Solo Show/ Amorada, Buenos Aires, September 2025

Driven by hands and not by reason, Delfina manages to make things speak to one another. While they converse, some blind people manipulate clay to invent shapes that come alive on the table as beings separate from social noise. Stylized, flat, ringed, they are always foreign to order and loyal to the movement of chance, which carries secrets much harder to uncover than verbal language. They are creatures that now help me say this, but that soon—or always—will have to give way to other senses, more connected to an understanding without narcissism.

I think it is from this latter point that Delfina draws strength to act as the guarantor of a conversation that results in wild, modular, and abstract forms, which she later scans so they may become something else—without ceasing to propose what they were at the beginning. Her constant presence makes the entire process a single thread of play and sensitivity, where things transform into something different. Like a dictionary for seeing without eyes, like a gentle law that contributes to knowing what happens to us with others amid technology, the rock of the ground we tread, and synthetic matter—but away from moral clamor. Delfina takes part as if everything were a model she sees from the sidewalk, through a shop window. The model of the invented and real world, of which, however, she is a part in a leading, artistic role.

A few days ago I overheard a lady saying to another, before crossing Rivadavia Avenue: “I don’t even know what I did or how I started it, but that’s how it is.” They seemed happy after the coffee they’d had at Las Violetas. Although I never knew what she was referring to, the feeling was as if I had stumbled upon a kind of origin for the problem of references in stories. The structure of what I heard was an example of how a story is part of a diffuse origin. Also of how misunderstanding, or partial understanding, can be used to justify an origin, to begin somewhere and do. Together, alone, or both at once—but do.

In this exhibition, as in all of them, there is no fair, concrete origin, no point where Delfina could say: “It started here.” But there is a kind of condition that governs everything: not seeing because one cannot see, because the experience is of not seeing, because it is impossible to see—and because in taking advantage of that condition lies the twist that connects us with a world outside ourselves, even though built by us. The objects and the video are the tip of the narrative of a process that connects feeling with other stimuli, like bridges leading us back to childhood tales, between play and drama, between action and the rigor imposed by all that we are not. It is not bad—not bad at all—that art, in its arbitrary, inventive, and promising practice, makes us question who we are. Delfina, before that, asks us other questions: Where are we? With what biography, feelings, and words are we? Among whom are we?

Things keep happening even if we don’t see them. And because we don’t see, other things happen to us. At the same time, there are millenary mineral objects we stumble upon, live with, and not infrequently worship. There are objects that did not exist before us. The artifice of playing at mixing all these planes—the forms of the earth touched in plastic, the printed plastics speaking words without time—justifies such an exhibition. And justifies, even more so, that we call it a rite. Because a rite is a moment like any other, only structured by reasons we ourselves don’t know, by the blessed or cursed organization of what we cannot explain.

— Juan Laxagueborde