Exhibition: Cave Inscriptions: Inscription I

Glossary of actions for (un)writing drawing

Words are made of air and to the air they go
My tears are water and to the sea they go
Willie Colón

Gathering

Gathering wires and potsherds for four years with no purpose. The specimens are picked up from the ground, run over, turned into lines on the plane. They are masonry wires used to bind beams and hold up structures; they are debris that trace graphisms beneath one's feet.

"They are drawings I did not make."
"Gathering them comes from wanting to step out of drawing in order to make sculpture."

Walking

Going out with the dog and drifting with the gaze, alert. Walking and collecting findings. Treasuring what is found. "Waiting for something to make sense," as if the grouping emulated an open source language.

To write upon the stone, but not inside the cave that promises to safeguard a knowledge, rather stepping out into the sun, into the erosion of the open air, into not knowing. Writings laid bare, without shelter.

Organizing

Organizing by size, by shape, by flatness, by binding, by color. Establishing the correspondences of a fictitious alphabet. Organizing as another way of questioning what is said, what do forms show that they do not say?

Drawing

Tracing still unknown worlds with illegible shapes wrought by time. Is the drawing in the line, or in its shadow? The lines twist and look like something. Was the world always here?

Assembling

Recognizing the stroke of chance as sculpture and keeping it company—breaking bread with it—through ceramics. In the lobby of El Castillo de Chapultepec, the drawing is dictated by the path of the wire, as though everything were its shadow. At Incierta, the drawing is the line of wire and the ceramic sculpture, when they become a single shadow.

Writing

Cave Inscriptions is to write inward; it is also to write upon the crag, as language collapses. What remains on the rocks when the legible codes plunge into the abyss. When no words are left to describe the exhaustion, the destruction.

To write without renouncing the thought of the unutterable. Writing, too, is a form of song: like whistling, shouting, goosebumps. To write while walking. With the residues of a construction, those of the language that builds and crumbles.

Conversation between Diego Teo, Regina de Con Cossio and Incierta. Mexico City, May 2026.