by: dávila onofre.
"i like to think that i move it to the rhythm of a story of a well-written word."
have you ever felt that "something" connects you to another person? that curious feeling of invisible connection? i think it’s a line. there are lines everywhere, between all of us. what brought me to her was a line.
what kind of lines unite us? that’s the delicate, important, different point. the lines drawn, for example, between that woman and her lover are delicate but intense, exciting, not straight but twisted.
another example: that child seems to carry behind him several kite strings, holding him, one is the line of his mother who cannot let him move much, it is a rigid line; his grandfather has loosened the sting and it is drawn a very light, blue line. lines have colors: white, red, blue, bicolored, multicolored, gray and others worn out by the sun and the rain.
i like to think that when a person moves, in a certain way, all those other people with whom they are connected move a little, according, to the type of line that unites them, that’s why we can’t stop moving, breathing, because the movement of others make us move without meaning to, involuntarily, always, and so those who are connected with us also move and they with their connections, and so infinitely, because there are people who are united to the same person, like sisters to their mother and father.
also, there are lines between people and places. slurs, knots and some other spring. lines have thickness and texture, some are curved and seem to get lost in a tangle of lines, but there are other lines almost perfect, straight and detailed, neat. nobody sees those lines that unite us, but there they are, we feel them all the time.
we share the big room as a studio. i just need a small place to write and put some books. she is the one who has a large and a smaller table that sometimes serves her to make cuts, to extend sheets; on the other table she works almost daily. she has flowers and plants all over the studio, i water them because she works every day outside the house and sometimes comes back late. We’re hardly ever together in the studio, but we’ve both decorated it, I chose the lamps, she chose furniture. i chose the pollock of intricate and scrambled lines, she chose the moholy - nagy of neat and straight lines. she moves me when her hands draw, cut and design around her, when her forearm peels off a branch and gently touches me when i sleep. i like to think that i move it to the rhythm of a story of a well-written word.