VICKY VICTORIA (2016). Mapa visual con imágenes halladas en Internet y en el archivo familiar. / Visual Map built up with images found on the web and family photo-archive. 120×80 cm.

En un contexto social en el que el espacio público y la memoria histórica se hallan en deriva, se evidencia la imperiosa necesidad de reinvención de la noción de lo común. Resulta para ello imprescindible llevar a cabo un ejercicio de reflexión crítica, poniendo en cuestión lo habitual, lo asumido como natural dentro de nuestra cotidianidad.

In a social context in which public space and historical memory are drifting, an urgent need to reinvent the notion of the commons is evidenced. It is essential to carry out an exercise of critical reflection, questioning the habitual and taken-for-granted, all what is assumed as natural in our daily lives.
Monumento del Arco de la Victoria de Moncloa. / Victory Arch of Moncloa (Madrid).
Establecer un diálogo en relación al espacio público, la memoria y el arte, generando conexiones virtuales. / To establish a dialogue on public space, memory and art, creating virtual connections.
Fotografías de Albert Louis Deschamps tomadas a las pocas horas de la entrada de las tropas de Franco en Madrid a finales de marzo de 1939. En la imagen vemos el viaducto de Cantarranas o de los Quince Ojos, una de las estructuras que Eduardo Torroja Miret (1899-1961) construyó en la Ciudad Universitaria antes de la guerra. / Albert Louis Deschamp’s photographs taken a few hours after the entry of Franco’s troops in Madrid in late March 1939. The picture shows the Cantarranas or Fifteen Eyes Viaduct, one of the structures that Eduardo Torroja (1899-1961) built in the University City of Madrid before the war.

Paseo por una guerra antigua: memoria fragmentaria from B Prummer on Vimeo.

Un hombre mutilado camina, apoyándose en una muleta, por la Ciudad Universitaria de Madrid, donde perdió una pierna, recordando lo ocurrido durante la Guerra Civil…

Montaje realizado a partir del material grabado como práctica de fin de curso 1948-49 del IIEC por Luis García Berlanga, Juan Antonio Bardem, Florentino Soria y Agustín Navarro.

Dirección: Luis García Berlanga, Juan Antonio Bardem, Florentino Soria y Agustín Navarro.
Argumento y guión: Luis García Berlanga, Juan Antonio Bardem, Florentino Soria y Agustín Navarro.
Fotografía: Antonio Navarro Linares (B/N).
Reparto: Agustín Lamas.
Año de producción: 1949


“The power of a country road when one is walking along it is different from the power it has when one is flying over it by airplane. In the same way, the power of a text when it is read is different from the power it has when it is copied out. The airplane passenger sees only how the road pushes through the landscape, how it unfolds according to the same laws as the terrain surrounding it. Only he who walks the road on foot learns the power it commands, and of how, from the very scenery that for the flier is only the unfurled plain, it calls forth distances, belvederes, clearings, prospects at each of its turns like a commander deploying soldiers at a front. Only the copied text thus commands the soul of him who is occupied with it, whereas the mere reader never discovers the new aspects of his inner self that are opened by the text, that road cut through the interior jungle forever closing behind it: because the reader follows the movement of his mind in the free flight of daydreaming, whereas the copier submits it to command. The Chinese practice of copying books was thus an incomparable guarantee of literary culture, and the transcript a key to China’s enigmas.”

Walter Benjamin’s, Chinese Curios from his essay One Way Street; p. 49.



Words, English words, are full of echoes, of memories, of associations. They have been out and about, on people’s lips, in their houses, in the streets, in the fields, for so many centuries. And that is one of the chief difficulties in writing them today – that they are stored with other meanings, with other memories, and they have contracted so many famous marriages in the past. The splendid word “incarnadine,” for example – who can use that without remembering “multitudinous seas”? In the old days, of course, when English was a new language, writers could invent new words and use them. Nowadays it is easy enough to invent new words – they spring to the lips whenever we see a new sight or feel a new sensation – but we cannot use them because the English language is old. You cannot use a brand new word in an old language because of the very obvious yet always mysterious fact that a word is not a single and separate entity, but part of other words. Indeed it is not a word until it is part of a sentence. Words belong to each other, although, of course, only a great poet knows that the word “incarnadine” belongs to “multitudinous seas.” To combine new words with old words is fatal to the constitution of the sentence. In order to use new words properly you would have to invent a whole new language; and that, though no doubt we shall come to it, is not at the moment our business. Our business is to see what we can do with the old English language as it is. How can we combine the old words in new orders so that they survive, so that they create beauty, so that they tell the truth? That is the question.

And the person who could answer that question would deserve whatever crown of glory the world has to offer. Think what it would mean if you could teach, or if you could learn the art of writing. Why, every book, every newspaper you’d pick up, would tell the truth, or create beauty. But there is, it would appear, some obstacle in the way, some hindrance to the teaching of words. For though at this moment at least a hundred professors are lecturing on the literature of the past, at least a thousand critics are reviewing the literature of the present, and hundreds upon hundreds of young men and women are passing examinations in English literature with the utmost credit, still – do we write better, do we read better than we read and wrote four hundred years ago when we were un-lectured, un-criticized, untaught? Is our modern Georgian literature a patch on the Elizabethan? Well, where then are we to lay the blame? Not on our professors; not on our reviewers; not on our writers; but on words. It is words that are to blame. They are the wildest, freest, most irresponsible, most un-teachable of all things. Of course, you can catch them and sort them and place them in alphabetical order in dictionaries. But words do not live in dictionaries; they live in the mind. If you want proof of this, consider how often in moments of emotion when we most need words we find none. Yet there is the dictionary; there at our disposal are some half-a-million words all in alphabetical order. But can we use them? No, because words do not live in dictionaries, they live in the mind. Look once more at the dictionary. There beyond a doubt lie plays more splendid than Antony and Cleopatra; poems lovelier than the Ode to a Nightingale; novels beside which Pride and Prejudice or David Copperfield are the crude bunglings of amateurs. It is only a question of finding the right words and putting them in the right order. But we cannot do it because they do not live in dictionaries; they live in the mind. And how do they live in the mind? Variously and strangely, much as human beings live, ranging hither and thither, falling in love, and mating together. It is true that they are much less bound by ceremony and convention than we are. Royal words mate with commoners. English words marry French words, German words, Indian words, Negro words, if they have a fancy. Indeed, the less we enquire into the past of our dear Mother English the better it will be for that lady’s reputation. For she has gone a-roving, a-roving fair maid.

Thus to lay down any laws for such irreclaimable vagabonds is worse than useless. A few trifling rules of grammar and spelling is all the constraint we can put on them. All we can say about them, as we peer at them over the edge of that deep, dark and only fitfully illuminated cavern in which they live – the mind – all we can say about them is that they seem to like people to think before they use them, and to feel before they use them, but to think and feel not about them, but about something different. They are highly sensitive, easily made self-conscious. They do not like to have their purity or their impurity discussed. If you start a Society for Pure English, they will show their resentment by starting another for impure English – hence the unnatural violence of much modern speech; it is a protest against the puritans. They are highly democratic, too; they believe that one word is as good as another; uneducated words are as good as educated words, uncultivated words as good as cultivated words, there are no ranks or titles in their society. Nor do they like being lifted out on the point of a pen and examined separately. They hang together, in sentences, paragraphs, sometimes for whole pages at a time. They hate being useful; they hate making money; they hate being lectured about in public. In short, they hate anything that stamps them with one meaning or confines them to one attitude, for it is their nature to change.

Perhaps that is their most striking peculiarity – their need of change. It is because the truth they try to catch is many-sided, and they convey it by being many-sided, flashing first this way, then that. Thus they mean one thing to one person, another thing to another person; they are unintelligible to one generation, plain as a pikestaff to the next. And it is because of this complexity, this power to mean different things to different people, that they survive. Perhaps then one reason why we have no great poet, novelist or critic writing today is that we refuse to allow words their liberty. We pin them down to one meaning, their useful meaning, the meaning which makes us catch the train, the meaning which makes us pass the examination…

This is the only known surviving recording of Virginia Woolf’s voice. It is part of a BBC radio broadcast from April 29th, 1937. The talk was called “Craftsmanship” and was part of a series entitled “Words Fail Me”. The text was published as an essay in “The Death of the Moth and Other Essays” (1942).

La voz de Virginia Woolf

Esta es la única grabación que aún perdura de la voz de Virginia Woolf. Es parte de una emisión de radio de la BBC del 29 de abril de 1937. La charla se llamó “Artesanía” y fue parte de una serie titulada “Las palabras me fallan”.

Habitar la elipse VII








Caja-estuche de madera con apuntes, objetos y dossier del proyecto.
  • Dossier online:


  • Piezas audiovisuales compuestas por fotografías, videos y audios grabados durante el viaje (en el bus, en el metro de Madrid y en los lugares de “exploración”).
En “demolición de fábrica de vidrio”, el paisaje sonoro se conforma a través de sonido ambiente del lugar en cuestión y de un fragmento de audio de la película Medea (1969) de Pier Paolo Pasolini.
Un fragmento de La Strada (1954) de Federico Fellini también puede apreciarse en “la casa de la Toscana al final de un camino de cipreses”.

Todas las obras enmarcadas en el proyecto Habitar la elipse se distribuyen bajo una Licencia Creative Common Atribución-NoComercial-CompartirIgual 4.0 Internacional.



 en el corazón de la cotidianidad todo cambia 



demolición de fábrica de vidrio 


la casa del poeta está hecha de imágenes


Cosmo-Matta Clark


espacio disponible


el hombre es el ser entreabierto


la casa de la Toscana al final de un camino de cipreses


la noche no cae sobre el mar


La noche no cae sobre el mar. Por el contrario, sube desde el fondo de las aguas, que un sol ya ahogado ennegrece poco a poco con sus espesas cenizas, hacia el cielo todavía pálido. Durante un breve instante, Venus permanece solitaria por encima de las ondas negras. Y en un cerrar y abrir de ojos, las estrellas pululan en la noche líquida. 
Albert Camus, El Verano, capítulo El mar, aún más cerca: Diario de a bordo.

Inéditos 2015. La Casa Encendida.

Captura de Vera Icon, 2014. Videoinstalación monocanal.Eulàlia Valldosera.


Inéditos es una convocatoria de Fundación Montemadrid que fomenta la inserción de los jóvenes comisarios en los circuitos profesionales, facilitando a los seleccionados la posibilidad
de producir su primera exposición y editar un catálogo del conjunto de la muestra. (Fuente)
En esta edición pueden verse tres propuestas diferentes: Appunti, Aquí hay dragones y S’WONDERFUL.
  • El primero de ellos, titulado Appunti y comisariado por Javier Arbizu, María Buey González, Jorge González Sánchez, Elena Peña Castillo y Diego Rambova, investiga las relaciones entre objeto, obra de arte, poder e identidad. La exposición agrupa desde objetos domésticos, religiosos u otros realizados por artistas, hasta libros, partituras, planos arquitectónicos y fotogramas de películas que se inscriben dentro de un gran espectro histórico que se extiende desde el siglo XIV hasta nuestros días.
 Javier Cruz. Documentación en sala. 2014. Cuatro carteles y proyección de foto.


  • La segunda muestra, Aquí hay dragones, comisariada por Neme Arranz, presenta trabajos relacionados con la exploración y el descubrimiento de nuevos espacios, casi siempre figurados, y con la posibilidad de ser el primero en un planeta que no deja de empequeñecer.  En concreto, destacaría una videoinstalación que tiene como protagonista la siguiente pieza audiovisual, Vera Icon. Merece la pena ver la instalación en directo, ya que el espacio que se le ha dedicado podría decirse que alude al de un templo religioso, habiéndose separado al público de la pantalla de proyección mediante un muro que alcanza más o menos la altura de la cintura, lo que permite reposar los brazos sobre él. Se consigue crear así otro espacio sagrado, más oscuro, más frío, donde el sonido hace eco, dentro del propio espacio expositivo, también sacro, en cierta forma…

Deadpan (1997)

Reinterpretación de una famosa secuencia del cine mudo de Buster Keaton de los años 20 en la que la fachada de una casa cae sobre el propio Steve McQueen, quien resulta ileso porque está de pie justo en el hueco que deja una ventana. El director británico exhibió su obra en un “loop” continuo, repitiendo el mismo momento, rodado desde diferentes ángulos, durante cuatro minutos, en el Museo de Arte Moderno de San Francisco (SFMOMA) durante los años 1999-2000.