Sofia Echeverri’s Landscapes at YAM Gallery
By Karla Sandomingo Vizcaíno
Is it possible to stand before the vastness, the desolation, as a witness of what we once were—what we still are—and see beauty there? Is it possible to stop time just before everything is destroyed? Can we reconstruct a world from its fragments?
“Tracks to Err”
By Sofía Echeverri
Fri, Aug 22, 7pm
Ancha de San Antonio 20, Int. 1
Sofía Echeverri’s landscapes trace an assumption: there is something beyond the canvas—and within it, in the background—that one cannot define. There is no time there, no action, but there once was. Behind that apparent quietness there is an annunciatory clue: a mountain; chaos will ensue imminently or an evil fabric, another landscape, another forest, perhaps more organic, a very fine line at the tip of the pencil; a word that names its destination; a cell reflected in itself, a thorough mirror of emptiness.
Characters stare at us, making us accomplices, witnesses: they, with their masks, their corroded skins, cater to our eyes, step out of the painting and move straight toward us, or they pull us into the painting; without our realizing, they envelop us. They live in a pillaged world. With their masks or their undrawn faces, they see us as they see an unexplainable past. They are children who turn their backs to the future, they don’t look at that forest where something possible still exists.
And the pencil outlines, delicate ones, deprived of places to root, perhaps this it a map to follow, a chair, a photograph to contemplate with jagged images, colored ones, biding their time, ours, shutting themselves in or shutting us out, looking at volcanoes that someday will be volcanas. Or they once were. Or, are they still? From graphite to color. What is time then, if not something woven by our hands or by the eyes that look from their conical wells to a specific point in the distance. These triangles close the space in, or do they open it? Do they show us a path? A destination? A guideline? Again, there are no words, only silence, and no face wants to admit any mistake. And it does not pull its head out or peek out of the mirror. Again, there is an interior movement toward an unknowable world. Again, in the future. Locked in?
In Echeverri’s forbidden games, they lost their faces, faces they once had. Now they are blurred lines, feline or bird-like faces, or winged costumes, any mask in order to forget or to be; a werewolf child on the lookout, observing us, children of the future who cover themselves with the world, childhoods that peek into the time cone, to grow sheltered from the future, suspended. Do we still have a time, a memory of that world, in this world that begins to collapse? Are we collapsing? Are we built, determined by fragments? Is there a place to go to?
Art, Tracks to Err, by Sofía Echeverri, Friday, August 22, 7pm, YAM Gallery, Ancha de San Antonio 20, Int. 1.