Skirting the limits, going around and overcoming them, finding the interstices and the breaking points, putting your fingers into the cracks, perforate the surfaces and touch cavities, pushing branches aside with your hands, finding the clearings in the forest and the conflict areas, bringing the experience and the disclosure from contemporary art (…)
More than a century ago, around 1915, the Russian writer and literary critic Viktor Shklovsky wrote down these reflections in black and white. If someone read them and then went to visit “Light. The Shadow of Time” by Amparo Sard, they could think that the author wrote those words purposely for this exhibition (…)
What exactly can be understood by the word “limit”, that term whose diversity of meanings is so irreducibly complex? Why have elusive underlying concepts always played such a key role in philosophical speculation, intercepting its reflections on the passage of time, experience, knowledge and, more generally, human existence itself? (…)
No longer is there any plank to cling onto in the storm following the shipwreck, and neither do we have the (philosophical) authority to look down from high temples upon the world’s general misfortunes. The melancholic’s aristocratic route is literally paved with dizzying tourists trying to see what is on the schedule. The unease, anxiety and incapacity to face up to the trauma have been badly surmounted and camouflaged with a mobilization that we know to be “all-inclusive” (…)
Il deserto dell’artista è il giardino geometrico della visione,depurato da ogni ostacolo e portato nella condizione orizzontale di una immagine lampante, esposta fino al limite dell’impietosa esibizione. Esso implica un piano ampio per la visione, da cui è possibile spaziare impunemente con lo sguardo, fino a sorvegliare i confini ultimi, l’orizzonte oltre cui tramonta il sole e inizia il mare verticale del nulla, dove l’occhio affonda senza riuscire più a carpire altre notizie (…)
Amparo Sard is a navigator who steers her ship through those perilous straits that separate pleasure and pain, the beautiful and the sinister, the real and the surreal. Among her countless seafaring predecessors is Ulysses, who braved the deadly monsters known as Scylla and Charybdis in pursuit of his homeward quest. The former, a many-headed creature rooted to the bottom of the sea, devoured sailors who passed too near, while the giant mouth of Charybdis opened at intervals to create a powerful whirlpool (…)
Amparo Sard is a navigator who steers her ship through those perilous straits that separate pleasure and pain, the beautiful and the sinister, the real and the surreal. Among her countless seafaring predecessors is Ulysses, who braved the deadly monsters known as Scylla and Charybdis in pursuit of his homeward quest. The former, a many-headed creature rooted to the bottom of the sea, devoured sailors who passed too near, while the giant mouth of Charybdis opened at intervals to create a powerful whirlpool (…)
Al cabo, toda la producción de Amparo Sard podría ser entendida bajo el signo del dibujo, a pesar de lo poco convencionales que resultan sus variadas formulaciones, que incluyen la instalación, la performance, el vídeo y, por supuesto, esos papeles suyos tan característicos, donde la imagen emerge a la superficie y se hace visible a partir solamente de la punción del papel —sin ningún otro elemento gráfico añadido—, perforado cientos, miles de veces con agujas o puntas hasta abullonarlo y conferirle el aspecto de un bajorrelieve (…)
Amparo Sard ha elegido un insecto fastidioso, impertinente y omnipresente para jugar un partido visual con las reglas de lo social, esas reglas que se imponen como opresión de las identidades y que muy a menudo activan la pérdida. La mosca es el protagonista absoluto de sus últimos trabajos y se presenta en el centro de acciones cotidianas que atraviesan objetos, espacios y lugares de condiciones oníricas (…)
A las niñas nos ponían los domingos las bragas de perlé. Nos gustaban porque eran blancas, como de princesa, y llevaban lazos. Las odiábamos porque el hilo durísimo de sus primorosos dibujos se clavaba en la carne, dejándonos tatuados cientos de agujeros que tardaban horas en borrarse. Para presumir hay que sufrir; se ha dicho siempre. Belleza y dolor son dos caras de la misma moneda. En el esfuerzo de ser personas completas podemos perder alguno de nuestros miembros. Para crear debemos convertir la materia en hueco (…)