Who is he, the one who animates the rhythm of silence?
Is it I who, upon entering this room, disturb — or perhaps extend — the order of this arrangement?
I would not wish to offend by using this term, but your title suggests to me a visual arrangement of sounds and absences of sound.
And I begin to see.
What do I see?
Over there, those monumental women, suspended in their gestures. They remind me that I no longer know — no longer know how to name the dances of my own people.
And here, figures that bring me back to the fact that my body is still the vessel of a memory I am not sure I want to claim.
There too, those shelters — quiet, almost discreet — holding the trace of those I should call mine, yet about whom I know so little.
A space of rhythms and silences. A space dense with layers, where a self grapples with a history it keeps resisting.
A self reluctant to face itself. A self that slowly makes room for another.
Rhythms of traces — multiple. Slow rhythms, shorter ones.
So let us give way to the artist’s hand that shapes this composition. It is no longer merely an arrangement — it unfolds more like a score.
I was mistaken at first; I see that now.
In the unfolding of this work, you allowed me the space for a quiet emancipation. In the slowness of my movement through the room, something within me found a threshold — a ground marked by the layered remains of those who came before.
