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Cartographies of the Garden.


After his latest exhibition at the Instituto Cervantes in Manchester and Tokyo, Rufina Santana comes to Tenerife with a project intended for exhibition in the Circulo de Bellas Artes in the capital .

This "Mapping the Garden", ideal place where life is represented by organic forms, details of dead branches, leaves, fallen trees, and pools in connection with his previous project "Archaeology of the Garden" (2001).

Her work is in line most current painting and renovation of the landscape genre: Monet, Turner and German painting of Kandinsky and Nolde. Rufina Santana

A is interested in the mystical nature. The paintings, inspired by visits to various gardens Rufina Santana, is what the title of this exhibition "Cartographies of the Garden", "Cartography" in the plural. The paintings

describes a sensual nature, as appears each day at dawn and dusk, the landscape he lives. From the gardens naked "The Geria and Salinas in Lanzarote, the refinement of European botanic gardens or the silence of nature in the Zen temples of Japan.

is the first Rufina Santana fragments after the stroke with the intention to form an aerial map of the territory of his painting, where the plant, soil and water are represented in timeless and dynamic coexistence through images, which are macro and microcosmic while .

Brushstrokes sometimes become academic, since ocher surface can be filled with different shades of yellow-green, purple ... so the brush marks their lives with spontaneous spots wisely exploited by the author.

Rufina Santana says of his work:

"Lights and shadows of nature are more striking than one might imagine when I paint from memory of my trips. " "I always start with random spots, thinking or remembering moments of enjoyment, in nature." "My eyes behold the landscape and on the canvas represent the changes, the sequences of light, shadows caressing the mountains, where flowers are born, the logs bent, leaning over the water." "I want to explore nature and how it can serve as a reflection."


On one side is the structure of the landscape, hence the name "map", and secondly the mystique of the action of light and, therefore, the color on the landscape. This is a work-based paint color coats. Each group arising from random spots and nature takes over branches, leaves and puddles scenarios arise by chance a great beauty in chaos.

Chaos and Order. Stations such as births and changes that speak of vital networks. Fragility of existence, in constant vibration. Strength and endurance of a changing nature. Layer upon layer, the paint is fixing the memory of the observed.

"Beauty is in the most unexpected places and gives us not only to be discovered, but to be deeply contemplative." Says the author.

stroll through the garden of Rufina Santana is quiet and the act of painting: pure feeling.

Written-communication study. RS

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Somewhere in the great unfinished wall is the door that opened that

and casts its shadow on the implacable guardian setback all your destination.
It's just a closed door on behalf of chance,
but has the color of inclement
and resembles a tombstone on which is impossible at every turn. Perhaps now
squeak with a unique melody to the ear of your past, perhaps
shine like burnished gold an idol of the ashes of farewell, perhaps
each night is about to open in the end wall of the same dream
and his midas power against your bonds as an unhappy Ulysses.
It is just a hoax,
a fable of the wind through the interstices of a false story refractions
Waste arising from oblivion when it borders on nostalgia. That door
not open to any return;
mold bears no intact under the pale ray of absence.
not back then and who at the wrong end of a journey, each step
wrong mirror you
subtracted the world discovered the place where he lost the key and exchanged for a confusing name, the slogan.
Does each step you took did not change, as in a chess
the secret relationship of the parts that mapped the whole game?
Stay away then with your gift of scorched earth, your chest
embers turned into stones of atonement
do not turn your other precarious wilderness havens in exile,
it also also be one day the wall and longing. That door is
lead sentence, not question.
If you get through, find
back, one after another, the doors of your choice.

No. 14, the night drifting (1984)

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Behind that door is not changed and other rare substance

My grandmother was a white witch who inherited an altar in every stone of the Druids officiated half
where the white moon ceremonies .
He lit the lamps of a puff embroidered
the most beautiful stories with longer strands and evaporated
winter witch with just an orange peel without fear.
His world was a beacon lit
thunderbolts that distance from the eye kept fearful of camphor and naphthalene.
Devan Hanks charms in the dark castle towers
and put in his bunker, in the form of a golden tresses,
alongside portraits of unseen
and slow, fervent plumage of the legend and patience .
With his eyes water to be dissolved diseases such as fire flowers, lace
as snow,
and saved many souls from hell living and the dead
quietly haggling with the Saints until dawn.
It was a garden with his gentle courtship of birds, crazy and goblins. They announced
dogs.
When it rains leave me a steaming tea and a sprig of lavender.

My mother was a queen who has traded its domains on earth for a lot in the sky,
a small place for re-erection of the house and family.
will have fulfilled the covenant, because he had the gift to comply with and enforce all the way,
like a burn, the law of the word.
was as majestic as a cathedral and more heroic than any wall height
but changed according to the occasion, sweet or solemn,
like archangels. To back the shadows
ambushes, hungry packs, halving
bridges and nights with your hands so soft. Mastered
poisonous weeds just rubbing them with his toe,
discovered secret to the light bubbles on the bottom of streams and swamps,
and away the masks with stormy eyes as if drawing back a curtain.
returned many times from the edge of death, only to wrap.
It was for a very long way away
and, taking all the sun, a mountain.
Every night caress my head, tears the darkness and the tears dry.

My father was an infidel magician king quellegó to our south along the other side of the star.
came from sea to sea, from an island
intersected earthquakes, dynasties and winds,
and founded a colony of secret longings and treacherous salt that absorbs a díua
and one day the greedy sand.
His hands were not made to grab;
hands were palms up miracle offering, the pearl of the hopeful and destitute.
His senses as smart as the luminaries of forests
pagan and was able to convert a room suddenly enlugato in a ballroom,
a red apple on the summer's most coveted trophy, but had
under your skin and behind blue sparks of laughter a distant
brin, something like a hidden vocation of absence.
disease tied it with invincible ties to a stationary enclosure.
I've seen in Agrigento, in Jupiter's torso down between Greek columns.
He went with the tide, like a drowning man who is carried to shore.
It brings the dawn lit flares and a handful of almonds.

They return and take their places next to these windows, this table, this bed;
back with big chunks of walls and furniture and landscape and build dissolved
scenarios interspersed with strangers over the years.

have changed and are not limited to:
shared with me the brilliance and scratches on this side.
have changed and are not limited to: an opaque
moth, a falling object, the branch hitting the glass, this cold
running down my face.
may try as I venture to violate the time
to mix the cards of the present, future and past.
have not changed and are different.
not wax museum memory.

No. 13, the night drifting (1984)