It all begins with Karin Kneffel: an unmade duvet, an old television where cowboys without a destiny ride across the screen, and, on the floor, a broken vase. The scene has something like a prologue, as if we’ve arriving late to the story. The important events have already taken place, but their echoes remain: in the folds, the strokes and the fragments.

The sounds of Glenda León, transformed into blue sculptures, are whispers from another time: a horse’s neigh, birds that fly, the breeze. As if the film on the television had escaped into space and become matter. These forms pulse gently, reminding us that the invisible also leaves a trace.

The leporellos and the wax-covered figures where the artist Sandra Vásquez de la Horra’s it suggest us an intimate narrative, almost secret. Aymarás, The bañista, and El tango feroz appear as vignettes of a story within a story: characters proceeding between paper houses, ritual shadows, physical gestures and memory.

Elena del Rivero’s feathers, suspended like flying letters, can be read as fragile messages in transit. Flying Letter #24 seems written for someone who will never even read it, but its movement keeps the attempt at communication alive. Adjacent, a stainless-steel menhir emerges like a lucid dream: a vertical presence, a mirror, a threshold. Gonzalo Guzmán’s work suggests an impossible gleaming stone, that remind us that every story needs a place to pause to reflect.

Close by, Jaume Plensa’s iron distills the weight of the human into abstraction. His CAP III evokes both head and silence, mass and thought. A piece that doesn’t explain literally, but holds something within: as if is keeping the secret of a narrative we’ve yet have to learn how to read. On the floor, Susana Solano’s structure conjures spaces we’ve passed through, while Evru/Zush’s bell holds within it the resonance of every sound that has been and those that are still waiting to be heard.

Thus, among brushstrokes and fragments, the mezzanine becomes a stage. The painting is a prologue; the sculptures, chapters; the sounds, background whispers. We move through the space as one moves through an open-ended story: a tale of action and consequence, of gestures and traces, visible and invisible.

Everything is in motion, in tension. Like a dream breaking apart upon waking.