In "Pabellón de escultura: refugio y exposición" (Sculpture pavilion: shelter and the elements) Ana Laura Aláez dedicates this structure to her ancestors, considering that the origin of her entire artistic trajectory stems from childhood vacations in a region of the province of León. In her own words, "the search for a safe place begins with the struggle for survival that we have inherited from our predecessors."
The foundation of the artist's approach to art is rooted in the idea of finding a safe haven, a place where we can be ourselves. Above all, it is about achieving a place free from danger so that we can open ourselves to our nature with all its contradictions.
Ana Laura Aláez. "Pabellón de escultura," 2008. MUSAC Collection.
"Pabellón de escultura: refugio e intemperie" by Ana Laura Aláez
My ancestors hail from a region of León nestled among gentle mountains. From my family, I say with pride, I have inherited a kind of emptiness, an immaterial being that, curiously, has much to do with art, and for that I feel fortunate. All that intangible essence, passed down day after day through so many generations, was what, without my knowing it, would draw me closer to something whose full magnitude I still cannot grasp.
Humble in their appearance and customs, yet rich in their profound way of perceiving the world, they relied on the repetitive mantra of the land as their sole sustenance. They were an absent presence, as they made each tiny plot their own, patiently reaping the harvest. Despite enduring all manner of hardships that shook them daily, they were determined not to succumb and to remain calm. An uninterrupted rhythm of comings and goings dominated a landscape that seemed to embrace them, their shadows bouncing off each other, threadlike figures that, for an instant, formed an indivisible whole. Something mysterious happened precisely when they were lost in their gestures. They dissolved into the atmosphere and, at the same time, manifested an impetus, a tension that managed to pierce the surface of the countryside. Each one carried a fleeting liturgical act, a transfusion from deep within that, little by little, permeated the land. Their silhouettes vibrated, seemed to glow with a different light when they worked unseen, activated in the manner of their predecessors. Referring to the genesis of Pedro Páramo and the fact that its characters could not be fully situated, Juan Rulfo stated: "Time is broken, space is broken."
The body was a tool of labor, and the women always bore the brunt of it; they had to give birth and till the fields. However, those kinder glances managed to conceal some secrets from their dominant companions. The movements of the scythes sliced through the air and seemed to melt into the horizon, interpreting existence without anyone else noticing. Few references corresponded to the image of the promised paradise in the afterlife. Nature, with the changes inherent to each season, possessed the scene like an embodied metaphor, causing tiny flecks of color to sprout on the plum, pear, and apple trees, as well as on the hazelnut, walnut, and cherry trees—robust trees that appeared to require no care from those inhabitants.
They weren't entirely themselves; they symbolized, rather, short-term projections for survival. Pain didn't seem relevant. Or perhaps it had to be hidden by force to avoid suffering a repercussion, as happened with the tragic events that ended with the disappearance of the grandfather, a miner with basic literacy skills, but with the magical power of words. I can still feel on my skin the touch of the silent faces that, clumsily, concealed the wound that would never heal. The more they hid the memory, the wider the wound opened, incandescent. No one understands how such a drastic change could have occurred in small villages that, overnight, became home to tyrannical, heartless men who erased the most basic ritual of their fellow villagers: rising and going to bed with the sun to tend the animals and plow the pastures, using the wood fire to ease the labor.
The cycle of their way of life was forever threatened. One day they would abandon those stone and adobe walls, which were no longer protective bastions, with hardly any belongings. The houses ceased to hold the enigmatic stories that no one intended to remember. An echo of knives, reminiscent of so much unpunished violence, will forever reverberate on their facades. My ancestors are inscribed with care on these metallic surfaces that intertwine like razor blades. To them, and to all their good companions from that significant historical context, I dedicate this building. The pulse of their time resonates powerfully in this equally turbulent era. Here and now, the chorus of their voices echoes in the zigzag pattern of the museum's sturdy walls.
