La casa de citas

Flying souls, appropriated bodies, let's talk about those, whether they are alive, dead, dislocated, eroticized, fabricated or invented. We enter the intimacy of La casa de las citas [The house of dates] where they affirm their committed tendencies. It is a deconstruction of feelings, the spirits undress and dance, such as the famous cabaret striptease where the action of removing, reveals.

Daphne Lyon with her monumental work, a veil of six meters, sets the versatile galaxy in which we are going to let ourselves flow; we dive into a cozy atmosphere, the patio's natural light inhabits the space, this diffused light softly reveals the lines and shades of the works of art, revealing their generous curves. Maria Cerdá Acebrón bronzed the skin of the paper until it roasted, a record of a before and after between life and death. We oscillate between antonyms, one calling the other. The duo Hasanlu Armastajad (Hasanlu Amantes)—composed by Merike Estna and Jaime Lobato Cardoso—gravel stones where time has no more measure, the tomb becomes a joy to the future, a passage to the next. Those portals make transports us to worlds beyond. We are in an unknown land. Olga Cerksova's intertwined landscapes made of roots, valves and volcanoes, mirages where lines confuse our gaze. The pastel bodies of Gwladys Alonzo stand firm. Ana Segovia with an obscure dinner, lets humanoids argue. The stage designer Fabiola Torres-Algaza frames and notes the subtlety where not all dialogues end in agreement. This dive will not leave you impassive like a marble stone.  Careful! Watch out!  Lucía Vidales took them out of the bodies of indefinite occupants, in carnal paintings. The art of cutting, here, nobody is afraid of it. Lucile Littot's divas lose their heads as always. Reneta Peirera Lima is dismembered and our feet end up in her mouth. Carlos Rodríguez offers us more candy to place under our teeth. A volatile candy cane or mechanical wave, Martin Levêque spins the lines to the sound fo a robotic music. The squalls rise, Fernanda Barreto moves us like the wind through her own codes. Bernardita Bertelsenle gives shine to the plastic while the planet regurgitates it. Mateo Pizzaro's political fables are fulfilled through obsessive drawings. The social trauma burps us in the face, Adela Goldbard tears out the wall, almost explodes the house, we reach the limit of uncontrol.

A house is never quiet...

— The Bob Space

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