On nuances and other uncatchables.
Andrea Novoa Rodriguez
…ethereal, unexpected, warm, sunlit, is how the afternoon of that day promised to be, in front of a blue gate that augured the South East.
Her smile was welcoming as she opened the door. By way of a welcome, white flowers were also waiting.
Her person1 embodied the work and vice-versa and we felt comfortable from the start. A fluid and sincere exchange about life, about work and its vicissitudes, about an artist’s story and a career that are resolutely emerging, because they deserve it. A story of building that is not without obstacles – as we like them – an exchange, not a monologue.
The conversation turned out to be interesting because the sharing was transparent.
A botched coffee and a successful coffee later we decided – all the same – to talk about “work” even if for us everything is one and the other.
Snippets were placed here and there and we traversed them little by little throughout the conversation. During it, small stories mixed with History in our dialogue because she thinks about universal subjects through a very personal, delicate prism and she indeed touches all of us in this momentum. We spoke, we looked, we touched. Objects, substances, things that intentionally become pieces of art when they translate a concept into a sensitive, artistic, ephemeral object. She holds dear these bits of pieces that have been and that will perhaps be again as they are as pieces of something, ideas that exist in themselves and that make up the work in a precise moment and a particular context, that of the exhibition. This is a soul-hunter and artist of “making”: she too exists in the exhibition space when she inhabits it.
Sometimes positioning herself in retreat, it seems that she is trying to kill the author, to share an authority that she recognises as not entirely belonging to her since her subjects are a common responsibility, political.
Secretly I have thought of an illustrious French semiologist2 , of the significant and the signified, of the writer and the reader, of the work of art and its witnesses, these interpreters who will, inevitably complete it. I have not shared these thoughts since, in any case, it was she who dictated them to me in other words.
She assembles pieces that are like words in her own words that are thinking of Georges Perec3 – deploying a poetic and precise syntax in the exhibition. Therefore, one after the other on our tour come a plaited olive-branch crown she had carefully kept out, a golden balloon4 , today deflated5 (waiting impossibly to come back to life) sheets of paper that are landscapes that are no more6 , postcards7 … All these elements were lain out in her studio and we pored over them without hurrying, punctuating them with experiences they constantly kicked up. Almost nothing, pieces like words, and yet. White flowers8 .
Translated from the French by Matilda Holloway