"How can we ask Time to leave us just
One soft memory that records echoes,
Odours, laughter, the painful intuition
Of the tremor we feel like a passing god.."
I remember. I went. Aromas. A slight touch. That hand. Those afternoons of radio and roast chestnuts when my grandparents came and please, please do that trick again. Flashes of a red swing and a patio and someone crying in the distance. The sound of lukewarm water in the bathtub. That hand again. You. I remember.
Every memory conceals an act of treason as well an intimate conquest. Because to a certain extent, although never faithful, we are mainly what we remember: an elusive instant made partially of what we were and partially of what we will be. We are tightrope walkers, rowers on that dark sea of blurred memories, latching on to a few boards that keep us from going down in a desperate attempt to avoid falling into the abyss of time. And when memory is violated we fall and fall in a one-way journey. We fall…
Juan Santos tiptoes into the quicksand of memory and its loss, of possession and deprivation, in a delicate exercise of contained emotion that does not leave us indifferent because it touches something found very deep inside us. Word and image. Image and word, tools that are always present in his work and that here take another step forward to caress and squeeze that organ made of blood and memories that we call a heart.
A telephone rings and when I go to pick it up, there is no one there. That hand. You. I remember …