We start a new year, we resume old dreams

We start a new year, we resume old dreams

Tomorrow Friday we will open an exhibition, we will return to the groove of what is normally interpreted as culture, as an expression that someone raises to explain their things to others: their gaze, their longings, their delusions or their nightmares. Art on canvas, on paper, poetry, oral or recorded, the image... it was one of our original reasons, a supposed prop that later became fictitious, we rarely found the answer we were looking for, we were surely wrong, there too, it fell under its own weight. Now a crack opened, Paco took Bea, Bea to Maria, Maria to David... who knows who will come with him?

Fifteen years is already a long time, we have all changed a lot in that time, much more than the world that surrounds and welcomes us. Fifteen years ago we felt that we needed, like water, to look towards our land, towards the products it offers us, towards our countryside and our people. We felt it as we do, yes, and at that time we were snobs with capricious ideas who were tolerated because we didn't make anyone (almost no one) look bad, now also: we are the outmoded avant-garde. Now it would be said that we have gained notoriety, we are no longer green dogs, the chants we say can now be heard in the conventional media, nothing transgressive or antagonistic, nothing collapseist.

How contradictory it is to have the same discourse as power, with the paradox that it implies the acceptance of the hypocrisy that is accepted of the political class and the thin line that is demanded of us, many times victims of friendly fire. No, we are not taking ourselves seriously, it is not appropriate, our social environment hides its head like any ostrich and waits for the bad storm to pass, it thinks that the abyss cannot be so close: – those in charge would not allow it!

Go on, the great mass of our society is like someone who hears rain and lives under an aluminum sheet, it rains, you feel the water, you see it, but you don't bathe, it's just that we're going crazy, finger by finger the level goes up, it's already reaching our knees but it's not serious yet. Who knows if we will be able to wake up.

Fifteen years ago we also felt the imperative need to provide ourselves with spaces in which to develop our concerns, we did not understand why we had to go to the cities to talk about certain topics, to enjoy the doubt and the search that so many sometimes we are questioned through art, our peoples suffer from the dictatorship of certainty, from the rigidity of invariability, questioning is a symptom of weakness and this is not allowed here. We are what we are, here and forever. Is it possible that this is one of the reasons why so many young people end up settling in other more anonymous and urban places?

After all, what drove us fifteen years ago is still here, the need and the stimulus. We can't make epilogues yet because we haven't been happy yet and we won't be without achieving our goals. As good Grouxo-Marxists if these must be reconsidered they will be. We get older, our goals get smaller.

We could talk about many other things that affect us, about MAT, MAGDA, VALENTIA or the photovoltaic macroprojects that still don't even have a name in Barona, Hostals or Pelejana, we could (and should) talk about Gaza, the genocide which is being carried out with the approval of Europe and the great majority of our inhabitants, with the apolitical nihilism of our working classes, as they say "La Gossa Sorda", of the bankruptcy that falls upon us with the monoculture of the table, of the abandoned fields and the barren estates where not even the price of ripe and flowering olives will save because "those who want to plow can be rich?", we could, we should and we will, we will keep the farm like someone who keeps a Castle, and with it hope, we hide in our dreams, in the history of our parents and the people who gave everything so that we could be. It's time to get smaller, to spend less, to survive. This we will do.


Because fifteen years is a long time...


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