This story goes from here to its start, at the first morning of May; follows through these same pages, and when it arrives here again, again it starts there… Such was his enlightened hallucination.
The problem of art is a problem of translations. Decomposition and sorting of forms, sounds and thoughts. Things and ideas are getting old. You only have the power to cover them with saliva.
It is clear that every thought, every gesture, word and happening can be interpreted differently; there lays my severe intention to communicate directly the dense metaphoric language present in Palacio's writing. I want the reader to question the writing as one looks for signs on the streets or in forest. The streams of art I have perused beyond writing capture the narrative and sensations from texts in order to translate them into movement. It is always a decomposing and sorting of forms indeed; from an idea into concept, into words to be spoken, enacted.
