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Mónica Tárrega Klein




Friday 15:30 - 18:30


Washing machines making centrifuges at 600 rpm, some dust, corners, hair (cat), grids and shadows, sun, fabrics. The domestic, an impossible attempt at exhaustion. Of characters who come and go where Mondays and Sundays -and their antagonistic routines- coexist as strangers. As F. said, how old a child grows on Sunday afternoons. Strange hours, children growing up. Creaking. Nobody garnishes the holidays anymore. Of course, still the long meals, the dishes, the leftovers, the desserts. Fetuccini youtube. Cloths and bins (garbage), hand washed. Machines, a separate chapter. Final drink, the sun goes down. You turn on a light and everything changes, like in a disco after the last song. Utensils, rumor of pseudo-silent dishwashers. A rooftop and neighbors: Go up, follow me. By the way, by now you'll know: two places to strategically position yourself during the parties: 1) the hallway, 2) the access to the fridge, or better, the entrance to the kitchen (you're welcome). Snacks of things that no one even knows how to handle. Balances of clothes and objects, of goods, men and strangers, fatty acids, full refrigerators, fluorescent lights. Tiles, escai, Chester armchairs, blankets, high volume, an empty fish tank. It's Saturday morning, the windows open and the air runs. Sometimes you see the sky,
the floating wash. A piece, a sad piece. Televisions turned on at dawn, acting alone. You can see them from the sidewalk and you can imagine a smell. Twenty four seven (I will repeat it again). The city doesn't stop when we get to our beds. Nothing starts and ends. 24 hours 7 days a week 365 days a year without end, between the house and the dark.

An exercise of incompleteness the domestic. The pipes, the flows. Everything connects, from your bidet to the pink salt of the Himalayas. A lot of things happen in that short distance. You can't even imagine them, it would be ridiculous as well as impossible. Flushes, vapors, moisture, vases and flowers, the things that smell, that live and die. She used to be home-born. The clothes in your basket. Assembling of objects, description of bodies, living and inert. Bugs. Sex on vimeo. Whatsapps coming in like a current under the unsealed door. The gallery is a windowless closet. What a fiction domestic. Science or fiction. You should read Ursula K. Le Guin, The Carrier Bag Theory of Fiction. Le Guin says, or perhaps imagines, that perhaps the first weapon was not an arrow or a spear. Just a basket, a small hand-woven net, a place to collect small nuts, acorns, some green. That's how the domestic was born: when we learned to accumulate thingsAccumulate, which is nothing but the image of fear upon discovering for the first time the idea of the future. That is, the terror that runs through us when we imagine an absence of persistent rain. This is how agrilogistics and houses were born, what we do in them, what we perpetuate in them, genders and other forms of domination. So many fictions that we still believe were born. They say we used to be nomads. Now, too, but a little more ridiculous. By the way, the public was born in a dining room, in Paris, around 1760. Ask Habermas, even if he doesn't even remember. Or I don't want to think about how everything has imploded. That is really your task, that is what this subject is about: to rethink, recompose, or alternatively finish and destroy, the remnants of that old dichotomy, according to which the public and the private, the domestic and the urban, the night and the day, etc. , were broken like a quartz clock.