This message has a tone slightly different than others previously sent to this list of contacts of Selecto–Planta Baja. What is different in this one is that I’m speaking in the first person of the singular, to tell you something not only about a show made by an artist, an artist invited by this small art space to produce a show, but more about the guy who writes the invitations you usually receive from Selecto, a guy named Víctor Albarracín Llanos, who, by chance, is the artist invited to have a show at this small art space, Selecto, where he usually writes the invitations to the events presented at the venue.
Excuse me for this confusing introduction, it’s due to the confusion between the artist, the promoter and the institution that organizes this show. What I’m trying to say is that, at certain point, when you start using different voices and, suddenly, all of them collide together when there’s a cumbersome situation that makes you reveal the apparatus behind your supposedly transparent voice-off, then the transparency becomes cacophony, and the eloquence is transformed in hesitation.
I have to say that, yes, my trembling voice is right now possessed by distorsion, so my words are confusing, since I don’t know what to write about this show in order to convince you to go to this place where I probably convinced some of you to go before.
On the other hand, believe me, I’m sad. I’m sad because I’m leaving this place that was home and jungle for me during the past two years. As an artist, I have been thinking about the sadness to leave, and that’s something that I started exploring right after I arrived to Los Angeles. So it’s kinda curious that I arrived with the feeling to be leaving, but now that I’m leaving I don’t feel like I’m arriving. Anyway, I’m sad to leave, and I’m mad to leave too. So this anger won’t let me say goodbye in a beautiful way, as I’m supposed to do it as an artist does.
But listen, listen, listen. Listen to me, please: I’m having this show tonight. It’s Friday, May 29th, 2015. In ten days I won’t be here anymore. I’m making this show about swans, about singing about swans, about leaving and singing before is over, as swans do. I’m making this show about having several voices, all of them out of tune, and their dissonance is looking for a bit of beauty without a chance to grasp even a crumble.
I’ve just learned a word: rigmarole. I feel this farewell as a rigmarole of things that I’m trying to put together here for you without a little room to do it. So, knowing that I will not be able to convince you to come, I only can say, please, close your eyes and follow the horrible trumpeting of this swan’s voice calling you to meet and say goodbye.
The show will open at 6 pm, and will close at 9 pm. Towards the end, I would like to play my cacophony for you. It’s going to be noisy. You’re welcomed to bring ear plugs. You’re also welcomed to bring something to drink, and you’re for sure welcomed to buy one of the last copies of the small first edition of my book (books are highly discouraged for migratory birds). But even more than that, you’re really welcomed to come and share the duckness of this swanlessness.
Farewell so close,
Víctor Albarracín Llanos