J Rivera Pansa
Imagers

June 7 - July 20, 2024
Reception: Friday, June 7, 5:00 -8:00 p.m.

Image screenshot of a phone camera roll documenting sunsets, skylines, flight and travel views, and studio documentation. Image courtesy of the artist.

Document of the Imagers

For Imagers from the studio.

 

Fortified in brief, in checkered spacings,

 

reveals of foundations in constant retour. Enlarged in specified. Expansive slits for respites of a single image.

 

Particulates bending forward its own time. Aggregates in containers of hard water.

           

Leavened fogs of the infinite.

entities from free forming land, unbound by the lines.

Suturing scars dotted in cable besides.

 

                        transmissions farred from the takes. In center by hallowed beings

Notoriety claims vessels crackling under the heat pounding.

 

Entirely up to you in place of the cyclitudes,

            entry points fingering outposts clear.

 

La red is the way to paths of sharp (re)turns. In search of something to pursue. I can feel the ways my body wants to divide, the way the split of flow finds its way as it descends slowing to a delta. There I rage downwards rapidly, deepening the gorge I can’t swim in. I never really learned how to swim. I learned stillness with flow; how to float, and I could only point myself upward towards the sky.

How the water moves fast enough so the dew can hold out its hand to grip the atmosphere above it, as if to say, “I am not earth, let me into all of you.” And so trustingly the sky gave way to let the water separate itself to venture upwards.

Only to be blinded by the sun it didn’t see before …. protected by the valley its own body forged years ago. It seeks refuge in the haze of a cloud, (another of its own body). I am veracious, but I am small, I have been broken and remade. I meet myself in corners. I left only to be found by that same water I parted with.

I wail behind the shroud of the grey. Streaking loudly above a land-space. Wanting to pull myself down to the ground, grasping at whatever I could. My cries at intervals echoed back to me before I even grazed the soil.