They told me, that an image Is always worth much more Than a thousand words and it’s true That’s why I’m going to draw you

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At the Tiro al Blanco Gallery, Héctor Jiménez Castillo and Edgar Cobián have crafted an exhibition where images breathe, unfold, and engage in dialogue. Me saco las pestañas [I Pull Out My Eyelashes], the title of this joint show, functions as a laboratory in which each added piece challenges the next, generating a history of gestures within the space and proposing a transformation of the original ideas. This project is not merely a formal exploration but a questioning of the boundaries between the personal, the authorial, and the collaborative.

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I walk through Narvarte to meet Valentina at her studio, but find her at the corner, buying coffee and an apple braid. It's a November Thursday, and she's wearing a pink wool skirt. Once inside, she lights a cigarette, using a seashell as an ashtray.

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David Bowie's "Deranged" plays as you enter the small exhibition room at CROMA, where Pilar Córdoba Longar’s five-piece collection, Una rosa en la oscuridad [A Rose in the Dark], is on display. Her recent work features elements alluding to automotive and highway themes, presented in cross-stitch embroidery, gridded fabrics, chrome license plate frames, black bases, and bright green lines. As I continue to gaze at the black fabric of the embroideries in Una rosa en la oscuridad, No paramos de matarnos and Alejas [A Rose in the Dark, We Never Stop Killing Ourselves, and You Drift Away], I am engulfed by a cyclical sense of confusion, memory, and phantom-like imagery, reminiscent of the greasy hands on a yellow silk dress from Lost Highway (Lynch, D. 1997). I feel the presence of the highway, as in the film’s opening and closing sequences, where night merges sky and asphalt. Yet there is also softness—the tension of fabric against the sharp chrome frame—recalling childhood memories of sitting in the foam-filled, fabric-upholstered backseat of a family car. There’s something here beyond the toxic masculinity of a Lynchian leather interior. The piece El lugar en mi mente que todavía no es memoria [The Place in My Mind That Hasn’t Yet Become Memory] condenses this feeling in its title: the liminal space between ‘now’ and ‘what was,’* the tension in which we exist.

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