By: Juan Pablo Torres Muñiz
The artist said she opted for a new way this time, with different materials, something simpler, and a more specific motive; indeed, it’s about smaller surfaces, some artwork that she thought them to be finished in less time than the others before. It’s also about an intensity issue; it was inferable, even though the comment will be omitted.
The impression, after watching the first finished paintings, took me vertiginously to the distinct silence I gave in myself before, when we met, until this moment after going through the very best of her work. More.
Justified, attempting to say something about.
In her conversation, Ana impresses, always. Her natural warmth always prevents that the confrontation –all-time significant–, which is produced by her canvas and is written on letters and notes, let not be about self-knowledge. Generous occasions to advert the deep questioning that in other cases, such motive as other works, between different interlocutors, results easier to present as a solvent answer.
The coincidences regarding the perspectives (on it most committed levels and, maybe also, compromising) or, more precisely, in relation to the terms employed to it develop, instead of suit a faster dialog plenty of ideas on an agile succession, letting free the voices on a torrent –counting, also, the trust that she inspires–, let us get near to the artist in a date with the silence: again on to the well-known elements, the bridges leads to the common evocation, revelation of her paintings…
Her last exhibition turns difficult a simple qualification, especially if we want more than a list of amazement expressions. As her works before, –but to a greater extent– invites to risky reflections. Just like the greater poetry, that paints vain every thematic explanation, pushing us to read the text again, to show it, as the only way of proper communication about its contents, or its possibilities. Ana’s work moves and overtakes: Urges putting every other eye on her, as if it were necessary.
Without rushing to say that her career ends here, it’s possible to point out that the small number of paintings that are on exhibition, constitutes an amazing synthesis of her objectives, that shows the very best of her older works and leads, through the most violent shake, further on the experience of its course, the singular stroke that, always firm, she signs.
(Ana moves calmly between the canvas, the paper, the cardboards, intense glance; the hand extends generously containing, dominated, the tension –the extended labor echo, avoiding the noise, the exaggeration.
Grateful for that courtesy. Let shine for itself the brutal desire of the bodies on their dance. Teaches –she’s worried about the causes. Afterwards, she’s now on this side –the side of the tossed doubt.)
The journey pleases.
Since her first paintings, the particular process with the bodies: It could be understood, perhaps, adding some shadows to the light, to the prepared canvas original white (evident simile of the genesis), most of the painters pawns energy, trading it for substance: interpose to the light an imitation of their own flesh. Indeed, the personal speeches, the human effort in determine history; on a lower scale, say as an example, the mold of every personae, they implicate the eagerness of imposing the abstract, every world to the reality: As much as we explain every phenomenon, we will find us far from reality.
For Ana, the process in which the communication authentically develops, the way that art operates, goes in an opposite direction: devastation, deprivation, layer by layer, of an image, violating a symbol, perhaps for arrive to a hidden symbol, illegible, but transmissible, for being in correspondence to a fundamental language.
iminish that limit thickness that the man himself creates and recreates on his fight for the full comprehension; betting, however, for a simple but deep understanding (between artist and spectator, but beyond, participating to whom instead of recognizing himself, get amazed for the variable familiarity) leads to the impressions exchange, aside of pre-established speeches, and, even further, leads to a sort of eloquent silence.
That silence questions because it commits a reality acceptation, abandoning, exceeded, the most sophisticated explanations, every possible rational cause (which we get served from, on last stage, in order to foresee, to dominate and to not fear, in order to defend ourselves). Ergo, – silence as redemption.
The impression, the hit, it’s a reliable evidence of Ana’s traced path, and of her artwork effectiveness. Complex. Questioning.
In other ways this is an exceptional ensemble.
It should be noted: the artist makes use of three fundamental elements (the last one had been object of the grater transformation within time, and it’s the most recent artwork that sets the difference): First, the bodies; second, the scene, that denotes a representation we can confer to representative art; and, finally, the unveiled bottom through the break of representation narrative time.
Let me clarify the issue.
The human figures represent men. It’s appropriate to underline the term figures: it’s a distinctive characteristic the way in which configuration, for begin, and the total plot, in consequence, escapes to the hyperrealism, pointing, nevertheless, from features consistence and plausible textures, to a barely deformed image – worthy image – by a special lens, in direct relation with the roll of each character, or its combination – on the scene. Always, assemblies destined to be spoiled.
Here is the base for the scenes. The determining factor for Ana’s questioning is time. Its implications, – multiples.
Far of being pose compositions, the bodies from the paintings finds each other, are revealed, in the ongoing representation, each one fulfilling a roll, either on an allegory (that indicates some time) or strictly speaking in a history development. The situation matters anyway because of the narrative’s postulation, the effort to establish the time measure, the ages: impose the will against death (killing, also, if consider necessary). And here, the violence complaint.
It’s convenient to recall a declaration from the artist in dialogue for Anábasis:
Bodies that had been erased, erased on a massive way, industrial. And however they search for new ways of remain on existence. And they appear. Reappear. Through distinct looks. They resist and testify. Testify because they have seen, because they know, even though silenced, they testify relentless.
But anyway and overall, at the end just stays the esthetic phenomenon. The product, which is the artwork at this time and place.
Ana refers to the culture as a needlework: nets that overlap on a consecutive way, as Foucault will say. In fact, each one of her paintings set out, because of the breakup of some representations that stays on her, a naked truth and not the pretended breakup of certain ritual culture wealth. To say it on another way: she breaks with the intentions scheme that can be attributed to a certain culture, and be naked the flesh to an essence that, at the same time, exceed every simple figuration.
She differences, in that way, Culture from Art.
The culture exists, in fact, as a characteristics pile that should identify the epoch; in that way, it serves to the pretention of who writes history.
The Art, just for questioning elements from the humanity itself, exceed every notion of epoch and makes of it, on its different versions, part of its multiple revelations, on spheres in which it gets clear.
Concerning this last issue, the artist goes even further: questions the last approach confirming that it leads always to the most atrocious attacks against liberty, whereas she sets out the art as simple reflection of a historic reality. So, the art really refracts. It serves as a portal to another level in which contemplation leaves a side every notion of time. Be understood as peak. For the oriental school: Uprooting.
What is revealed, afterwards?
Because of the devastation of the bright light, layer by layer, we find each other before a forceful nudity: appropriate to the idea of human representation, as a product of a conscious, artificial abstraction, which denotes, even though, effort of purity, of elevation.
The achievement is masterful on its multiple shades. The fragile constitution of the assembly emphasizes with them; and nothing of this prevents the impact of the last revelation: the man exposed to a fragility, for who the ritual, the culture, in general, doesn’t prepared and rather poorly protected him (as the way the language, the same we use to explain reality, really set us apart from it).
The characters from this last exhibition, mainly because of the palette, because of the texture developed on the surface (with those lumps that seem to detach persistently from the skin, in order to mutate on a ingredient of the space between them and us, dreams field, the very same substance from the fiction), they suffer, they live. And it’s about, really, an own life: the painter keeps from jell any element in a clearly defined color: safe from the most remote manifestation of a hand that imposes its character (with which it will establish an order, a measure). – That’s the way the author erases herself, serves to the artwork.
The mud man, Adam, the myth, is surprised by the light which he offers his dance to, discovers on his own body the smell of pure pain that confirms his real existence, that he’s alive, apart from writing, from all tradition.
It provokes to recognize what is not there on the artist affirmation, but we also chase…
In that regard, it’s useful to attend what she have said about a previous exhibition – perhaps like an announce:
On this work in particular, the bodies talk and say their own. What is their own? not mine. Because in some point they are already separated (from me). They have developed life on their own, they had detached. So, the empty surge again and then other bodies are necessary and the process begins again… Ad infinitum? Yes, as long life exists and the necessity of them to appear. In that way the bodies are apparitions, surged through the instrument I’m trying to be.
Every painting: The interpreter finds himself, precisely; meanwhile he makes his act, because he discovers himself tripping: burst in something more than an idea, far away from a logic proposition, it’s a certainty –that questions.
Critic is ferocious, also it seems to devastate and it takes, made tears, in the astonishment that projects as a new memory of the contemplation, every pretention of immortality, and wining through the artwork, the possibility of a new longer life, but far from the individual alone, in the communication of that painful astonishment, fundamental.
The creation in which oneself, as a phenomenon, as a mean, constitute temporary – the limit.
Here’s, the end, as well: extinguish yourself in order to give fully life to the artwork. Be able to contaminate the less possible that offering which we can hardly avoid: preserve it from the well-known death drive, that which is alive in yourself.
Even further, make a sacrifice instead of dedication.
And this, what’s been said, everything, just to barely lean out the edge… Once inside the image, –without words.
Transaltion, by Zindy Valencia