Flowing figures made of smoke, ghosts in a ritual that emerge from the black and stare at us or embrace us in an immense instant. Stone crusts, the remains of a landslide, a fragile materiality that does not disappear but accompanies us. Elements of a composition whose title Piedra de sol (Sunstone) refers to that long poem by Octavio Paz, a poem so long that in its circularity it never ends, whose five hundred and eighty-four verses allude to the number of days that the planet Venus takes time to orbit — an eternal return to the same — around the Sun. Octavio Paz writes: to love is to battle, to open doors, / to cease to be a ghost with a number / forever in chains, forever condemned / by a faceless master; the world changes / if two look at each other and recognise each other / to love is to undress our names. And Piedra de sol is love, but love as liberation, as transformation, as vitality capable of shattering the most lasting of stones.

David Mayor