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He is a restless person. Calm and balance disturb him a little. However, he is lonely. He never married or had children. And now, already retired, he has little to do. Maybe that explains his desire to collect chairs. Within the collection, his favorite is an uncomfortable chair, without back, cold, where the feet do not fit, and the body after 5 minutes asks for a change. But precisely its function does not matter to him. What is attractive is its modularity. With few tools he spends the day, remembering his childhood with a Lego, assembling, and disassembling the chair. A few years back, he moved to the country. Being retired in a city created in him too much anxiety. Now, surrounded by nature, seasons have become his watch, his time. Trees and plants became his companion; Especially, an old friend, a European oak. He is obsessed with the bark and its texture and loves the leaves that seem to be drawn by a kid. Moreover, his house is almost an alter ego of his personality. Inspired by Japanese windows, it is a labyrinth tailored for a restless person who seeks or, rather, needs, to be in constant motion. It is a pavilion full of rails where partitions, curtains, glass, and meshes slide daily trying to please their owner. His neurosis is mixed with a certain degree of dissatisfaction: too sunny, too cold, too windy, too warm, too dark… In his solitude, within this compulsive routine, he spends his days moving from one place to another, changing things around, or simply sitting on the floor, playing with his chair while the sun falls again.

*This novel Chapter is based on the Garden of Branching Paths by Jorge Luis Borges: How Stephen Albert lives?

Its red sand, its disproportionate length, makes this a dream place. And there, in that constantly changing nature, a house, an artifice, appears to pay homage to its surroundings. During these months of confinement, said house, said outside world of summer beaches, generates longing and nostalgia at the same time.

This is how this image represents said duality, said emotional limbo. In this way, the viewer of the image struggles between feeling hope for the arrival or nostalgia for the farewell. Finally, the house facing the sea reminds us of those sandcastles that we built when we were little. Those castles that evoke the fragility of our artifice, of our race, of our moment, because any night, with the moon as a witness, the sea will rise and erase our castles

 

Si usted era (o es) de los míos y al ver su celular un 11:11 Once-y-Once o un 20:20 detenían su mirada y celebraba internamente usted era de los míos. Durante más de un año tuve la incansable maña de sacar el celular para ver la hora. Y no voy a mentirles. Esto no era una obsesión por el tiempo. A decir verdad, la hora poco me importaba. Lo que realmente sentía era una obsesión por los números bonitos. Repeticiones, sucesiones, números primos, capicúas y absurdas alusiones a tragedias (el 09:11 obvio) empezaron a obsesionarme. Ya no importaba qué momento del día era pues sólo quería sacar el celular y encontrar un número que me tranquilizara y me alimentara el juego para poder seguir. ¿Cuál sería el próximo? ¿Con qué me sorprendería el “universo”? ojalá sea un capicúa impar.

Entonces, en un acto del cual me arrepiento profundamente, decidí registrar (congelar) aquellos números bonitos tomando pantallazos cada vez que me encontraba alguno. Pero como cuando éramos niños, cuando las reglas aparecieron el juego dejó de ser divertido. Puse un fondo negro creyendo que la colección iba a ser más bonita. La presión de la estética trajo de la mano la presión de la cantidad. ¿Cuántos llevo? O, aún mucho mucho peor, esperemos dos minutos y logro “capturar” el 18:18. Todo esto terminó por agotarme y ese amor u obsesión (no entremos en discusiones reales) se acabó. Ya no quiero sacar el celular en búsqueda de números. Ya no quiero un fondo negro.