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He estado dispuesta a pagar cualquier precio con tal de poder trabajar. J Chicago.

Lo que quiero es difícil: la atmósfera de las lámparas, o la luz de la luna. Degas.

La luz es cosa muy delicada. Braque.

Yo soy una parte de todo aquello que he encontrado en mi camino. Tennyson.

/ I’ve been willing to pay any price to work. J Chicago.
What I want is difficult – the atmosphere of lamps and moonlight. Degas.
Light is a delicate thing. Braque.
I am a part of all that I have met. Tennyson.

Fue una noche. Y después de esa noche, decidí que mis plumas volarían. No más insomnio, no más tormento, simplemente soltar... quería hacer cosas mejores que las palabras que las nombran. Esa ilusión...
Mis sueños esclarecedores, mágicos y apasionados, se rieron de mí. Todavía faltaba mucho. Más de setecientos días pasaron. Espere con paciencia, aunque tal vez fue resignación. Al principio fueron huellas, materia, color, dibujos, ritmo, música. ¿O los sonidos recién llegaron mucho después? ¿Lo habré olvidado?

De algo no debo olvidarme: estoy terminando para poder empezar. En mis sueños las imágenes eran precisas y así me ordenaron. Apuntes.
Una mañana: sinapsis. Alivio

Otra mañana: sinapsis. Obsesión.

El proyecto era imposible salvo que La Luz entrara por mi ventana. El vuelo que buscaba precisaba facilitadores, y la irrupción del movimiento. Los facilita- dores fueron amables y sin darse cuenta muy eficaces. El proceso debía ser manual y sin ellos el camino hubiera sido imposible. Fueron generosos y también disfrutaron de la magia que ellos mismos crearon. El movimiento, el ritmo, la densidad del aire... ellos si qué deciden, ¡ja!

Aprendí a observarlos, me acerqué a ese silencio, y en ese momento llego la música. Me sumergí en los sentidos y de pronto aparecieron ellas bailando

Necesito desesperadamente compartir estas imágenes. Tal vez no son mias. Definitivamente no lo son.
El proceso fue nutritivo. Estoy agradecida.

/ It was one night. After that night, I decided my feathers would fly. No more sleeplessness, no more torment, simply letting go... I wanted to make things better than the words that name them. That illusion... My revealing dreams, magic and passionate, mocked me. There was still a long way to go. More than seven hundred days went by. I waited patiently, with resignation, perhaps. First, it was just a trace, matter, color, drawings, rhythm, music. Or did the sound arrive much later? Have I forgotten?

One thing I must remember: I am ending something for something to begin. The images in my dreams were precise and they organized me. Notes.

One morning: synapsis. Relief.

Another morning: synapsis. Obsession.

The project would have been impossible had not The Light come in through my window. The flight I sought required enablers and the emergence of movement. The enablers were kind and unwittingly effective. The process had to be manual and without them, the journey would have been impossible. They were generous and also enjoyed the magic they had themselves created. Movement, rhythm, the thickness of the air ... they are true decision makers, ha! I learnt to watch them, I got close to that quiet and then, the music arrived. I plunged into my senses and they danced into the picture.

I need to share these images badly. They might not even be mine. They are definitely not mine. The process was nourishing. I am thankful.


Constanza Oxenford / FARIAO


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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.

/ 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


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