OPENING SEPTEMBER 14TH

Before the form, I hear lamentations.

2025 images of soil, stems, petals, feathers, scales, hair, eyes, and mouths at the limits of possibility. A slow-moving storm near that black cloud that drowned out the words.

When time goes wrong, I can feel the metamorphosis of frustrations. When time goes wrong, when the compass is lost in a blank map, we have reached the point where listening unfolds. Sharp blows, rough throats, sustained songs, rolling water and rushing breaths.

I tell and sing of the elements that give substance to each shiver that makes matter resonate, I recount and sing the elements that give substance to each thrill that makes matter resonate, I observe the sounds of barking, crying, and lamenting.

Tiresome dissident curves, they listen to sighs with their eyes closed.
I wonder when a sound becomes a complaint.

Can a complaint be appeased?

Is silence a form of complaint?

Is laughter a process of complaint or the threshold of its dematerialization?

What do the winds do to accompany complaints?

There are herbs that provide relief and galaxies that offer placebos. Chamomile for anger, mint to soothe silent throats, thyme to cleanse and clear, rosemary to broaden horizons.

The earth holds the key in its plants and roots, multiplying to soothe and accompany all organisms and their deep voices.

We only regret what does not return; we regret and cry out for the transformation of a form that has not yet arrived.

I will seek the last note on the line where I can improvise more moving modes.

Marina De Caro, 2025