MARGARITA GARCIA FAURE

I wake up to the sounds of Adri, and the little light on the orange table calls me to get up in the lonely dawn. She walks outside, tells me that it’s cloudy, that it snowed. She’ll be out walking… I get up. The silence, the darkness of the boarded-up windows, and the calm help me start the day.

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SOUTH SOUTH SOUTH SOUTH SOUTH SOUTH SOUTH SOUTH
Ice I seek connection with the great spirit.
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A collection of rags
and draw the universe.
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I encountered the Master; he took me to an ice cave; we saw penguins. We sat down in it and looked at a diamond, its layers dropping until nothing was left. Emptiness: that’s what this is all about, I think.
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The weight of the cycles, we are all everything.
DEATH, PAINTING, EARTH, A BEING, LIGHT BODY, BRUSHSTROKES, WHY FLY?
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May the wind paint,
May the desert paint,
May the river paint.
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PRESENCE, that is what Antarctica asked of me.
ADVENT, that is what the desert told me.

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Shadows that vanish in time,
chasing ghosts, do they have a shape?
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Let the precision of the instant surface.
Fall begins today, says Adri, when she wakes up.
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The desert is unfathomable.
It can be inhabited, but not understood or grasped.
It tells great truths and laughs copiously. The desert opens and cleanses.
Mexico provides training in uncertainty.
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I barely think, I am present,
I live and I am swept away by emotion.
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(Absence not only stills,
but also baptizes, says Hugo Mujica.)
The absence in my paintings here,
absence of forms,
silence of intention.
Could that bring not only emptiness,
angst before nothingness,
silence in paintings,
but also usher in a new process?

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A leap into the unknown.
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Golden stone: it’s as if I had painted a cave.
Interior or surface?
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From light to darkness through the quick wind of the Patagonian desert on a day of ice. “Hope Bay,” our destination, was replaced by “Deception Station.”
A very hot stream of air blows. Wind has blown since very early, sheer earth in motion. I am going to burst small pieces of solid tar.
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Liquid and solid at once,
variations in glean:
gold, silver, copper,
water, black and luminous cave.
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There I go, the noise is loud, intense, like a chainsaw.
Wolf, teacher, bear, condor, let’s go.

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A man spoke to me of nature, of how it paints through me, of spirits, of a language, of something to discern. It was lovely. I’m going to sleep and summon my book.
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Our destination: deception.
Come apart, the only option is total commitment.
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Black Antarctica: I don’t know what to paint.
All that comes out is white backgrounds, I am empty.
I’m not sure what I am doing, but I do it.
That’s the only thing that can be done with deception.
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Furs and scales,
presentation of colors,
forms barely present. TODAY.
Paint just the trace,
just the gesture,
layers of colors,
buildup of thick matter.
What is thickness?
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Is the work the register of the invisible?

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Chaco breathes,
I appear.
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I dreamed about horses all night long.
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End beginning.
End beginning.
End beginning.
End beginning.
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She speaks of carrying. My steps are not the ones in motion.
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SAILBOATS FLOW DOWN THE RIVER.
STILL INVISIBLE.
KITCHEN.
SCENT.
SMELLS OF THE MAMORÉ RIVER.
ABUBUYA.
A THOUSAND SHEETS OF PAINTING.
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What if I work on what gets away?
The canvas is bare, remember alchemy.

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I sit down on the canvas, everything begins.
Being in painting.
Being in the jungle.
Being in life.
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Everything looks black, but underneath that blackness there is a white glacier and underneath that, lava…very strange. The strange energy of what’s covered up.
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Today we found a magical place.
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A girl asks, “Is it a map?” I smile and together we paint the map. Converse in color, within color, within the bush, within dialogue.

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If the act of painting is washed away, is the act itself all that is left?
Is a painting made by a river that paints without intending to paint an artistic act?
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What is looking?
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Look far, look close, look carefully, look in motion, look without looking, look while spinning, look with eyes wide open, or almost in dreams. Just look, thank you.
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A worn white sheet hangs from one bed to another, white and pierced, torn, it falls on a cold tile floor. Empty air, coated in dust, is blown by the wind in the hope of crossing. A canvas folded in on itself, covering itself over.
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And why wash painting?
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THE CANVAS IS THROUGH AND IT FLUTTERS IN THE WIND.
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It hangs, it folds, it wrinkles.
It falls diagonally, it comes loose and encroaches.
It stops before it arrives, it bends, it breaks, it sticks to the wall, it flutters.
A fold lights up, it ventures into the desert.
A wrinkle darkens, the wind is folded.
It sticks and comes loose, falls, hovers, weighs down, and reflects.

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Cook emptiness.
Cook color.
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Do I paint what I see or what I don’t see? Do I paint anything?
Traces that no longer move are called painting.
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Everything in the desert has rough skin. Yellow flowers, red thorns, yellowish thorns, dry grays. Intense purple flower, biznagas, plants that sprout up between stones. Miners.
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When Amazonian photos speak, what death do they speak of?
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Forms and actions both high-pitched and low-pitched, black and white; times of silence and continuous sound, dregs and abstraction that floods a space. It floods and perspires the most intense heat I have ever known. Where everything brews, the mud with Isabel and her eyes.
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Something unknown to me, is in the water. On the deck of the boat, a thousand sheets of painting are brewing.

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Just paint a painting so that she might paint a painting.
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