We approach a nebula. Little by little, the outlines begin to dissolve, and before we realise it, there is nothing left we can recognise. The world, our feelings and the everyday objects still surround us, but we can no longer identify them. We are at the threshold.

María Jerez has spent years working with that which eludes language or knowledge, erasing lines with the same diligence as others who insist on drawing them. Every stroke has a corresponding smudge, and it becomes difficult to describe a piece whose very existence is based on flight, on the denial of meaning. A bit like when Vinciane Despret wonders what kind of existence the dead have, who are so clearly different from mountains, sheep or black holes, or even fictional characters, yet still exert a force on the living. Or a bit like Peter Pan, who has to sew his shadow to the soles of his shoes to keep it from abandoning him.

To unpick the shadow would be to dismantle, in one stroke, the established order built on visibility, legibility and the precise distinction of things. Shadows, however, blend together, combine and give rise to chimeric, ineffable unspeakable beings. The shadow is the flimsiest extension of our body, the most prone to stretching out of reach and momentarily merging with other bodies, objects or spaces. At the same time, shadows give form to absence, as the present fades from view so we may instead catch a glimpse of what has gone.

This is the state María Jerez invites us to inhabit, a faltering, uncertain anticipation that surpasses the capabilities of the eye and delves into the mystery that lies beyond. She extends this invitation after a long study of non-vision, in which she was accompanied by the blind, birdwatchers, magicians, choreographers and lighting designers, with whom she has exchanged thoughts about the meanings we assign to darkness, indeterminacy and absence.