The dream of stones

Happy the tree that is hardly sensitive
and plus the hard stone,
because that one no longer feels...…
Rubén Darío

When we say: ‘if only stones could talk’, we repeat the thought scheme that ussually denies the surprise and the astonishment, we fall in the abyss of reason that prevails on the senses and we denied the poetry that exists and controls all the things that compose the world, we close the door to the magic and our eyes a little plus every day are dried.

The time marks its own strategy. Will Berry is as a tree whose branches grow with order but without rest. A work is the origin of another one, an engraving is the principle of an idea, a root that becomes table is the origin of a trip, and that trip is the alive principle of a new work, a volcanic stone disc, an outline and a crack on the stone, another stone, a roller, red and a roll of paper, marks on the surface, tracks of light, shades on a dust mosaic and textures. The stones of Berry are volcano pieces that still bark and they remember us that we are of the dust and to the dust we will return.

When we think that the stones are inanimate objects, inert and cold, we rejected of a edge the history of the art, the being and knowledge of the sculpture, the mission and the jump of the architect, the dream of the artist, as if music was possible only in our minds and through our ears, as if the scale existed because we existed. Music is, before and after us, and the stones and the branches of the tree know it, and the dust enjoys it and is integral part of its tide.

The works of Will Berry have come becoming gradually in the last years; we could say that its madness goes in healthful in agreement increase spends more time in Mexico, surrounded by life and new friends, feeding itself on the silence that nourishes the birds of its new garden, satiating itself of the music that appears of stones like a water that exists only for him as if Xilitla and Edward James returned from the San Luis Potosí forest to become engraved in the house of Berry in the heart of Coyoacán and they pushed it to leave itself and to travel to the interior of the poetry that shines at every moment.

To say that the stones feel, that love too much, to say that they change to seem according to the climate, that mutan of color or that they sweat, can seem a silly thing. But what is the art if not a assembly of madnesses associated, a collection of nonsenses which they are crowded to give a new route us of navigation, a new direction.

When I attended the inauguration of the sample Change of skin in the Museum of Estampa, Will Berry presented/displayed, like a game that was gotten up of last hour, its volcanic stone rollers whose red tracks extended like scores on long parchments of paper handmade, while in the ambient sound chelo was listened to that penetrated each room of the museum with I leave melancholic. Will asked to me then what it seemed to me the music of stones. My astonishment grew diametrically when I understood that notes, they were product of the tracks of the volcanic rock in its passage towards the pautado paper, work that his nephew had executed. A new branch in the Berry tree.

We say that stones speak because they have his own language, that its body is passable and that its matter is organic and sensible, that we are like stones because we rolled and we harden our character, polishing each end of the spirit. We say that the stones dream about the dust, with their lightness, but the same we can say of the dust, that dreams about the stone and its capacity to sink in the water, with its density and its weight.

"If as the Greek affirms in the Cratilo the name is archetype of the thing, the name of the rose is in the rose and all the Nile in the Nile word", Borges writes in one of its poems of the knowledge, allowing us to play with the new words and to look for meaning and senses to the Berry tree: the music of stones, music in stones, the stones of music, the stones through music... it does not concern really which is the order to place these words, which matters is that all the ways take to Berry.