Past future. Present past.
Time, a fissure that beats, functions as an opening through which new moments constantly emerge, but it is also a chasm in which the passing of time takes shape. In this coming and going, its mere flow feeds the story with passages that do not manage to escape the present and futures that were precipitating the instant in the past. And although the frenetic becoming of our time seems to have definitively liquefied time, it is still indebted to memory and the future, inexact limits, after all, between which the now always moves. Half a century ago, the world speculated on the possible extension of its margins beyond those then known. The cosmos seemed to be the new frontier to reach, which even today, immersed in the digital era, we still yearn for. In the meantime, our own planet is predicting uncertain futures, a consequence of the voracious growth and overexploitation to which we subject it, we are determined to ignore the most basic requirements of coexistence, impossible without respect and knowledge of the other. Therefore, to forget is to ignore. The somber weight of injustice and unreason, sown by fire and force in the furrow of conscience, emerges perennially. Even so, the excesses of history and the uncontrolled desire to possess and not to understand, continue to pitifully build our today, erecting incomprehensible barbed wire fences before the possibility of a better tomorrow. And in spite of everything, that beat of time, which capriciously weaves together future, past and present, collected in the inexact diary written by the look, the thought or the form, manages to awaken the dream of better dawns, or at least to imagine the shelter of a better tomorrow. At least imagine possible shelters, like the warmth of an ancient enamel set in the mirror of its steel shield.