The Clay That Wanted to Hurt
There are works made with the hands, and others made with the wound. This one belongs to the latter. Julio, perhaps tired of watching the world dismember itself with diplomatic grace, decided to build his own corpse: one of clay—soft, imperfect, made to break. He never fired it. He let it live—and therefore die—in slow motion.
For months, the piece cracked as if the planet’s pain had seeped through its pores. The fissures were letters without sender; the fractures, petrified prayers. Until one day—when there was nothing left to expect—the artist decided to complete the sculpture’s destiny: he tortured it. He tore off its fingers with the precision of a weary god. He crushed its teeth, one by one, with the tenderness of someone who has finally accepted that love and violence grow from the same root.
The final act was not destruction, but a reverse birth. The clay, reduced to debris, became earth again—sad earth, yes, but fertile.