CARLOS I. FAURA
I say: breathe. The sharp edges, the rust, the curves - which are generated with singular and continuous cuts and repetitions - establish a relationship with the air. It enters, circulates, fills the void surrounded by iron, leans on it and forces the metal to talk about itself with some lightness. Perhaps there is no imposition such as reflecting on an absolute value such as space through a sample of it bounded and arbitrarily ordered. And yet I say: these are organic geometries, they impose a return, an eternal return; they contain those battles of opposing forces that encourage becoming, reflect the oxymorons and contradictions that cause true harmony. They contain Heraclitus. They are game. Life. They are static structures capable of lying, that we pursue with our eyes lines that, at the same time, could be found and closed, or lost in the infinite, of insinuating a movement that will not come. I say: his sculptures know what they have to tell because they breathe.