< Certain exhibitions incorporate dazzle, uncertainty, interdiction and freedom. Like Nadja, they bring us closer to a magnetic field. They transform, move away, attract and operate as lines of force. They are potency and flux. They summon places where a certain silent delirium reigns. Witch ceremonies, enchanted objects, trees that move throughthe air, sea monsters. A dance. It was Gabriel Orozco who wrote: “the real question is: what is a space?”>

“The Idiot who shrieks and twists his shoulder to escape from the nothingness that imprisons him – is this the birth of the first man and his first movement towards liberty, or the last convulsion of the dying man?” (Michel Foucault)

< Between the works and present history, imagined affiliations occur. Nadja — the empty space that defies excess and a certain poetics of choice. Without the formulas of harmony, unity, interiority, signature. Only the fragility of astonishment.>

“I've always lived as if I had no possibility of approaching any model of existence.”(Marguerite Duras)

<Certain exhibitions are a life intention or a “wandering soul” like Nadja's. No limit or commitment. Crazed. Through them we experience the subversion of the long monotony and the lightness of the clearings that show us the inexhaustible blend between plants, stones and animals. Other figures claim the dream. The night marks the deepest joy that the day hides in secret. >

< To wander through beauty. No foundations. In detours. No epigraphs.
The possibility of each one leaving the shelter and reaching all the crossroads of the world. An immortal machine. >

< Plato and Aristotle. Centuries that tell us of the power of fire and cold, of books and pleasure. Art becomes the forms of its oblivion. The shadows of time. A sword and a labyrinth.
Rumor and desire. >

“I saw the universe and I saw the intimate designs of the universe.(...) I saw the faceless god concealed behind the gods.”(Jorge Luís Borges)

< Nadja. A work written in 1928, revised and re-edited in 1963 — to improve the form a little, according to André Breton. He also asked, “who am I?” and even more: “Nadja, who are you?” Life does not coincide with writing. As in the hummingbird's suspension, the truth moves back and forth. A whirlwind in the form of a helix and rapid beats. It convulsively seeks beauty. >