When my mother passed away, I took some of the books from her library—a small room with walls lined with novels, catalogues, essays. Up to the ceiling. I became especially interested in theory books and began reading The Archaeology of Knowledge by Michel Foucault. When I opened it, I realized that my mother had underlined it, had worked through it. Encountering those markings affected my reading considerably, and it marked the beginning of a theoretical and practical investigation aimed torwards understanding in what way it did so.

In her markings, I searched for a way to continue communicating with her. I bought another copy of the same book and underlined it myself in order to contrast my reading with hers. I found that the traces she left in her books, in a certain way, ended up presenting themselves to me with a value that escaped the context in which they had emerged; as if they were drawings, they carried a kind of ineffable weight, tied more to experience than to semantic meaning. Like experiencing the nuances of a voice rather than defining its characteristics.

Y tus las palabras de otro takes up the thread of this investigation, understanding drawing as a way of thinking the ungraspable, of delving into the ambiguity that cannot be verbalized. Through drawing her drawings, through writing with a language that seeks ways of undoing its own structure, I attempt to approach the sensation of a presence which, if one tries to pin it down, fades away.