendro might speak, then, to the inevitable existence of trauma, of the pain of the world, and the idea that we need not repress it, be trapped within it, or stay as we were, irrevocably inheriting it. The clues, one might say, are there. But in the end the investigation is yours to pursue, the evidence yours to project into, the conclusions your own.


I without Kleenex

ArtEspacio, Santiago, Chile

I without Kleenex
by Carolina Castro Jorquera and Ignacio Szmulewicz R.

Carolina Castro Jorquera.

Select, fold, twist.

An abundance of materials

In the early stages of his career Pablo Jansana (Santia- go, 1976) developed a body of work in which the ideas he could express through the medium of painting were the constructive foundation for his thinking. However, when he arrived in NY in 2009, there was a strong reaction in his painting. For the artist, the multitude

of materials “at hand” available to whoever wanted to pick them up proposes a tour of the working elements and the expression of each piece. As a result, all of a sudden, the act of selecting allows Jansana to engage with a material abundance that will thereafter become
a key aspect of his work. In it, it becomes necessary to eradicate the boundary between the spectator and his work by fusing an abstract, industrial aesthetics with the work ethos of a craftsman.

It is difficult to think that all these processes occur con- sciously in the way that I describe them here. Undoubt- edly most of them do not and this is a key aspect in un- derstanding this artist’s work: many of his ideas operate under an intuitive communication with the plasticity of materials and their symbolic charge. In his more recent proposals, Jansana does not abandon painting altogeth- er and instead uses painting as the means to reproduce a collision between the cultural and the material. He draws colours and geometries from paintings he had already created in Chile and via a manhandling of sorts, subjects them to a new aesthetics using materials such as cardboard, cement, resin, aluminium and garbage in function of an art that is both discursive and political.

Jansana works intensely during these initial years from one study to another and processing the experiences of his subconscious he progressively moves beyond the picture plane to appropriate an increasingly three-dimen- sional space.

In 2011 he had his first one-man show since he moved to New York at the The Goma gallery in Madrid. In an in- terview he declares: “My work becomes an asset where I take by assault both its materials and the social power of structures. In this sense, it is interesting to de-stabilize the notion of transcendence through abstraction.” On that occasion he submitted photographs of garbage bins and traffic control cones covered by metal grilles, paintings in warped stretchers on the walls and other paintings bound together with rubber strips, lying on the floor. A rotund collision between materials, structures and forms that we might easily associate with a mini- malist and abstract aesthetics but one with a manifest physical force where matter revealed the traces of a vital experience. In this work, the deployment of three-dimen- sional joints reveals the virtual presence of tension on the plane.

The intense bodily relationship that Jansana began to incorporate into his work was to become his personal seal, one he would later maximize through the use of photographic images and take to an extreme in even more sculptural objects. The chosen images thus be- come physical entities, establishing themselves as a new body of work where there emerge the portraits of great women of the XX Century, such as Georgia O’Keefe

and Pina Bauch, women who stood proud as the last bastion of feminine power. Jansana identifies with them and deploys them as a fighting banner, intervened and fragmented by geometric forms. For Jansana, geome- try, which we had already seen in his early paintings, signifies a system of organization, an invisible grid that adequately arranges objects in the city and forms in space. In his work there is a visible interest in setting aside the transcendental impulses of sculpture and painting, moving into a more raw geometry.

Thus, this artist gradually finds his own aesthetics rendering it permeable to the influence of the urban everyday and of the conceptual monuments he finds in his path, such as in that piece by the German painter Blinky Palermo, dedicated to “The People of New York City” (1976), which recalled the series titled “New York City” by Piet Mondrian (1941-1942) which expressed his fascination for the “rhythm” of the city.

Failed Geometries

The impact that New York once had on Pablo Jansana is similar to that which he has experienced these past few months during his temporary stay in Santiago to produce the exhibition I without Kleenex, at Galeria Artespacio. After years of absence, during which his memory has left behind not only his formal and geometric paintings but also the memory of a culture in the process of develop- ment, Jansana finds himself immersed in a new city, one with major changes in its urban and social organization. This made him aware of his act of selection and use geometry as a language to denounce the flaws of the metropolitan landscape.

Upon arriving, he took an old 1850s palace in the Bor- ough of Quinta Normal as a temporary studio. At present run down and abandoned, the building was in the past a meeting point for the gatherings hosted by Jorge Tellier, Alejandro Jodorowsky and Enrique Lihn in the heyday of Chilean literature. Paradoxically the place reminds Jansa- na of the splendour that the city once had; the cultural excitement of that time; its potent core of intellectuals; a rich urban situation and an urban geometry that was more pertinent to its time.

For Jansana, Santiago’s contemporary everyday is latent here. The selection of each one of the objects and materials, as well as their juxtaposition offers a means to speak to others, a form of communication that is at the crossroads of communal consensus and people’s individual relationship with the work. This allows an individual to transmit qualities, desires or aspirations, af- finities with certain groups and a distancing from others. His pieces reveal a rejection of formal pleasures such as colour or texture. The physicality and materiality needed to build this discourse all emerge from the social move- ments, allowing him to indicate the existence of a social conscience that needs to be presented and questioned through the materials of art. And here lies a gestural problem: that of throwing a stone against the window glazing, not as something that might happen out on the street but instead as a strategy to incite the spectator.

This posture that Jansana has adopted in relation to his surroundings is a way of mediating between the past,
as a known place and the future as a possible place, giving rise to a body of work that, metaphorically, is partly loaded with political and formal content but at the same time, divested of all emotion by the aggressiveness that is generated by the urban and social spaces he is concerned with.

In his latest work, geometric relationships become precisely the language that is needed to speak of failed structures. In these, the space of the photographic image - analogue or digital - and the space of sculpture have become a very productive field of interest. The two or three dimensions seem to fuse; surfaces, depths, visual patterns and volumes seem to exist in an osmotic state of flux. To the seminal actions of his work: rolling, lifting, dividing, folding, twisting, have been added, also, the act of “selecting” the materials he “conjugates.” Their juxtaposition alludes to the emotional connection there
is between people and objects, amplifying, distorting and confusing the meanings suggested by his choices. All this implies a sort of linguistic connection with matter and undoubtedly with the implications of its underlined, translated and dictated meaning in a specific context. Jansana expresses himself contextually under the terms of a decree that is natural for him: the product of his sub- conscious nurtured by a crossover of experiences that range from a transgression of what has been established as a cultural-social condition to the proposal of a new order.

Seleccionar, plegar, retorcer

Abundancia de materiales

En los comienzos de su carrera, Pablo Jansana (Santiago, 1976) desarrolló una obra en la que las ideas que podía expresar a través del medio pictórico eran la base constructiva de su pensamiento. Sin embargo, cuando llega a Nueva York en 2009, de inmediato su pintura sufre una fuerte reacción. Para el artista la multitud de materiales dispuestos “a la mano” de quien quiera recogerlos propone dar una vuelta a los medios de trabajo y expresión de cada pieza. Así, de pronto, el acto de selección permite que Jansana se involucre con la abundancia material, que le va a servir, desde ahí en adelante, como clave de su producción. En ella se vuelve necesario erradicar la frontera entre el espectador y la obra mediante la fusión de una estética industrial abstracta y la ética de un artesano.

Resulta complejo pensar que todos estos procesos ocurran de manera consciente así como los describo yo ahora mismo. Sin duda, la mayor parte de ellos no lo son, y éste es un aspecto clave para entender la obra de este artista: muchas de sus ideas operan bajo una intuitiva comunicación con la plasticidad de los materiales y la carga simbólica que éstos representan. En sus nuevas propuestas, Jansana no abandona la pintura por completo sino que reproduce en ella un choque cultural y físico. Toma de lo que ya venía trabajando en sus pinturas en Chile el interés por el color y la geometría, y en una suerte de forcejeo la somete a una nueva estética mediante el uso de materiales como cartón, cemento, resina, aluminio y basura, en función de un arte discursivo y más político. Jansana trabaja intensamente durante esos primeros años yendo de un estudio a otro, y procesando las experiencias de su inconsciente, va progresivamente saliéndose del cuadro y apropiándose de un espacio más tridimensional.

En 2011 presenta su primera exposición individual desde que se instalara en Nueva York, en la galería madrileña The Goma. En una entrevista, Jansana señala: “Mi trabajo pasa a ser un activo donde tomo por asalto sus materiales y el poder social de las estructuras. En este sentido, es interesante desestabilizar la idea de la trascendencia por la vía de la abstracción”. Para entonces presentó fotografías de basureros y conos de tránsito cubiertas por unas rejillas metálicas, pinturas en bastidores deformados sobre el muro y otras maniatadas con tiras de caucho puestas sobre el suelo. Un rotundo choque de materiales, estructuras y formas que podíamos fácilmente asociar a una estética minimalista y abstracta pero con una manifiesta fuerza física en la que la materia mostraba las huellas de una experiencia vital. Aquí el despliegue de las articulaciones tridimensionales revela en el plano la presencia virtual de una tensión.

Esta intensa relación corporal que va incorporando Jansana a su obra se va a transformar en su sello particular, el que más tarde potenciará por medio de la imagen fotográfica y extremará en objetos aún más escultóricos. Las imágenes escogidas se vuelven sujetos físicos, estableciéndose como un nuevo cuerpo de obra en la que aparecen retratos de grandes mujeres del s.XX, como Georgia O’Keefe y Pina Bauch, mujeres con una postura orgullosa como último bastión del poder femenino. Jansana se identifica con ellas y las dispone como emblema de lucha, intervenidas y fragmentadas por formas geométricas. La geometría, que ya habíamos visto en sus primeras pinturas, significa para Jansana un sistema de organización, una red invisible que dispone los objetos en la ciudad y las formas en el espacio de la manera adecuada. En su trabajo se percibe un interés por dejar fuera los impulsos trascendentales de la escultura y la pintura, pasando a una geometría más cruda.

Así, este artista va encontrando su propia estética haciéndola permeable a las influencias del cotidiano urbano y de los monumentos conceptuales que va encontrando a su paso, como en esa obra del pintor alemán Blinky Palermo dedicada a The People of New York City (1976), recordando la serie de Piet Mondrian titulada New York City (1941-1942) que expresaba su fascinación por el “ritmo” de la ciudad.

Geometrías fallidas

El impacto que un día causó Nueva York en Pablo Jansana se asemeja al que ha vivido estos últimos meses en su temporal estadía en Santiago para la producción de la exposición I with out Kleenex en la galería Artespacio. Tras años de ausencia, en los que su memoria ha relegado no sólo su pintura formal y geométrica sino también los recuerdos de una cultura en vías de desarrollo, Jansana se encuentra en una nueva ciudad que muestra importantes cambios en su organización urbana y social. Esto lo llevará a tomar conciencia de su acto de selección y a utilizar el lenguaje geométrico como denuncia de las fallas del paisaje metropolitano.

A su llegada, un antiguo palacio de 1850 ubicado en el barrio de Quinta Normal se transformó transitoriamente en su estudio. El edificio actualmente derruido y abandonado fue lugar de encuentro de las tertulias que tenían Jorge Tellier, Alejandro Jodorowsky y Enrique Lihn en la época de esplendor de la literatura chilena. Paradójicamente, este lugar recuerda a Jansana el esplendor que un día tuvo esa ciudad, la excitación cultural que existió, su potente cuerpo intelectual, una rica situación urbana y una geometría de la ciudad más pertinente a su época.

Para Jansana este lugar hace latente lo que ocurre en el cotidiano contemporáneo de Santiago. Allí la selección de cada uno de los objetos y materiales, así como la yuxtaposición de los mismos, ofrece una manera de hablar con los demás, como una forma de comunicación que se encuentra en la intersección del consenso comunal y la relación individual. Esto permite a un individuo transmitir cualidades, deseos o aspiraciones, afinidades con ciertos grupos y distancia de los demás. Sus piezas muestran un rechazo de placeres formales como el color o la textura. La corporeidad y materialidad necesarias para la conformación de su discurso aparecen en los movimientos sociales, permitiéndole señalar la existencia de una conciencia social que necesita ser presentada e interrogada por los medios artísticos. En ello descansa un problema gestual: el de lanzar la piedra al ventanal, no como una acción callejera, sino más bien como estrategia para instigar al espectador. Esa postura que adopta Jansana frente a su entorno es una manera de mediar entre el pasado, como un lugar conocido, y el futuro como lugar posible, provocando una obra que metafóricamente resulta en parte llena de contenidos políticos y formales, pero a la vez emocionalmente vacía por la agresividad que generan los espacios urbanos y sociales de los que se ocupa.

En sus últimas obras las relaciones geométricas se vuelven el lenguaje preciso para hablar de las estructuras fallidas. En éstas, el espacio de la imagen fotográfica -analógica o digital- y el espacio de la escultura se han transformado en un campo de interés muy productivo. Las dos o tres dimensiones parecen fusionarse; superficies, profundidades, patrones visuales y volúmenes parecen existir en estado de flujo osmótico. A las acciones seminales de su trabajo, rodar, levantar, dividir, plegar, retorcer, se ha sumado también la acción de “elegir” los materiales que “conjuga”. Su yuxtaposición hace alusión a las conexiones emocionales entre las personas y los objetos, amplificando, distorsionando y confundiendo los significados que sus elecciones sugieren. Todo esto implica una suerte de conexión lingüística con la materia y sin duda con las implicaciones de su significado subrayado, traducido y dictado en un contexto específico. Jansana se expresa contextualmente bajo un decreto que le es natural, que produce su inconsciente nutrido por un cruce de experiencias que van desde la transgresión de lo que se ha establecido como una condición cultural-social a la propuesta de un nuevo orden.

Ignacio Szmulewicz R.



A fragment, just like a small work of art, must be completely separated from the world that surrounds it and consummated within itself, like a sea urchin. Friederich Schlegel, Fragments, 1798 For forty years my father was obsessed with re-furnishing that lost room as he knew it until that fateful day of 1944. As if by bringing together all the pieces of the puzzle he could defeat time and wipe away the sorrow. All that was missing from the studio on Ha’Oren street was my grandfather’s desk; there was nothing but an enormous void where it should have been.

Nicole Krauss, Great House, 2010.

In 2013 I became obsessed with a book. I could not stop reading it; I would wake up in the middle of the night with an unappealable desire to submerge myself in its words. I lost focus on my other activities and the feeling did not abandon me until I had devoured the last paragraphs. Neither its plot, nor its story, nor its twists and turns became clearer to me with the passing of time. I surrendered to the experience of reading it without much resistance. Its initial premise seemed perfect to me: to narrate the story of a piece of furniture and the emotional baggage of those who possessed it.

The work of Pablo Jansana makes me feel like the book Great House by Nicole Krauss. I met up with the artist one mid-April afternoon in Santiago’s Yungay sector, on Calle Compañía, a few steps from Calle Libertad. With the indifference and ambiguity of the autumn weather – a bit of cold and a bit of heat, some light and low hanging clouds – we toured immense premises with a post-apocalyptic or post-earthquake atmosphere (in Chile these terms are synonymous) which Pablo Jansana had been occupying as a studio since the hot summer.

We talked about the work he was preparing for his exhibition and exchanged opinions about the city, the neighbourhood, the derelict buildings, the smells and the nights in the area. He showed me the old rooms of what must have undoubtedly been a “great house” in a different sense to that of the novel by Krauss. We happily reviewed all its countless details: lamps, masonry, coffering, doors, pipes, foundations, fountains and tiles. Every so often we speculated on the customs and traditions of yesterday.

With no desire to become an illustrious neighbour, Jansana submerged—or rather was absorbed—as in so many experiences of fantasy literature, into the spirals of the sector. He wandered along its streets, alleys, ruined buildings and squares in search of the material texture of that sector of the city. And so, the concepts of time and space lost their natural properties, twisting and contracting. While the circulatory patterns of the city were aimed at the economy and work; Jansana’s wanderings were drawn into the residues discarded by the city.

There probably is no corner as wealthy in complexities in the entire sector of Yungay. It is a kind of punctum in the city to experience ruination. And what we are dealing with here is experience. The Peluqueria Francesa, a traditional barber shop stands face to face with a future building by the architect Smiljan Radic; on one side there are numerous traces of a recent fire: walls supported, roofs destroyed, burnt wood and boarded windows.

We went through the list of works that would be on exhibition at the gallery on Alonso de Cordova, on the other side of the city: large scale pictorial assemblages, objects picked up from the street, intervened photographs. All this fascinated me by the material we examined with the care of museum conservators.

After a while we decided to sit down and discuss in greater detail our collaboration (artist-theorist). We discussed possibilities and visions about the texts being commissioned, the theory, the possible readers and other minutia. Upon leaving, he mentioned in passing a detail that made me realize something radical: everything that was inside the house at that time had been gathered, stocked or usurped from the neighbourhood, everything that is, save for the outer shell, the cladding and the receptacle.


I believe that the works that Pablo Jansana exhibits at Artespacio Gallery aim at a particular kind of experience of the city. Urban spaces, Santiago in particular, tend towards expansion, incontinence or verbosity. Rarely do they appear as stagnation, contention or silence.

Modern art’s malady of archivism (or documenting syndrome) turns the experience of the city into information, somewhere in between the CNN and the History Channel. The same feeling of infiniteness that a Google search can give you or the vision of an enormous library. Archive art educates us on the basis of the thirst for encyclopaedic knowledge, the thousands of facts, objects and statistics that with scarce filtering the spectator must arrange and process.

On the other hand, the experiences of the minimal, of what is contained or stagnant are increasingly rare. Everything must flow and remain in constant movement; not only the tweets, Facebook profiles or advertisements but also, constructions, government programs or enterprises. There is no space for dead time.

Blunt and urgent, Jansana’s works form part of a different line: objects that contain a world, trapping it and delivering it to the spectator like a kind of sea urchin—in keeping with the quoted fragment of text by Schlegel. The paintings of Rauschenberg or Kiefer share these qualities. This enclosure and engrossment from which, through a painful and laborious process, the pulp of a given place may be extracted.


In any case, Jansana’s works have gone one step beyond mere nostalgia. They include a series of personal and technological manipulations. They are the present state-of-the-city: the combination of the high tech with the ruinous, led screens over brick masonry. From the digital image, clean and clear to the street of smells and vapours. This is the endless debate between the certainty of the existence of an outside that is clean and immediate and the doubts cast by the constant mediations that render reality infinitely more complex and difficult; through layers of time, of digital mechanisms or rather, of formal manipulations.

And also, the work of Jansana seeks to put the spectator in the strange position of a frustrated voyeur. Unable to consummate his visual pleasure for the maelstrom of the urban space, he delivers instead a series of objects that have renounced their meaning. They are delivered, in appearance at least, naked, removed from their context, cast before our gaze nude but with sufficient weaponry to ensure that they cannot be penetrated at all. With reservations instilled by insecurity, the fiction of passing time and material rawness.

There is something absolutely telling in this exhibition by Jansana and this is the character of objects from the past, which comes to us unheralded. Here, what is past feels like an avalanche that falls upon us, but one which, running through us, leaves us in a state of absolute perplexity. These objects are closed within themselves, they hide but at the same time they are there; they make life a bit more mysterious, less scripted, with no chance of achieving the sense of order and identity we yearned for since childhood. They remind us that what is broken, what is burnt and what is torn are a fundamental part of our own existence—a mythical aspect that Hal Foster identified as characteristic of the “artist as ethnographer.”

His intervened photographs, his collages or assemblages aim to go beyond the vision of the camera as a faithful recording of the real to understand that through manipulation –from popular culture or the Santiago of yesterday—the pieces on exhibition can excite a spark of questioning. Today, digital technology is more than a mere intention of accessing a parallel, better world; instead it shares a sensitivity with the manipulations that is characteristic of urban culture: graffiti, stencil, wall painting and other forms of intervention. So, in the crossroads between the stagnant and the mobile, art proposes a new visuality, a new mythology for the city.


After meeting with Pablo Jansana I let myself be absorbed by Krauss’ Great House once again. I wanted to understand its story, to clarify any doubts I had. I wanted to become the good student, the one that raises his hand with the right answer. But the book drifted away from me again. Like its characters, I suffered the rupture of my identity by being confronted by its enclosure. In the novel, the piece of furniture, the lost desk from a studio that has disappeared, had a single characteristic: one of its drawers was totally and absolutely closed.



Un fragmento, al igual que una pequeña obra de arte, tiene que estar completamente separado del mundo que lo rodea y consumado en sí mismo, como un erizo

Friedrich Schlegel, Fragmentos, 1798

Durante cuarenta años, mi padre se obsesionó con volver a amueblar aquella habitación perdida según la conoció hasta aquel fatídico día de 1944. Como si volviendo a reunir todas las piezas del rompecabezas pudiera doblegar el tiempo y borrar la pena. Lo único que faltaba en el estudio de la calle Ha`Oren era el escritorio de mi abuelo; en el lugar que debería haber ocupado no había más que un enorme vacío

Nicole Krauss, La gran casa, 2010

El 2013 me obsesioné con un libro. No podía dejar de leerlo; me despertaba en medio de la noche con un inapelable deseo de sumergirme en sus palabras. Perdí la concentración en mis otras actividades y este sentimiento no me abandonó hasta devorar sus últimos párrafos. Ni su trama, ni su historia, ni sus giros se me fueron haciendo más claros con el tiempo. Me entregué, sin mucha resistencia, a la experiencia de la lectura. Su premisa inicial me pareció perfecta: narrar la historia de un mueble y de los efectos emocionales de quienes lo poseyeron.

Me siento con la obra de Pablo Jansana como con el libro de Nicole Krauss La gran casa. Nos encontramos con el artista en el barrio Yungay de Santiago en calle Compañía a pasos de Libertad una tarde de mediados de abril. Con la indiferencia y ambigüedad del clima otoñal –un poco de frío y de calor, algo de luz y nubes bajas– recorrimos un inmenso recinto con aire post-apocalíptico o post-terremoto –sinónimos en Chile– que Pablo Jansana venía ocupando como taller desde el caluroso verano.

Conversamos sobre la obra que estaba preparando para la muestra mientras intercambiábamos pareceres sobre la ciudad, el barrio, los edificios abandonados, los olores y las noches por el sector. Me mostró las antiguas habitaciones de lo que debe haber sido sin duda una “gran casa”, en un sentido distinto al de la novela de Krauss. Revisamos con felicidad sus innumerables detalles: lámparas, mamposterías, artesonados, puertas, cañerías, cimientos, fuentes y baldosas. Especulábamos, cada cierto rato, sobre los usos de antaño.

Sin deseo alguno por convertirse en vecino ilustra, Jansana se sumergió –o fue absorbido como en tantas experiencias de la literatura de fantasía– en las espirales del sector, recorrió sus calles, cités, edificios en ruinas y plazas, en búsqueda de la textura material de ese fragmento de la ciudad. Y así, tiempo y espacio fueron conceptos que perdieron sus propiedades naturales torciéndose y contrayéndose. Mientras la circulación de la ciudad apuntaba a la economía y el trabajo, los recorridos de Jansana se adentraron por los residuos que la ciudad iba descartando. Probablemente no exista esquina tan rica en complejidades en todo el sector de Yungay; una especie de punctum en la ciudad para la experiencia con la ruina. Y de lo que se trata aquí es de experiencia. Se enfrentan la Peluquería Francesa con un futuro edificio del arquitecto Smiljan Radic, al costado, numerosas huellas de un reciente incendio: muros apuntalados, techos derruidos, maderas quemadas y ventanas tapeadas.

Pasamos lista de las obras que irían a la galería en Alonso de Córdoba, al otro lado de la ciudad: ensamblajes pictóricos de gran formato, objetos apropiados de la calle, fotografías intervenidas. Todo me fue fascinando por sus materialidades que íbamos revisando con el cuidado de conservadores de museo.

Al pasar el rato decidimos sentarnos a conversar más distendidamente acerca de nuestra colaboración (artista-teórico). Discutimos posibilidades y visiones sobre los textos de encargo, la teoría, los posibles lectores y otras minucias. Ad portas de mi salida me arrojó al vuelo un detalle que me hizo caer en la cuenta de algo radical: todo lo que se encontraba en ese minuto en la gran casa había sido recogido, acopiado o usurpado del barrio. Todo excepto la cáscara y la estructura interna, la envoltura y el receptáculo.


Creo que las obras que expone Pablo Jansana en la galería Artespacio apuntan a un tipo particular de experiencia con la ciudad. Las urbes, especialmente Santiago, tienden a la expansión, la incontinencia o la verborrea. Rara vez se nos aparecen como estancamiento, contención o silencio.

El mal de archivo (o síndrome documental) del arte contemporáneo vuelve la experiencia de la ciudad hacia la información, entre CNN y History Channel. La misma sensación de infinitud que puede entregar una búsqueda en Google o la visión de una enorme biblioteca. El arte de archivo nos educa en base a la sed del conocimiento enciclopédico, de los miles de datos, objetos y estadísticas que, con poco filtro, el espectador debe ordenar y procesar.

Por otro lado, las experiencias con lo mínimo, lo contenido o estancado son cada vez más escasas. Todo debe fluir y estar en constante movimiento: los tweet, los perfiles de Facebook o los anuncios publicitarios, pero también las construcciones, los programas de gobierno o los emprendimientos. No existe espacio para el tiempo muerto.

Contundentes y apremiantes, las obras de Jansana son parte de una línea distinta: objetos que contienen un mundo, lo atrapan y se lo entregan al espectador como una especie de erizo –siguiendo al citado fragmento de Schlegel–. Las pinturas de Rauschenberg o de Kiefer comparten esas cualidades. Ese cerramiento y ensimismamiento del que se puede extraer, lenta y penosamente, la pulpa de un lugar.


De todos modos, las obras de Jansana han ido un paso más adelante del mero sentimiento nostálgico. Incluyen toda una serie de ma - nipulaciones personales y tecnológicas. Se trata de la actual condición de la ciudad: la combinación del high tech con la ruina, las pantallas led sobre mampostería de ladrillo. De la imagen digital, pulcra y definida, a la calle de los olores y vapores. Es el intermina - ble debate entre la certeza de la existencia de un afuera, limpio e inmediato, y la duda sobre las constantes mediaciones que vuelven la realidad mucho más compleja y difícil; a través de capas de tiempo, de mecanismos digitales o bien de manipulaciones formales.

Y, además, la obra de Jansana busca colocar al espectador en la extraña situación de voyeur frustrado. Sin poder consumar definitivamente su placer visual por la vorágine de la urbe, le entrega una serie de objetos que renuncian al sentido. Se entregan, en apariencia, de manera desnuda, retirados de su contexto, entregados sin ropajes a la mirada de todos nosotros, aunque con la armas suficientes para no poder ser penetrados en absoluto. Con las reservas que entrega la inseguridad, la ficción del tiem - po y la rudeza material.

Hay algo totalmente decidor en la muestra de Jansana. El carácter de los objetos del pasado que nos llega sin aviso. Donde lo pretérito se siente como una avalancha que se nos viene encima pero que al atravesarnos nos deja sum - idos en un estado de absoluta perplejidad. Ob - jetos que se cierran en sí mismos, se esconden pero que a la vez están ahí, nos hacen la vida un poco más misteriosa, menos pauteada, sin posibilidad de alcanzar ese orden e identidad que anhelamos desde pequeños. Nos recuer - dan que lo quebrado, lo quemado y lo rasgado forman parte fundamental de nuestra propia existencia –aspecto mítico que Hal Foster identificó como característico del “artista como etnógrafo”

Sus fotografías intervenidas, sus collage o ensamblajes, apuntan a superar la visión de la cámara como registro fidedigno de lo real para entender que con la manipulación –desde la cultura popular o bien desde el Santiago antig - uo– las obras pueden provocar un chispazo de cuestionamiento. Hoy en día, la tecnología dig - ital es más que la mera intención de acceder a un mundo paralelo mejor sino que comparte una sensibilidad con las manipulaciones de la cultura urbana: graffiti, stencil, mural, inter - vención. Así, en n cruce de lo estancado con lo móvil, el arte propone una nueva visualidad, una nueva mitología para la ciudad.


Volví a entregarme a La gran casa de Krauss después de reunirme con Pablo Jansana. Quería comprender su historia, despejar mis dudas. Convertirme en el alumno correcto, el que alza la mano con la respuesta acertada. Pero el libro se alejó nuevamente de mí. Como sus personajes, sufrí la ruptura de mi identidad al enfrentarme a su cerramiento. En la novela, el mueble, el escritorio perdido del desapare - cido estudio, tenía sólo una característica: uno de sus cajones se encontraba total y absolutamente cerrado.


Fall and fold

The Goma, Madrid, Spain exhibition website

Fall and fold
by Borja Diaz

People are normalized by depiction. It situates them in positions that, with the passing of time, become identities. Reality requires repetition in order for meaning to settle and artworks help to reinforce these positions. The supremacy of men over women responds to historic and socio-cultural constructs. Contemporary feminism connects with post-structuralism, analysing the construction of meaning and power relationships, and why certain languages and meanings become normativised. Pablo Jansana channels his interest in social change into a study of subcultures and activist movements. All the women represented by the artist in his second solo exhibition at The Goma have played a significant role in the fight to break the gender dichotomy as well as being actively involved in other struggles against racism, homophobia and the wars taking place in their respective time. So, for instance, we have Hannah Höch, a key player in the Dada movement in Berlin and a member of Novembergruppe, who questioned canonical depictions of feminine beauty. Like other women featured in this show, in her time Höch was relegated to a secondary plane and did not receive recognition in the art scene until the 1970s.

Pablo Jansana’s pieces are subtended by the relationship between form, time and ideology. Though altering prints using acrylic, resin, gauze and aluminium, they all start out from an image recognisable to the spectator. The image is then destabilised and hindered by means of abstraction and an accumulation of materials. The three-dimensional contractions and folds speak to the risk in our current society of repeating the same mistakes of a dominant discourse.

One can barely make out the presence of the male gender in just two works, overshadowed by the female focus of this show. One of them shows Abstract Expressionism painters, the other one depicts in a portrait four of the five members of the Munich “Cosmic” Circle excluding Fanny Zu Reventlow, the only woman in this neo-pagan circle.

Spanish version

La representación normaliza a las personas, fijando posiciones que con el tiempo se convertirán en identidades. La realidad necesita de la repetición para fijar sentido y las obras de arte contribuyen a confirmar posiciones. La supremacía masculina respecto a la femenina responde a una construcción histórica y socio-cultural. El feminismo contemporáneo conecta con el postestructuralismo, analizando las construcciones de significado y las relaciones de poder, por qué ciertos lenguajes llegan a normativizarse. Pablo Jansana ha manifestado su interés en el desarrollo del cambio social a través del estudio de subculturas y movimientos activistas. Todas las mujeres que aparecen representadas en la segunda exposición individual del artista en The Goma corresponden a mujeres que han participado de forma significativa en la lucha por romper las diferencias de género, además de estar inmersas en otras milicias que demostraban su aversión al racismo, la homofobia o las guerras que se libraban en su tiempo. Así, por ejemplo, Hannah Höch, miembro fundamental del dadá berlinés y perteneciente al Novembergruppe, cuestionó las represtaciones canónicas de la belleza femenina. Como otras mujeres homenajeadas en esta exposición, la figura de Höch fue relegada en su tiempo a un segundo plano y no adquirió importancia en los circuitos del arte hasta la década de los setenta.

La relación entre forma, tiempo e ideología es clave en las piezas de Pablo Jansana. Las obras, impresiones intervenidas con acrílico, resinas, gasas y aluminio, parten de una imagen reconocible por el espectador. Por medio de la abstracción y la acumulación de materiales se obstaculiza y desestabiliza la imagen. Los pliegues y contracciones tridimensionales apuntan hacia el riesgo que corre nuestra sociedad actual de volver a incurrir en los errores de un discurso dominante.

En tan solo dos obras , a la sombra de los protagonistas de esta muestra, se discierne levemente la presencia del género masculino. En una de ellas, integrantes del movimiento Expresionismo Abstracto, en otra, cinco de los seis miembros de los “Cósmicos” de Munich, en la que no aparece retratada Fanny Zu Reventlow, única integrante mujer de aquel círculo de tendencia neopagana.


20 Minutes of weight

The Goma, Madrid, Spain exhibition website

20 Minutes of weight
by Donald Johnson- Montenegro

En esta muestra individual inaugural de la galería, el artista residente en Nueva York Pablo Jansana, plantea que se considere la inestable división que oscila entre territorios públicos y privados, personales y sociales, entre los diferentes poderes, entre control y sumisión. Esta línea está presente en la separación vertical de los lienzos deformados y reflectantes, en las bandas de caucho que utiliza para alterar y contener un lienzo negro, así como en las pulcras rayas de cocaína representadas en las fotografías montadas sobre aluminio. Todas ellas simbolizan la preocupación primordial de Jansana en su nuevo trabajo: la violencia y su interacción en nuestro mundo de maneras diversas; como forma de evasión, como una fuerza común e intrínseca al ser humano, como una manera de controlarnos o de llegar a controlar.

En la serie de estrellas deportivas, el artista sobrepone rayas de cocaína a fotografías de periódicos en los que aparecen atletas que han tenido problemas con las drogas. Aquí la violencia surge como acto contra uno mismo. Jansana yuxtapone la persona pública de esas celebridades y los demonios internos para hacer visible la dualidad con la que todos nos enfrentamos: como nos vemos a nosotros mismos y como nos ven los demás. Las líneas de cocaína sobre los diarios duplican las preexistentes correspondientes a los perímetros de los campos deportivos. El acto de trazar líneas rememora los dibujos con cocaína de Helio Oiticica en los años setenta. Pero mientras Oiticica exploraba los límites de la producción a través de las propiedades transformadoras propias del uso de las drogas, Jansana considera estas líneas como símbolo de violencia. Los colores utilizados son anémicos y recuerdan a los tonos de centros correccionales.

Los lienzos destruidos evocan la actitud nihilista de Steven Parrino y su fascinación por la relación entre lienzo y bastidor. Pero Jansana rompe finalmente el soporte, esperando ver que sucede cuando su acto violento controlado interrumpe el lienzo, llevándolo al campo de la escultura. Aquí somos testigos de la violencia como fuerza productiva. La investigación sobre el potencial de la violencia continúa en las fotografías que captan la destrucción de automóviles, imágenes congeladas, extraídas de una televisión, apropiadas de la película Mad Max y de un video musical. En la fotografía observamos un momento congelado de violencia colectiva. La película Mad Max es una visión distópica del futuro en la que la sociedad se ha desviado y abundan en ella actos de violencia aleatorios. El acto de aislar este fotograma de la película se convierte en algo también aleatorio, un divorcio con la causalidad que hace plantear la fuente y el objetivo de la violencia. En la otra imagen la conexión entre el grupo de jóvenes y el coche incendiado que está próximo no está clara; estamos llamados a especular sobre su relación. Ambas imágenes son ficción, no documentales. En un mundo plagado de imágenes con violencia real ¿ por qué elegir éstas? Jansana está considerando la violencia conceptualmente y el uso de instancias prefabricadas nos permite recapacitar sobre el potencial de ésta y sus características formales preservando cierta distancia con la vida real. Incluso con las estrellas deportivas, está eligiendo celebridades que participan en entretenimiento televisivo.

Jansana también ha expresado su interés por las manifestaciones públicas y el rol de la violencia para potenciar el cambio social, estudiándola como herramienta unificadora. En estas obras entra en juego cómo la violencia opera y encuentra su camino entre lo que enseña y lo que esconde. Jansana explora las diferentes interacciones en un esfuerzo de alcanzar la inexplicable y a la vez tan cruda verdad de la violencia. Ha señalado que en estos trabajos no estamos ante el grito de Munch, sino frente a algo mucho más racional, no sentimental, controlado. Las palabras “20 minutes of Weight” están escritas sobre el lienzo de Mad Max y sirven para dar título a la exposición. Haciendo de puente entre temporal y lo físico, esta declaración evocadora persiste como una magulladura recordándonos lo ineludible de el más terrible y enigmático rasgo humano.