Fifty Dots Gallery

MIA Photo fair 2018

Ashimoto: Japanese polysemous term that, among other senses, means "around the feet". Referring only to the foot, the foot including a part of the leg, or to the part of the foot that -for example- is intuited through the fold of a kimono. An intentionally ambiguous title that, as if it were one more work of the project, allows multiple interpretations; as many as spectators come to work, as many as the protagonist city of these photographs: Tokyo.

This series of images of female feet and legs insinuate much more than they show, and show what is necessary for viewers to complete these "portraits" with their imagination. The use of the word "portrait" is not arbitrary. In many cases, a part of the body or its gestures, can provide us as much or more information about a person, than that offered by the face itself.

Beauty as inspiration, intimacy as a nexus, metonymy as language and the streets of Tokyo as a stage. These are the bases on which the Ashimoto project is built. Photographs that despite being made in public spaces, paradoxically, convey a great intimacy. A concept: intimacy, which articulates all the works of César Ordóñez in the Japanese capital. Symbolically, the express combination of images (color or black and white, static or moving) is intended to be a representation of the infinite layers that interact and coexist in the megalopolis. Of its motley, fragile and complex harmony.
Regarding the work methodology, these works could be defined as "found photographs", a mixture of "stolen" and permitted photographs, all of them...
Who really belongs to oneself? Not even time has denied the unscathed step that prevents it from staying. It just gets carried away and happens. Perhaps we could think of the foam crawling the beach, blurring in sweet caress the fine thread of existence that becomes one, a single journey; turning from the shades of the swinging that breaks in waves, the good desire to look for the craving of being. Where I am is where I exist.

Thus, nothing is totally owned by anyone, nor has it ever been. At birth we dwell an unpostponable wink. A sigh that means the great opportunity to be one, to mutate into the moves of a cry so plural to the invader inspiration, once is admitted. That which is true is disposed to the feet of the whole world, the soul with which one looks, the memory without a tendency to forget its plots. We are not what we saw, we saw what is.

Irene Cruz invites us to look from the deep within, right from the edge of silent phrases she translates through her muses, the well-known figures. Authors of an inspirational breeze turned into friends. They all gather together and mark a precept of becoming the same delicate identity. It is the name given to all, silky skin in the flesh with the right dress , and their favorite flowers resting on the linings that scarcely delimit their earthly body, from a landscape filled with bluish haze and colors of rare hours, at the eternal autumnal forest. They make one feel the sweetness of the perfume that bathes them and slides down their neck, binds the limbs with carelessness or rests on the...
<i>The Muses</i><span>Read</span>