Winter arrives and goes stumbling; it penetrates our lives with autumn blows and fades with small spring times that surround it until it extinguishes its last trace.
Winter is a lapse, a truce that invites recollection. It is when the protective inner warmth contrasts with the harshness that invades the environment. We are well behind some crystals that, in addition to protecting us, show us everything that happens outside, in the immediate space.
Rest and introspection are opposed and complemented, with a need for almost visceral exploration that pushes us to rediscover those everyday spaces that have now mutated, either by the transparency of the air and the scarcity of the foliage as by the impassive appearance of a cloak frozen. It is in this second scenario where winter falls on us, in the form of whimsical bits, and brings us the transforming snow, which uniforms, covers, simplifies and vanishes what it will have to return.
Advancing in this new world is the affirmation of the step in the form of a footprint; the mark par excellence on an infinite meld, free, beautiful, and frank. Walking through the snow is moving with ephemeral trail. The time, in the form of thaw, will take care of erasing all written trips.
There is nothing more beautiful than what vanishes before our eyes *
"Maybe last winter ..." wants to emphasize this time of winter incursion, in this controlled flight of a comfort that often conditions us. To move through the winter landscape is to invade the invaded, sometimes to re-explore the known and discover new places without being premiered, in an alliance between uncertainty and the sensation of the unpublished. The triptych format, on the other hand, is a basic and natural way of serialization and, at the same time, it shows us the fragmented vision from the cracked windows when the exterior cold is observed in the shelter of its crudeness.
The winter ends again, another winter out of time, more opaque, and warns us that perhaps these are the latest daring prints, eager for knowledge. Under the white mantle the devastated forest will emerge; will show us new spaces and new springs. New places where possibly the last free men will live.
*Naomi Kawase “Hacia la luz”, 2017