Rodney Sanches
The rock and water, beside each other, bored by their predictable variability. The ground, saturated by water, yielding to the throb and the nuanced nature of the composition of it’s companion. The water, suspending bits of soil, rock, actually hiding most of it. Right at this point, the water seems to be in command, but in actual fact, the water sits on the even more ground, cold and distant soil and rock, that has avoided contact with light for so long that it has forgotten warmth.
The city, like a magnification of the mould that grows on its houses, is parasitically present via neglect and the lack of attention, activity and awareness. Many of the locals, not stuck to the ground, has rolled away under the tiny influence of a missing paternal, leaving their homes to the corrosive conversation of the soil and the water. Glass etched grey and fogged with condensation, punctured by the imagination starved, rock throwing youth, remaining.
They more than anything have grown in this place, unable to imagine other places, different that those before, these ones have sunk their all of their possible thoughts deep into this ground.