stormy season
text by Diego Bianchi
Sometimes when I’m on the street I need to squint in order to see less and to blur things a bit, to dream the possible shapes or to synthesize the world. A good pillow fight, whoever has missed it, when I get home today... pillow hits! pillow hits!
The moments.
It’s so difficult to capture a moment of magic, our chaotic reality surpasses art in grace and abundance. “Enough with fiction!” “Enough with reality!” you can hear on both sides of the rift.
It’s a desperate attempt to slow down the time of things, to make the ephemeral eternal. And to fit the same size forever.
Another pillow in the morning retains the shape of the sleeper... click!
So, a shape is a contingency that persists in time... just an instant in the flow, the extraordinary coincidence that allows a perfect exchange; suddenly things are identical to themselves, signified and signifier vanish.
But it is necessary to interrupt because art always shows up to interrupt, to freeze the image in its perfect version.
The sculptures are the result of a battle with the whole universe.
What a longing! To find a soft and moldable element, receptive and kind. "...hairy and smooth, so soft on the outside, that you would say it is all made of cotton, that it has no bones in it."
But it resists everything. Time and gravity, humidity and all the cataclysms to come. Always shining.
But... are you asking me to give it a hug?
These sculptures divert my eyes; they confuse my senses.
I can feel the war and perceive the easy and the impossible at the same time.
The formalist obsession is an exquisite curse to be always in contact with the chaos of the world.
If only I could make sculptures when I clean the house, when I tidy the furniture, when I arrange the bedspread…
For sculptures to be fresh they should appear spontaneously in the flow, in the midst of our acts. Just like that, as a kind of perfect exchange... suddenly, things are once again identical to themselves....
The exhibition makes sense if it is like a drama that has been paused in its climax, a parade of adrenaline that confuses and moves you. Let it all be raucous and lusty and exaggerated so that it's all out of control, let the pillows fly up in the air again.
Just Jessica, ninja artist, fighting against everything, with the textures, with the sheens, with the shape of the air, of the wind that inflates your clothes in the middle of a raging storm, fighting with desperate strokes and blows.
I find no better engine than desperation to make art.
Nor a better method than battling.
September 2022