GABRIELLA GARCIA ANTES DE SERMOS IMAGEM FOMOS NOME

14 September - 14 October 2025 Galleria SARP

The Stone and History

I have talked a lot about this with Gabriella, about how from fear comes the possibility of matter, how often the form is inseparable from History or from the responsibilities of the gesture, or regarding how time operates, the lapse, present in the way of our seconds, and in those where materials respect each other. Gabriella looked at Linguaglossa through the scope of a canvas, wandered through the way History and its agents built that space, understanding the possibility of materialization that could arise from there.
I don’t know if anyone has ever asked you, but do you believe in the way History moves through images? How angels and saints fall? How their legs embrace the ore? How marble supports their backs? Respect for the fauna that sprouts through the weave, here assimilated in layers, superimposed on two-colored backgrounds that redesign landscape and the possibility of composition, the ways in which meadows and tones can be diluted through a palette, and the image becomes half presence, half delirium: natural presence made of dream and horizon. Poultices like teeth that present themselves before the red, like a smile that invites us to look at the details of history more attentively; like an egg that cracks, and with its yolk made germ, presents to us in the
dilution of the golden, and in the birth of an element that, from light tones, refers to all colors, the incredible capacity of the image through History to have afterlife, in the manner of Warburg.
Bibi told me yesterday that there are two types of fear: She stopped leafing through the compendium of thirteen hundred somewhere near eight hundred and fifty-nine, and we got lost thinking about all the cities, flowers, animals, in short, everything turned into words there turned into points. A flock of wool birds passed quickly through our heads, a jacquard alligator, from post one to post six of Copacabana, made of string. We asked ourselves how much it would weigh, and if it would be capable of swallowing the sea.
A wind passes and tears our clothes, their weaves now no longer made of fabric and it is already five o’clock in the afternoon on some childhood Sunday. I close my eyes and look at the sun, and the color of the light filtered through my closed eyelids is the only one I don’t remember anyone ever saying the name of. I finish writing this text looking out the window, where I see the waning moon, trees, Guanabara: Or about how your respect caresses History.