Bricked up doors, gagged houses, silenced buildings. The life that in other times simmered therein dissipated one fine day as the light of the sun fades every evening at dusk. Stories of life whose memory remains inside these abandoned walls. A testimony of so many lives and events, portraying scenes of both nightmares and love stories, between each of these now deteriorated walls. Ordinary lives, children who grew up, young people who fell in love and old people who died surrounded by these walls. Fortune penetrated through these doors while sorrow slipped out. Today these houses have been left behind. One day like any other, their inhabitants left, some nostalgic, others hopeful, either forced or yearning to go. They closed the door for the last time with a great sigh. Little by little, silence began to take over the abode, the rooms filled with calmness, the locks turned stiff. The air became rarefied and the energy stagnated. Hence, and over the years, what remained of life became diluted in a scattered and distant memory in the stillness of the deserted home.
Marginalized buildings that have been deprived of their convivial function. Doors unhinged with violence have turned into grimy brick walls. The house agonizes patiently, knowledgeable of its inevitable and heralded end. But in spite of everything, life refuses to give in to defeat. And today, a flower has arisen from its humiliated foundations. A flower that has given life back to a place where only memories remain.
An insolent and exultant flower as a last tribute. Like the flower of the Agave that rises arrogantly and powerfully with a glorious cry before its demise. An ephemeral flower that cries out in a last act of vindication. A modest army of flowers that faces the dehumanising judgment of capital. Beauty and art against speculation and destruction.
Ephemeral art for a dying city, a city sentenced to de-personalisation and uniformity. A flower that is both a farewell offering to the extinction of free creativity and a plea for the freedom of expression. A flower that, in the end, is little more than a representation of the nature which we have already uprooted from our streets but a flower that, even from a small cement crevice, will gain the momentum to shout out that wherever there are artists – art will come to the fore.
