Tú que me miras, ¿qué lees?
(You who look at me, what do you read?)

Inscription on a lintel of a façade, Ribera del Duero.

«Alfanhui wouldn’t have been able to say if in his eyes there was a gloomy solitude and in his ears a fathomless silence, because this music and these colours came from the other part, from where the knowledge of things never comes; transposed the first day, behind the last wall of memory, where the other memory begins: the huge memory of the unknown things.»

Sánchez Ferlosio, Rafael, and Ruth M. Danald. 1964. An English translation of the Spanish novel Industrias y andanzas de Alfanhui [The projects and wanderings of Alfanhui] with a critical introduction.

You are entering an old attic in an - much older than you - house. Right before gripping the door handle, you look through the keyhole in an attempt to decipher those shapes lying still on the other side of the door. Seldom visited, this attic floats on top of the house activities and rhythms, however remaining secluded, at a close distance. The attic is the never-ending womb for things to await a rebirth: either to be thrown into a new life or to be thrown away, this time for good. Such is the logic of the attic: a mere gigantic carpet for old things, waiting to be trapped either in dust, or in time.

In a sense, *Cielo y sol dorado de la tarde (*The Sky and Golden Siesta Sun) weaves at the means and ornamentation of vernacular architecture of Castilian family houses: perhaps this space you are entering host a myriad of debris and traces of certain human activities. The exhibition space being a body, hosting a list reading: pigments and grubby hands, distracted notations, unfired clay and chicken wire, plaster and jute, sacks and wood, pencil, steel: escutcheons, façades, fragmented leftovers.

Imagination is a funny thing: it has a retrograde vector in it, a component rooted both in subjective memory and recollection.The closer one gets to its spring, to its source, -to infancy- the more distorted, altered and deluded the recollection. To enter and navigate a space that functions both as diagram and model, plagued with visions as perhaps an attic, filled with motionless quasi-memories: a stunning siesta of colourful sounds from which to awake in high spirits, renewed.

You are entering an attic, thinking forward whilst looking back. Have a last glance just before leaving the long siesta of infancy, the old house with its nooks and crannies, the idea of the countryside familiar house.

You are entering a draft, woven with old ideas and new sincere lies.