Every month Marginalia invites an artist, curator or project to provide a series of images that will serve as the background of Terremoto, in relation to their practice and current interests. At the end of each month, the whole series of images is unveiled. Here is the selection of May of 2019.
Seeing the scar of a tattoo erased on the arm of a Honduran boy crossing Tapachula, the wreaths of flowers watching over the dead women from the collapsed maquila in Chimalpopoca street, or the news of the pre-Hispanic burial discovered in Tetecolala, Morelos, that which was confused with a narcofosa; one can have the ominous feeling of contemplating the whole history of this country happening simultaneously, condensed in gestures and moments that manifest themselves at the margins of time.
Hidden beneath the earth of this region that is agitated and sinking along with its revolutions, there is a common history that remains visible in the stature, language and skin color of the people who inhabit it. To know the history of Latin America is to recognize itself as part of a permanent struggle between invisible forces, enormous compared to the scale of our individualities. According to the morning climate, the quality of the sleep obtained and the general mood with which it dawns, this understanding can resonate with us for its dignity and pride, or assume with the oppression of a sentence: while we are alive, there will be no rest.
Today it was cloudy, and the headlines of the newspaper weigh as much as the five tons of the Bendegó meteorite, the rock of Sisyphus in our tropical imaginaries, standing intact among the ashes and rubble of the National Museum of Brazil. By force of habit, we confuse with smog the dark clouds of the looming storm, and we advance stunned by the signs of the inevitable, while by the streets and squares descend the tributaries of streams long asleep. Very late we realize that we should have left home long ago. We rush to gather our most precious belongings, knowing that, for every photo, letter, document or treasured journal, many more memories will be lost underwater.
The karma of the story that turned into an overflowed river, drags us all and everything. The speed of its waters suffocates us, taking away the necessary breath to reach the shore. However, between the foam of the waves, the sediments that irritate our eyes and the branches torn from the jacarandas, we can distinguish that what at one time seemed to us the future, was only the reflection of our unresolved past repeating itself, and again, always in front, behind and with us.
We stop the kicking and, little by little, we accept the flow of circumstances. Gone was the submerged city and with it, the subterranean drag of that ground in which even pyramids, cathedrals and airports were buried. We no longer feel the current, we are in the open sea. We start swimming.