Juan Andres Videla 

The visible world whispers to us always something about the invisible.  A painting is one of the territories where such allusion develops.  On the surface of the canvas, the artist displays the uncertain map of an undiscovered country, appealing to an awkward topographical system, and we fee that we are allowed to be intruders in a strange land, only if we are capable enough to accept that the road maps for the visit are still unknown, and that perhaps would remain unknown forever.

My blindness is my consciousness, my consciousness is my blindness.
My eloquence is my muteness, my muteness is my eloquence.
My light is my shadow, my shadow my light.

We wander through the painting guided by a mimisguided hand, and we constantly feel that this apparent organization of color and space, lines and planes, signs and figures, is nothing but a mirage, a sensorial delusion devised to evade us with the dark seduction of its fugitive, deceptive certainties.

In front of me, behind me, ahead of me, around me is wa visible silence, an infinite pond, a smoky glass, a liquid skin.  The eyes have hands and everything they touch is out of reach.  The hands have eyes and everything they see is out of touch.  A sound in the back of the head drops floating notes that I see under the shape of a body built with different materials.  

The artist writes on the water.  The viewer drinks it, and as he drinks the water becomes air, the meaning becomes void, the taste becomes thirst.  A secret thread runs through the core of different pieces like a persistent sound played by an orchestra of ghosts; like the silent echoes the swimmer perceived when floating motionless on the water surface.  Human shapes are less and more than human; star maps are disguised as old, stained, wasted carpets; letters and marks and spots and dots pose as constellations of dreamlike skies, that suddenly turn into the curtain that cover the stage of the theater of cultural debris.

Mind over matter.  Matter over mind.
Ways of knowledge.  Ways of ignorance.
To name things that shall never have a name.  
To number unmeasurable quantities.
ThereÕs a floor for the steps of your gaze.
ThereÕs a surface for the mark of my instruments.  
Suddenly, the floor vanishes.
The  surface fades away.
We both fall under the spell of this meaningful, 
although senseless, fleeting, evanescent communion.
 

Images...

"RED THRONE"	"FLOATING MAN"
"Dos Corozons"	"EXERCISE OF THE ARTIST 4"