Estela Sàez vilanova: Good by(e) nest

Book / Catalogues BuyAtKlimt02 Monograph

Published: 22.12.2009

Editor:: Galerie Louise Smit

Text by:: Mònica Gaspar Mallol

Edited by:: Galerie Louise Smit

Edited at:: Amsterdam

Edited on:: 2009

Technical data:: 24 pages, soft cover, colour illustrations, text in English, 21 x 15 cm

Price:: from 15 €

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Inner pages

Catalogue published on the occasion of the exhibition of the new works of Estela Sáez at Galerie Louise Smit in november-december 2008.

Synaesthesia in Estela’s nest

Synaesthesia / noun a subjective sensation or image of a sense other than the one being stimulated, e.g. an impression of colour produced by a sound. The colours of a cherished, familiar landscape, somewhere in the foothills of the Pyrenees leading to the Mediterranean Sea. A blue air one could bite; a yellow light one could touch. Blue and yellow: primary colours, homesick colours.

The velvety touch of a slightly moist wooden spoon; the smell of a small leather pouch soaked by rancid wine; metal tools sprinkled with earth after working in the fields... Unusual sensations inspire new radical objects looking at the rural utensils of yesteryear. Silver that looks like leather, leather that looks like skin, the skin of a nest, the nest of oneself. A metaphor for the fragility and the need for shelter. From darning and stitching, seams and patches arise on the objects’ surface. Metal is treated like soft material. When Granny’s skills are adopted by the goldsmith, their senses are pleased and confused.

Bala de palla, a stack of straw, the navel of the world. Not in Delphos nor in Cusco, neither at the bottom of a Siberian mine; the navel of the world lays bare in the countryside of Lladó. Anchor or ballast, burden or polestar for the conceptual peasant. Do roots give wings?
Black, like traditional Catalan folk ceramics. And groc, yellow. A yellow buzz, a yellow taste. A little device to throw smoke into the beehive and, in doing so, picking up the honey. Cruel method, sweet result.

Burst ball, end of the game, childhood memories.
A ripe fruit, big as a fist. Seeds have left... to grow up somewhere else. Far away. Anew.
/ Mònica Gaspar

Edition of 1000 ex.