In the twenty-sixth canto of the Inferno, of the Divine Comedy, Dante speaks of the tiny lights that, unlike the great lights that shine in the sublime circles of Paradise, blink uncertainly, submerged in an abysmal darkness. At the same time, Pliny the Elder was concerned about the existence of a flying insect called pyrallis or pyrocoton, which could only fly in the middle of the fire: “as long as it manages to stay in the fire, it can fly; if his flight carries him too far from the fire, he dies.”

Like small sparkling strands of colour, Constanza Oxenford's feathery faerie creatures put on the silent spectacle of a simulacrum of fireflies, with their dynamic windy aerial course in the vast, bottomless blackness of the photographic plane. The recognizable shapes of the feathers, sometimes more explicit, sometimes more doubtful, like the Dantesque luminaries, also dispute the dramatic zenith of light as a symbolic category, not from the mythical lightning but confined to the minor vibration, abbreviated, almost close at hand, delicate, domestic. And just as that insect kept Plinio awake because of his paradoxical survival in the middle of a fire that would be lethal to anyone, but not to him, these hairy, angelic devil's slimes crackle breathing the empirical ardor invented by Oxenford in a physical relationship between action manual, the mechanical device and the optical register.

Both in the variants of rhythmic constellations, where the black box of the plane-support wants to become scenographically nocturnal, and in those where the winged protagonists are circumscribed to a more reduced choreography, or there  where they are isolated and each one seems adorned for the minute detail of the macro lens, the system that Oxenford unfolds can be seen as an essay in minimalist abstraction and iconographic citation, but also as a thoughtful technical investigation into the material or illusory entity of movement. and its metaphorical resonances.

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/ In his Inferno, Canto XXVI, Dante describes the minute fireflies that light the abysmal chasm with their wavering flame, unlike the splendid luminaries that shine on the sublime circles of Paradise. And thus, as well, did Pliny the Elder fret at the existence of a flying insect called pyrallis or pyrausta that could only fly amidst fire: “So long as it remains in the fire it will live, but if it comes out and flies a little distance from it, it will instantly die.”

Resembling sparkling strands of color, Constanza's feathered fairies stage a silent show; lightning bugs traversing the yawning blackness of the shot on airy wings. The shapes, more or less feather-like, much like Dante's lights vie for the dramatic zenith of the light. The symbol emerges, not from mythical bolt but bound within a lower frequency, reduced, almost enough to touch, delicate and subdued. Much like the insect that troubled Pliny with its disregard for the deadliness of flames, the hairy, floating threads of web crackle in the burning experiment devised by Oxenford from the relationship between manual act, mechanical object and visual record.

In its rhythmic constellations, set against the staged nocturnal backdrop as well as in those where the winged protagonists are circumscribed to a limited choreography. Or when, isolated, each appears decked out for the scrutiny of macro lens, the system unfolded by Oxenford might be viewed as an essay of minimalist abstraction and iconographic, as well as profound technical inquiry into the material or deceptive nature of movement and its metaphoric echoes.

​ Eduardo Stupia